“All right, you got me. I’ll confess. I’m writing one of those, whatcha call ’em, bodice-tearing romances, under a pen name. Eloisa Hampersmith?”
She glared at him, then burst out laughing. “Well, that would be the name you’d use. How about dinner Monday? Bring your first chapter. I’d offer tomorrow but I’m visiting my son and his family.”
“Monday? I’m actually busy. But check back. And I won’t bring the first chapter.” He shut the door before she could propose Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.
Rescuing his dinner from the fridge, he warmed it up in the microwave and returned to his worn but comfy leather mission chair he’d rescued from the side of an apartment building on East Eighty-Ninth Street and answered the Daily Double trivia question as he cut into his pot pie.
Eloisa Hampersmith. Ed, you’re too funny.
He was jesting about writing a romance, but maybe that’s how he needed to structure his story. A romance. Because that’s what he and his beautiful, refined society girl Esmerelda Belmont shared.
Ed pressed his fist to his chest, subduing the ache that resided between his ribs and heart ever since she left this world. Dead at thirty-four, but he was keeping his promise to love and remember her until his own dying day.
Of course, he saw Esmerelda every day in Holly. He was right proud of their girl, the executive producer. She married a good man, too, with a solid head on his shoulders. Brant liked to advise Ed on financial matters and how to increase his conservative retirement pay.
And the two of them had given Ed and Esmerelda two fine grandchildren. Drake and Hope.
“You should see them, Esmie. Good kids. Smart. Athletic.”
He played along with the Jeopardy contestants as he finished the last bite of his pot pie and washed it down with a swig of beer. He figured he was up to about ten grand when he wagered five thousand on another Daily Double and lost.
Well, you win some and lose some. But on such an easy question! Which great American twentieth-century author won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1926?
“Dad?”
Ed jumped up, tipping the TV tray. He caught it before the contents spilled. “Hol?”
“I came up the back elevator.” She peered around the kitchen wall, holding up two canvas totes. “I brought you some produce. What smells so good?”
Mabel’s pasta. “My pot pie.” He schlepped into the kitchen with his clean plate and nearly empty bottle of beer. “What are you doing here?”
Tall and lean, Holly embodied the city in which she grew up—quick, fast talking, fast moving, always in black with the aura of professional ambition.
“Seeing my father?” She kissed his cheek before raising three grocery totes to the counter. “I’m beat. Long day. Did you watch the show? Our first guest was a pain in the rear. She was obsessed with avocados. Had to have a fresh one. On warm toast. Like she’d die otherwise. After the fifth run to the bodega, I was ready to smash the whole lot in her face. But”—she speared the air with her finger—“we have Sabrina Fox next week, so that should make up for it.”
She smiled as if Ed understood every fast word. Which he did, sort of.
“What’d you bring me?” He peeked into the nearest bag, sniffing out asparagus and potatoes. “I’ll make a soup.”
“I reminisced with the kids the other night about your famous potato soup. You should come to the house one afternoon, make it for us.”
Ed started unpacking the totes, but Holly was distracted by the mail holder on the counter. Every now and then she stole one of his bills and paid it for him.
“Leave that be. I can handle it.”
But she bypassed the bill for the story society invitation.
What’s this? ‘You are cordially invited—’”
“Didn’t I raise you not to be so nosy?” Ed tried to snatch it from her but she was too quick.
“I’m a television producer, so no. A story society? Dad, are you writing?” She gazed toward his den. His typewriter.
“Not really.” He snatched the invitation from her fingers. “I had an idea but didn’t know what to do with it. This invitation came out of the blue, so I thought I might go see what the fuss was about.”
“The literary library? On Fifth Avenue? Oh, the one at the old Winthrop mansion. Of course. You never hear about that place anymore. I remember visiting when I was in high school but since then . . . This might be a good story.”
“There’s no story.” He peered inside the nearest tote. Bananas. Good. He’d cut up his last one on his cereal this morning.
“Who’s sponsoring this society? The Winthrops? One of the universities?” Holly began unpacking oranges and apples and a head of cauliflower.
“Don’t know who’s sponsoring it. There were five of us in all, and no one knows who sent this invitation. Even Coral Winthrop is confused.”
“Coral Winthrop.” Holly stared at him with her blue eyes wide. “The cosmetics heiress. Head of CCW? The daughter of Eric Winthrop III. She was there?”
Uh-oh. He knew the tone, the look. “Now don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Dad, please.” Holly tucked the empty tote under her arm and gripped his hand. “We’ve been dying to have her on GMNY. Ever since she ran out on Prince Augustus she’s been a recluse, a media mystery. She’s not even the face of CCW anymore. Every news outlet in the world wants to talk to her. Dad, you’ve got to—”
“I don’t have to do a thing.” He directed her toward the remaining tote. “Unload. Listen, Hol, I’m not sure what our little group is about, but I’m pretty sure handing over one of the members to a news outlet is questionable. You’re just going to have to find your story another way.”
Holly sighed, giving him her rebellious-daughter look. Blue-eyed determination with a hint of “pretty please.” “Well if you get a chance, ask her—”
“I won’t.”
They finished unloading the totes. Holly tucked them away in her oversized satchel, then made her way to the living room. She pretended to reminisce about her childhood home on these spontaneous visits, but Ed knew she was inspecting the place to see if he was living well.
“The place looks good.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Always feels good to be home.”
“You know you’re always welcome.” He’d been here forty-nine years. Moved in with Esmerelda when Holly was one. Seemed like he’d signed the bank papers and taken the keys just a few years ago. “Needs some updating, but I like this place well enough.”
When the building co-op board had caught the former superintendent stealing, they offered the job to Ed. Which he eagerly took.
A year into his retirement, he felt a bit adrift if not stir crazy. The place where he’d raised Holly seemed rather small at times—like when she had her friends over—until he lived in it alone, facing day after day of solitude, memories flooding to the surface.
“We still want you to move out to Rockville Center with us. We bought our house with you in mind. The father-in-law suite is as big as this place, and you’ll have a yard for that garden you always said you wanted.”