The Magic of Found Objects Read online

  “I guess so. I’m a little concerned, though. I want it to be hot sex. Everybody wants a life with hot sex. What if he’s not attracted to me?”

  Talia says, “Of course he’s attracted to you. He wouldn’t be suggesting you get married if he wasn’t attracted to you.” She folds her napkin. “Maybe it’s time for me to let you in on a little secret. I hate to break it to you, but sex is not all that hot once you’ve been married for a couple of years. And, also, really now, consider how little good sex you’re actually getting in your life these days. You’ve been on forty-three of the craziest dates I’ve ever even heard of. Remember the guy who brought a rubber snake with him just to see if you were afraid of them? And the one who said he’s on his tenth lifetime and that he thinks you were his naughty nursemaid back in the eighteen hundreds?”

  “I know. It’s been a bad run.”

  “Okay. So if you’re asking, I think you should marry him,” says Talia. “He’ll be loyal to you for the rest of your life. He’ll be like your own personal Saint Bernard. Unlike your stupid ex-husband, whom I would still like to go punch in the face, you can count on Judd.”

  We sit there in silence for a moment, me picturing all the tears I’d shed over Steve Hanover. And realizing how much I’d let that bad experience keep me from ever trusting again. Talia reaches over and takes my hand.

  “I know, honey,” she says. “Everything else aside, Judd makes you laugh, he loves the same movies you do, and he loves your dog, and—I think this is huge—he won’t bring rubber snakes around you or try to get you to quit your job so you can take care of his every need. You already like being with him, and that’s worth everything. You’re just having trouble letting your heart trust again. But Judd isn’t going to break your heart, sweet pea. He wouldn’t have asked you to marry him if he didn’t truly want to spend his life with you. He’s a grown-up, and he’s dated enough that he knows what he wants, and it’s not supermodels. It’s you.”

  I wipe away a stray tear. “And I can have a baby,” I say.

  She sees my face. “And you can have a baby. Only don’t move to New Jersey when you do, unless I’m going there, too.”

  It’s a beautiful fall day, and so I walk through the park to my office. I need to pick up a file about the proposed book tour for one of my more controversial authors. But mostly I’m heading there because I love going in on Saturdays and working on my novel when it’s just me. I can sit at my desk and type for hours without interruption; no Mr. Swanky to ask to go in and out, no coffee shop patrons talking out loud next to me. No people. Just me and my novel.

  But then suddenly I find myself next to a playground, which feels very auspicious, filled as it is with adorable little humans, all running and laughing and shouting.

  And their parents—ah, the parents seem to me to be beautiful, stylish-looking, well-adjusted adults—both men and women—holding paper cups of coffee and talking and smiling.

  I am going to belong here. I’m going to be one of those women pushing a stroller with a new baby in it, while my adorable little boy runs over to the climbing structure—he’s just like his father, loves to climb. That’s what I’ll say to the mom next to me, as I take the baby out of her stroller, and I’ll smile down at the baby as she curls her little fist around my finger and coos. And that night, Judd will give them a bath while I cook dinner, and then while he does the dishes (he loves to do dishes), I’ll put the children to bed and sniff their sweet-smelling hair and nuzzle their soft little cheeks, and then I’ll work on my novel, propped up on pillows on our bed, while Judd—well, I don’t know what Judd is doing. Push-ups in the living room or something. Figuring out somebody’s physical fitness plan.

  Last year when my friend Sarah told me that she couldn’t take her eyes off babies everywhere she went, I was like, “But why?” And she gave me a funny look and said, “Because they’re so cute. And they’re the future and the meaning of life, and I love the way their cheeks are so fat, and the way they have such goofy smiles, and . . .” And she went on for a lot longer than was absolutely necessary, listing every little thing about babies she could think of, even expounding about their toes and their eyelashes, until we reached the subway and I had to say good-bye to her. And when I got on the A train and settled into my seat, I felt like I’d just escaped from a very boring movie or a political rally by a not-very-galvanizing candidate.

