Chapter Forty-One
The three dresses I had overnighted from Bloomingdale’s for the book launch still hadn’t arrived by Thursday.
“I’m so screwed,” I whispered to Angela. “I have that thing tonight, and I have no idea where the shipment of dresses went.”
“Check the tracking info,” she suggested.
“Right,” I said, rubbing my left eye with my knuckle. All this work was making me suck at real life. I should have just gone back to Rent the Runway.
“FedEx says it was delivered two days ago.”
“Did you check your office?” she asked.
My eyes widened. I grabbed my lanyard and darted up the interior stairwell. If they weren’t there, I was going to the book launch in a gray suit.
“You idiot,” I muttered to myself as I opened the door to three packages stacked on top of my desk chair.
I carried the plastic garment bags to the restroom, trying each one as quickly as I could.
They were all too big, even though I had subsisted on the no-exercise, pizza-and-Chinese-food diet for the last month.
My phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. We had a scheduled meeting with the partners about the report in fifteen minutes. I folded up a black Helmut Lang dress with a subtle cinch in the waistline, dropped the others back in my office, and grabbed a pair of heels from under my desk.
Three hours later, I walked up Fifth Avenue to MoMA. Andie was greeting everyone as they arrived.
“You made it!” she squealed as I walked in and tried to hide my laptop bag under my coat.
“Oh my god, check those,” she said, giving me a five-second hug.
She stood back and looked at me. “You’re lucky you have that naturally fresh-faced look, Sam. Only I can tell how tired you are.”
“I have all the energy I need,” I said, genuinely excited for her.
“Okay, go mingle without your plus-one, you power woman.”
I checked my coat and held onto my bag just in case I needed to crouch in a corner with my laptop. My world was two stark realities.
There were blowups of the book cover everywhere. She looked amazing. Not airbrushed in the slightest, just her vibrant, sharpest self. I felt a strong sense of pride.
I spotted George Brenner holding court with journalists and a Vanity Fair photographer. He caught my eye and waved me over.
“Everyone, this is Andie’s defense lawyer and my script consultant for the movie,” he said warmly as the photographer motioned for us to move closer so he could snap a photo.
I politely excused myself as more journalists gathered around George. I grabbed a glass of prosecco and walked past the cocktail tables, each one topped with a placard displaying a short excerpt from the book.
“Do we know each other?” a voice asked from behind my shoulder.
I turned around. Something about him was familiar.
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. His face was friendly but striking, with high cheekbones and ever-so-slightly tinted designer glasses.
“Frank Trustman. Are you based in New York?” he asked.
I nodded. “Sam DeFiore. What about you?”
“Originally LA, but I live here now. Maybe we’ve seen each other around town. What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Ah. And how do you know the author?”
“I’m her lawyer.”
He scoffed. “No way.”
“Why no way?”
“Like, her lawyer for the book deal? Or . . . the other stuff?”
I laughed. “The other stuff. My firm represented her in the indictment.”
He smiled. “Wow, that’s impressive. You guys must love that the book’s going to be a movie.”
I smiled. “As long as she’s happy, I’m happy. Are you in publishing?”
“Film and television. I’m a director.”
“Would I have seen any of your work?”
“I’ve done a few small films. But I just finished a big HBO limited series that’s coming out next month. Good reviews so far.”
I suddenly realized I had seen him before.
“Did you go to the opening for that new gallery on Melrose a few months ago?” I asked.
He grinned. “That’s where I know you from. You were there with Leo Hirschman. That guy is fire. I have friends who’ve used him for things here and there. A real shark.”
“He’s definitely got that reputation going for him.”
I wondered if my world and Leo’s world would ever coexist again.
Just then, Andie’s literary agent, a striking blond woman with a warmth that contrasted her reputation for being the bloodiest negotiator in publishing, tapped her champagne glass behind a podium to quiet the room.
After saying a few words about Andie’s commitment to telling her story honestly and how proud she was to represent a book filled with grit and high stakes (“pun intended”) and all the things good stories are made of, she motioned for Andie to come up.
“The first signed copy will be on your desk,” Andie assured her as the room laughed.
Andie cleared her throat, and I could tell she was nervous.
“I’m not used to being the center of attention for a positive reason,” she started.
“But the truth is that much of this story is a sad story. I talk a lot about addiction, not just to substance, but to power and money. I wanted to be the best, but more than anything, I wanted to be more powerful than every man sitting at those tables. That was the addiction that led to my downfall. I climbed my way back in many ways, and much of it is because of four people, three of whom are in this room today.”
She looked at George and then over to me.
“One of my defense attorneys, Eddie Kaufman, couldn’t be here tonight.
He’s busy saving another lost soul. But my other attorney, Samantha, is here.
When I met Sam, I quickly realized how smart she was, but what I didn’t know at the time was that she would become a true friend.
Someone I trust implicitly, and not just as a lawyer.
The kind of person who proves that you can be successful and still have integrity. ”
Frank leaned over and touched the back of my arm. “I’d love to hear more about what it was like working with her sometime.”
The touch of his hand made me miss Charlie.
“I’ll give you my card,” I whispered back.
He looked amused. “Just in case I ever need your services?”
“You never know.”
“All right then, I’ll take a card.”
When Andie finished her speech, Frank held out his hand. “Really nice chatting, Samantha.”
“Sam.”
He held up the card. “Hope to do it again soon.”
The launch party was the last moment of respite from the investigation for the next two weeks.
I woke up every morning with a dull headache, exhausted from pushing aside everything except what was necessary to stay afloat.
We were working fifteen-hour days to finish the report on time.
I got home after 2 a.m. and still couldn’t fall asleep.
If I wasn’t working, my mind was on Charlie, wondering how he was and how his mom was.
