possible since I was in high school, the offhand comment about
how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural
talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every
essay I'd ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a
huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I'd declared
myself an English major. The card had read TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST
OF THE FAMILY. He mentioned often how he'd love to show me
the ropes because he thought it'd be something I could really get
into. And I didn't doubt that part. It was only that recently his
columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the
society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly
devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre,
never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself
too seriously. At least until recently, when he'd written a thousand
words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A
summary: "Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those
diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up
all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants,
adding to the non-Knglish-speaking environment in the city? Why
can't they just email their votes from their respective countries?
Why should we have to deal with gridlock and security nightmares
when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse
to work electronically from their home countries, why don't we
move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they're
all still dying to come here to better the world?") Part of me would
love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what
luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you
just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers
and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I
stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about
ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear
friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was
getting married, it didn't seem like the best idea to work together
all day.
"According to my ex-boss, I haven't yet mastered the ideals put
forth in a single quote of the day. I'm not sure that's someone
you'd want working for you."
"Puh-lease! You'd be better than those kids in my office who
pretend to be fact-checking while they're updating their nerve.com
profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal comeons."
He snorted. "I applaud a complete and utter lack of work
ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?" He
finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself
off the leather divan. "Just something to consider, is all. Now, let's
go. We've got a dinner party to oversee."
I sighed. "Okay, but I can't stay the entire time. I've got book
club tonight."
"Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are
you reading?"
I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable
title that came to mind. "Moby-Dick."
Simon turned and stared at me. "You're reading Moby-Dick? Are
you serious?"
"Of course she's not." Will laughed. "She's reading Passion and
Pain in Pennsylvania, or something to that effect. Can't quite kick
the habit, can you, darling?"
"You don't understand, Will." I turned to face Simon. "No matter
how many times I've explained it to him, he refuses to understand."
"Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent
English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance
novels? You're right, darling, I can't understand."
I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. "The Very
Bad Boy is brand new . . . and highly anticipated. I'm hardly
alone—it's one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had
a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!"
Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. "Darling,
how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural
talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every
essay I'd ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a
huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I'd declared
myself an English major. The card had read TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST
OF THE FAMILY. He mentioned often how he'd love to show me
the ropes because he thought it'd be something I could really get
into. And I didn't doubt that part. It was only that recently his
columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the
society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly
devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre,
never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself
too seriously. At least until recently, when he'd written a thousand
words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A
summary: "Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those
diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up
all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants,
adding to the non-Knglish-speaking environment in the city? Why
can't they just email their votes from their respective countries?
Why should we have to deal with gridlock and security nightmares
when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse
to work electronically from their home countries, why don't we
move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they're
all still dying to come here to better the world?") Part of me would
love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what
luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you
just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers
and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I
stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about
ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear
friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was
getting married, it didn't seem like the best idea to work together
all day.
"According to my ex-boss, I haven't yet mastered the ideals put
forth in a single quote of the day. I'm not sure that's someone
you'd want working for you."
"Puh-lease! You'd be better than those kids in my office who
pretend to be fact-checking while they're updating their nerve.com
profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal comeons."
He snorted. "I applaud a complete and utter lack of work
ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?" He
finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself
off the leather divan. "Just something to consider, is all. Now, let's
go. We've got a dinner party to oversee."
I sighed. "Okay, but I can't stay the entire time. I've got book
club tonight."
"Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are
you reading?"
I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable
title that came to mind. "Moby-Dick."
Simon turned and stared at me. "You're reading Moby-Dick? Are
you serious?"
"Of course she's not." Will laughed. "She's reading Passion and
Pain in Pennsylvania, or something to that effect. Can't quite kick
the habit, can you, darling?"
"You don't understand, Will." I turned to face Simon. "No matter
how many times I've explained it to him, he refuses to understand."
"Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent
English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance
novels? You're right, darling, I can't understand."
I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. "The Very
Bad Boy is brand new . . . and highly anticipated. I'm hardly
alone—it's one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had
a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!"
Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. "Darling,
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