  But now. Now I get exactly what she was talking about. I really could get married to Judd. All I have to do is make a few minor, minor adjustments to my expectations, a few tweaks—and we could be just like these parents, right here in the park.

  I watch for a few more delicious minutes, and then I tear myself away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tiller Publishing Company is located in a skyscraper-ish building overlooking the FDR Drive and the river. I work on the fourteenth floor, in an office that not only has a big window, but also came furnished with the most amazing pink brocade couch. Like a fainting couch. And bookshelves! Filled with books. There’s a coffee room down the hall and a big conference room with a long walnut table and twelve chairs all lined up, where we have our weekly meetings under the watchful eye of Darla Chapman, the head of publicity.

  I’ve been there ten years and am now second-in-command to Darla, which is why I get one of the bigger offices with a couch. As one of the more senior people there—let’s face it, I’m something of a dowager here, rather like the Queen Mother—I’m assigned to mentor the younger publicists, who are always hanging around my office bringing me their questions and problems. That’s who mostly sits on the fainting couch these days—people who want to know the best way to tell an author that we’re probably not going to be able to send him on a thirty-city tour for a book about the life of an aquarium guppy. Publicity can be a grinding job when you’re having to manage authors’ expectations all the time, dealing with a dwindling number of magazines and reviewers and book tours and budgets. You have to get good at smiling while you say, I’m sorry, but that’s probably not going to happen, a lot.

  As I’m walking down the hall to my office, I hear, “Oh, hey, Phronsie,” from the office next to mine. My heart sinks. I won’t be alone after all. It’s the new guy—Adam Cunningham. He started two months ago, and he’s a displaced surfer from California and has no background in marketing. He just likes to read, he told me, and somehow from that and the fact that his father is somebody important, he got an interview and talked his way into getting hired. Cutely strange-looking, with curly tangled hair that’s blond on the top and various shades of dark as it gets closer to his scalp. Beach hair, he told me once. Can’t do a thing to tame it.

  “Hey, so what are you doing here on a Saturday?” he says, smiling. He wheels his chair back from his desk and puts his hands behind his head. He has large, white, even teeth. He’s always smiling, flashing those teeth at me during staff meetings, mostly from across the conference room table. Sometimes he makes faces at me, like when I’m trying to be serious and he’s trying to get me to laugh.

  “Well,” I say, “I’ve got an author who’s stirring up some trouble, and I came to get the file so I can start figuring out what to do about her before Darla weighs in on the whole mess.” I lean against his doorframe. “But you! You’re new to the city. Aren’t you required by law to be out there soaking up all the fun things?”

  Go, go, go, I am thinking.

  He shakes his head. “Actually,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’m here because I’m trying to do extra work to suck up to Darla so she’ll let me have some extra days off Thanksgiving week. My family is making a huge hairy deal of the fact that I’m missing out on my grandpa’s birthday. I think he’s turning one hundred and forty-two, and it’s all hands on deck.”

  “Oh. Well, she’ll probably say yes to that. She likes suck-ups.”

  Actually, Darla has told me she’s had her doubts about whether he’s going to work out, and that I should let her know if there are any red flags with him. I
saw from the file that he’s twenty-eight, but he seems younger than that. Maybe it’s the surfer-boy persona. He’s too . . . too . . . something for this job, Darla said. Too quirky maybe. “Keep an eye on him.”

  It’s true: he is a little strange and offbeat. For instance, he has two little ceramic gnomes who sit on the windowsill like they’re standing guard. Gnomeo and Juliet, he told me.

  Gnomes.

  And now that I look over, I see that they’re not on the windowsill anymore; they’re sitting on his desk in a little platter of dirt, and Adam’s holding a miniature tractor in his hand.

  He sees me looking, but does he put it down and look appropriately embarrassed? He does not. He just smiles at me and shrugs. “Gnomes are creatures of the land,” he says. “I found them a tractor, and so then I thought I’d bring them in some dirt to farm.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Perhaps, as his official mentor here, I should tell him that a lot of people might not bring in their odd personal collections to the office right after being hired. Especially if they’re trying to fit into the corporate culture. But why should I be the one to quash his originality? I find him kind of brave, to tell you the truth. He may even be a marketing genius, despite not having any training.

