envy to their clever banter, peppered with references to politics and books and
The New York Times
, most of which she didn’t understand. Their world seemed wide, their prospects vast. Everyone burst into laughter at a joke told by the young man sitting next to Eve.
And something clicked inside her. The courtyard, the unmarked door, the tables with the initials. “Is this place called Chumley’s?” she asked suddenly.
“Yep,” confirmed everyone, helping themselves to another round of beers from a tray going around the table.
Eve hugged herself, looking around the room as the story came back to her.
Her mother had celebrated a birthday here. Penelope had lovingly recounted an evening at a place called Chumley’s—a so-called “secret bar”—with a big gang of her friends. She’d met most of them through her job as a reader for a literary agent in Midtown. Carol and Robert were also readers, the three of them becoming fast friends over the enormous piles of manuscripts that dotted the office. Most of her other pals were writers, editors, or artists. They had become the family that she’d longed for growing up in their clammy little corner of Ohio, she’d told Eve. They’d made her feel part of something larger, of the world itself, of her very times.
As Eve studied the animated faces around her, she wondered if she could be happy in New York, too. Maybe Vadis was right. How hard could it be to live here? It was just a spot on a map like any other. One that held not just Chumley’s, but all the other places her mother had spoken of with their wonderful names, like the Gaslight, the Cedar Tavern, and the San Remo. Fortyyears had passed, but maybe Eve could uncover a bit of the magic Penelope had once known.
When she got back to Ohio, she sat her father down and informed him that as soon as she could put her affairs in order (which would include simultaneously breaking up with Ryan and fixing him up with her friend Corrine), she’d be moving to New York.
Today, after the show, she’d call Gin to tell him he could forget his misgivings, that it had all been worth it; she’d landed a job at
Smell the Coffee
.
The bag wobbled and Vadis jerked her chin back. “What the hell is in there?”
“A dog,” said Eve, in a low voice.
“Why not let it out?”
“Are dogs allowed in here?”
“It’s okay. I know the owner.”
Eve lifted the puppy out and set her on the floor. She blinked up at them. “Voilà.”
“So cute!” Vadis, in suit and heels, got down on her knees and rubbed the dog behind her ears. “I wish I could have one but who has time for a pet? What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet. I just got her.”
“Aww.” The dog, amiable, and seemingly well recovered from the previous day’s drama, licked Vadis on the knuckle. “There’ll be some bacon in it for you later,” Vadis said, standing and brushing off her knees. “So—check it out.” She pointed at a television hanging on the wall. “I told them all about your big moment and got them to put on Channel 6 instead of
Squawk Box
.”
“Thanks,” Eve said, tying the leash to her chair. They looked at their menus for several moments before she spoke again. “So, how do you know Orla Knock? You never said.”
“Concert at Chelsea Piers. I was trolling for new clients.” Vadis leaned forward. “Corporate PR stuff pays well but it’s boring. So I’ve decided to go after musicians. So far I’ve only signed one band, but I’m going to knock them into the stratosphere.”
Vadis had always been hard-charging. She’d won the Aesthette’s presidency junior year over one or two seniors chiefly due to bravado and a breezy comfort with sizing up club members and telling them what to do. It was as though she saw those around her as pieces in a chess game, but she had an uncanny way of making people want to please her, which seemed to keep the other girls from taking offense.
The waiter poured some coffee and took
The New York Times
, most of which she didn’t understand. Their world seemed wide, their prospects vast. Everyone burst into laughter at a joke told by the young man sitting next to Eve.
And something clicked inside her. The courtyard, the unmarked door, the tables with the initials. “Is this place called Chumley’s?” she asked suddenly.
“Yep,” confirmed everyone, helping themselves to another round of beers from a tray going around the table.
Eve hugged herself, looking around the room as the story came back to her.
Her mother had celebrated a birthday here. Penelope had lovingly recounted an evening at a place called Chumley’s—a so-called “secret bar”—with a big gang of her friends. She’d met most of them through her job as a reader for a literary agent in Midtown. Carol and Robert were also readers, the three of them becoming fast friends over the enormous piles of manuscripts that dotted the office. Most of her other pals were writers, editors, or artists. They had become the family that she’d longed for growing up in their clammy little corner of Ohio, she’d told Eve. They’d made her feel part of something larger, of the world itself, of her very times.
As Eve studied the animated faces around her, she wondered if she could be happy in New York, too. Maybe Vadis was right. How hard could it be to live here? It was just a spot on a map like any other. One that held not just Chumley’s, but all the other places her mother had spoken of with their wonderful names, like the Gaslight, the Cedar Tavern, and the San Remo. Fortyyears had passed, but maybe Eve could uncover a bit of the magic Penelope had once known.
When she got back to Ohio, she sat her father down and informed him that as soon as she could put her affairs in order (which would include simultaneously breaking up with Ryan and fixing him up with her friend Corrine), she’d be moving to New York.
Today, after the show, she’d call Gin to tell him he could forget his misgivings, that it had all been worth it; she’d landed a job at
Smell the Coffee
.
The bag wobbled and Vadis jerked her chin back. “What the hell is in there?”
“A dog,” said Eve, in a low voice.
“Why not let it out?”
“Are dogs allowed in here?”
“It’s okay. I know the owner.”
Eve lifted the puppy out and set her on the floor. She blinked up at them. “Voilà.”
“So cute!” Vadis, in suit and heels, got down on her knees and rubbed the dog behind her ears. “I wish I could have one but who has time for a pet? What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet. I just got her.”
“Aww.” The dog, amiable, and seemingly well recovered from the previous day’s drama, licked Vadis on the knuckle. “There’ll be some bacon in it for you later,” Vadis said, standing and brushing off her knees. “So—check it out.” She pointed at a television hanging on the wall. “I told them all about your big moment and got them to put on Channel 6 instead of
Squawk Box
.”
“Thanks,” Eve said, tying the leash to her chair. They looked at their menus for several moments before she spoke again. “So, how do you know Orla Knock? You never said.”
“Concert at Chelsea Piers. I was trolling for new clients.” Vadis leaned forward. “Corporate PR stuff pays well but it’s boring. So I’ve decided to go after musicians. So far I’ve only signed one band, but I’m going to knock them into the stratosphere.”
Vadis had always been hard-charging. She’d won the Aesthette’s presidency junior year over one or two seniors chiefly due to bravado and a breezy comfort with sizing up club members and telling them what to do. It was as though she saw those around her as pieces in a chess game, but she had an uncanny way of making people want to please her, which seemed to keep the other girls from taking offense.
The waiter poured some coffee and took
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