By the last day of the investigation, I felt like a shell of a human. I sat motionless in the conference room until five o’clock when the last IT person carted away my monitor and keyboard.
I didn’t know where to go or what to do. Emilie was presumably still in London and hadn’t responded to any of my texts. Caroline’s head would explode if I told her what had happened with Leo in Montana. Connor was spending the month working remotely from Edinburgh.
I’d never felt more alone.
I stuffed my laptop in my bag, swapped my heels for flats, and just started walking.
Half an hour later, I wandered into a small wine bar in Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood too far west to run into anyone I knew from work.
I settled onto a stool at the back corner of the bar, hooking my bag underneath.
“Happy Friday! You looking for wines by the glass? Maybe a menu?”
The bartender’s chipper demeanor clashed with his black nail polish, heavily tattooed arms, and spacer earrings.
“What kind of bottles do you have on special?”
“I’ve got this great French blend. Want to try it first?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just take a bottle of that.”
He set down two wine glasses.
“It’s just me,” I said, sounding as miserable as I felt.
He poured a sip into the glass in front of me.
“I don’t need to taste it. I trust you.”
“Understood.” He gave a generous pour. “I’m Pete. If you need anything, just holler.”
Something about him made me miss Virginia in a way I never had.
For the first time in over a month, no one cared where I was. I could let myself spiral. I could become one of those first-year associates who crumbles under the stress of the job. Maybe they’d write about me on the soapy legal-gossip blog Above the Law.
“Sparkling or tap? Maybe something to eat? We make a mean romesco and mozzarella panini,” Pete offered, momentarily rescuing me from my internal free fall.
“Can I stay if I don’t order food?”
“Of course. Just figured you might need a little sustenance.”
“That would be the mature thing to do.”
“What type of reading you got there?”
I’d set an old issue of The Hollywood Reporter next to me. My casual companion whenever I was falling apart. “Just a trade publication. Movie stuff.”
He looked interested. “Do you work in movies?”
“Not really. Kind of. I’m a lawyer.”
“Movie lawyer?”
“Sort of.”
“No way. You ever meet anyone famous?”
I shook my head. “Where are you from? Your accent reminds me of where I grew up.”
“Just outside of New Orleans. How about you?”
“Virginia.”
“A Southern gal in the city! I dig it.”
“How’d you end up in New York?” I asked. I genuinely missed the art of conversation. Especially without Charlie.
“I’m a playwright. Well, I’m trying to be. I studied theater at Tulane, then worked as a bartender in the French Quarter. I became something of a local celebrity there, and the owner of this bar poached me. Convinced me I’d make more money in Manhattan and be closer to the theater action.”
“How’d you become a local celebrity?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“I promise not to.”
“I got pretty famous for my pisco sour, and the Food Network did a segment on me for Bartender Battles.”
“That’s amazing. Can you make one here?”
“We’re mostly a wine bar, but I keep all the ingredients handy in case anyone recognizes me.” He winked.
“Now I can say I’ve met someone famous. Can you make me one?”
“If you let me put in a panini. Not to overstep, but you’re a wispy little thing.”
I laughed. “Okay. One panini, please.”
I learned that Pete was working on a revival of The Three Musketeers, only with two women and a transgender D’Artagnan. It was up for a slot at the prestigious St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn, a feeder for shows that eventually swept the Tonys.
“Now you know everything there is to know about me. How come you’re here talking to me on a blustery Friday afternoon?”
“Isn’t that what New York is all about? Popping into a bar by yourself and meeting a celebrity bartender on his way to becoming the next big playwright?”
“Sure. You just seemed on a mission there with that bottle of wine.”
“You’re not wrong.”
I watched him chop lemon wedges as I mentally replayed everything that had brought me to Pete’s bar.
Reliving the last time I’d seen Charlie made my chest hurt.
“I hurt someone,” I said quietly.
“Did they deserve it?”
“No. Not even a little bit.”
“Did you apologize?”
“I didn’t get a chance to. He moved to help take care of his mom. Who has cancer.”
Pete winced. “You hurt the guy who moved home to take care of his sick mom?”
“Yeah. It’s unforgivable.”
“Can you make some sort of grand gesture to make things right? Maybe show up with flowers?”
“I had a chance to make things right, and I blew it. I’m pretty sure the last thing he wants is me showing up with flowers.”
“Bet you’re wrong about that.”
“I don’t think so.”
I told Pete about Ben and Charlie and Leo, and all the alcohol in between.
“You know—I’ve been sober three years this March. The sauce can really mess things up. I don’t know if that’s the path you need to be on, but I’ve yet to meet someone who can say alcohol makes their relationships stronger.”
“A sober bartender?”
“There’s more of us than you think.” He pulled up the sleeve of his black V-neck T-shirt. “Serenity prayer. I got it after my wife left me.”
I turned to look at his face more closely. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-five. Why?”
“You just look young to have been married.”
He chuckled. “Not by Louisiana standards. Or Virginia, I’m guessing.”
“Touché.”
He nodded to the empty cocktail glass. “I feel like I was doing a pretty good job getting you back on track, but . . . do you want one more?”
I smiled sadly. “Actually, I think I’ll stop while I’m ahead. And I don’t think that’s the way the night would have ended if it wasn’t for you.” I slid my credit card across the bar. “Thank you. Really.”
“Was it the tattoo?”
I laughed. “Maybe? My arms aren’t as muscular. I’d look ridiculous.”
He grinned. “Whatever it takes.”
I sighed. “I was hoping this dull pain in my chest would’ve gone away by now.”
“Sometimes alcohol helps. When it doesn’t—that’s worth paying attention to.” He nodded encouragingly. “If you two figure things out, bring him by sometime. I’d love to meet him.”