  One day at a staff meeting, for instance, he made a pitch for having an author do a reading at the Stardust Diner, a New York landmark where the waiters and waitresses break into oldies songs while they serve the food. Seems the book was about rock ’n’ roll, and why not have it celebrated right there, in between songs? That’s what he said at the meeting. Everyone was silent, looking down at their hands, waiting to see what the correct response might be, as dictated by Darla’s expression.

  As I may have mentioned, I’ve worked there for ten years, longer than anyone, so I cleared my throat and said this sounded like a splendid, radical idea, but Darla frowned and said it wasn’t “the kind of thing we do.”

  Yeah. So he probably won’t be here long. He’ll discover that we’re way too boring for him, and that will lead him to remember that the Pacific Ocean really does have excellent waves, and he’ll pack up his gnomes and their tractor and go back.

  Right now he’s smiling at me. He’s got his feet propped up on his desk, like he’s right at home. He’s wearing brown leather sandals. “So to tell you the real truth, I’m actually hiding out here. My apartment is about the size of a hamster cage, and I have this roommate who rehearses operatic duets in the bathroom with his girlfriend. Something about tile providing the best acoustics. I don’t know.”

  “And what? You don’t think opera is more important than showers?”

  “Of course. Opera is more important than everything! At least that’s what I’ve learned. But every now and then a guy just wants to brush his teeth without the third act of La Bohème happening all around him.” He laughs and picks up the gnome and says almost shyly, “Okay, so now can I tell you the real reason I’m here?”

  He looks so adorably serious and vulnerable holding that silly little thing that I almost want to go over and hug him. “There’s another real reason? Is this when you tell me you’re planning a takeover of Tiller Publishing or something like that? Stealing trade secrets?”

  He laughs. “Nope. The real thing is that I’m writing a novel,” he says quietly, as if this is a shameful secret and he might be overheard. I know the feeling. “And there’s something about the vibe here that makes it kind of a good place to work on it. I don’t know, but I like working on it here.”

  I nod, and for some reason—though I haven’t mentioned my novel to any other person there—I find myself telling him that that’s why I’m there, too. Then I’m suddenly terrified he’s going to suggest that we read each other’s pages or form a writing group or something hideous like that, so when my cell phone rings, I’m relieved. It’s Judd.

  I shrug to signal to Adam that I have to take this.

  “Hey, so how did Talia vote?” says Judd.

  “She thinks we should do it,” I tell him, walking back to my own office. I smile at Adam. “She says you’ll be like a faithful Saint Bernard.”

  “Well,” Judd says. “I’m not so sure that’s the most flattering thing anybody’s ever said about me. But does this mean what I think it means? We’re a go?”

  “Judd, nobody on earth uses that terminology for marriage. You don’t say ‘we’re a go.’ And anyway, I’ve still got a coffee date with a firefighter tomorrow. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Judd is saying. “The way I see it, we’re just one heroic firefighter away from wrapping this up.”

  “‘Wrapping this up’? Again, Judd, this is not—”

  He laughs. “Okay, okay, so what do the romantic guys say?” He makes his voice go to what he considers romantic but isn’t. “Let’s see. I’m pining for your answer, sweet Phronsie. Your eyes are like molten pools of lava . . .”

  “Stop it,” I say. But I’m laughing. “So listen, I’m going to be home later. You want to come over? Have dinner? And maybe . . . ?”

  “Oh. Can’t,” he says. “I forgot to tell you last night that I agreed to go camping overnight with Sean Johnson and his two boys. They’re picking me up in a few minutes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Judd! Don’t we have the thing with Russell and Sarah tomorrow evening?”

  “We’ll be back in the early afternoon. I think Sean just wants me to go so his kids won’t outnumber him. And so I can fight off bears if need be.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, all right. Have fun. Don’t get eaten by bears. See you!”

  “Enjoy your firefighter,” he says. “Bye.”

  Enjoy your firefighter? Enjoy your firefighter? I sit there, contemplating all the levels of that statement. Does he really mean it would be fine with him if I met someone else? He does. I think he really does. He’d be happy for me if I fell in love with someone else. He is absolutely non-possessive, non-jealous—and I’m sorry, but I hate that.

  I turn on the computer and see an email Darla has written me about my problematic author. I have been in charge of Gabora Pierce-Anton for years now, one of the superstars of children’s literature—only now she’s written a book that is politically and racially insensitive, and it’s up to me to deal with her.

  We’ll discuss this at the staff meeting on Monday, Darla wrote. I have some disturbing news about her plans for a book tour.

  Great. Love disturbing news at a staff meeting! And really, really love that Darla won’t tell me what it is in advance so I can prepare.

  Adam shows up at my door. He’s holding his backpack. “I’m taking off,” he says. “See you Monday.”

  “Okay. Good to see you. Hope you get to enjoy the day.”

  But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, smiling at me. “And hey—are you—I mean, did I discern from that phone call I was eavesdropping on . . . um . . . that you’re getting married?”

  “Am I?” I laugh, flustered. “I’m—well, I’m thinking about it. This guy is my oldest friend from childhood, and he thinks we should get married because we’re getting up there in years—haha—and sick of dating, and we didn’t meet anybody else yet.” I throw my hand out into the air in what is meant to be a cute, dramatic gesture of carefreeness, and instead hit it on the filing cabinet. I try to keep my expression neutral so he doesn’t see that I’m in so much pain I’m seeing stars.

  “Oh.” Adam shifts the backpack to his other shoulder. “Is this one of those pact things? Like you get to a certain age and then if you haven’t met someone else, you marry each other? Like some kind of romantic comedy thing.”

  “Well. No. Not really. He just sprung this on me last night. You know. The way one does. You know, the old ‘let’s get married because we haven’t met anyone else’ thing.”

  What is wrong with me? Why am I talking like this? Like none of this matters to me. When I know that if Judd wanted to cancel his camping trip and stay home and have sex with me—well, that might seal the deal right th
ere. If it was good enough, I might even cancel the firefighter.

  “Huh,” he says. “Well. Congratulations? Maybe?”

  “That sounds about right,” I say. “Congratulations maybe.”

  “And hey, good luck with your novel.”

  “You too. Also, I guess it goes without saying that we won’t talk about this, right?”

  “Correct.”

  After he leaves, I turn on the computer and open the file with my novel and read the last chapter I wrote. It’s blah. I crack my knuckles, then pack up my files having to do with my problem author, who I suspect is about to become The Bane of My Existence, and I make my way home.

  I go out for coffee with the firefighter the next afternoon. I tell myself this is giving falling in love a chance to bat last. I even dress up for the occasion. My best blue silk shirt and really nice black pants with no rips in them. I straighten my hair with the flat iron, even.

  I am halfway hoping he’ll show up in his firefighter suit, smelling vaguely of smoke and heroism. I hope that he’ll have ruddy skin and bloodshot eyes. He’ll be tender and solicitous. He’ll have recently saved a few children and some elderly people, and he’ll be so humble about it that I’ll have to drag the story out of him. I will be swept off my feet, and I’ll have to explain to Judd that true love does exist after all, and I can’t marry him.

  I’ve written in my head a whole scenario of the dramatic life we’ll have—he’ll save lives and I’ll quit my job and write full-time—and then when I walk into the Starbucks where we are to meet, there he is. I know him immediately. Unlike the rest of the people in there, he radiates confident heroism. It’s crowded so I thread my way among the tables to get to him, a tall guy with dark brown hair, and he’s reading the front section of the Times and looking like he could leap into action at any moment if, say, someone started choking on their latte. If the milk foamer behind the counter caught fire, he would be our man.