pretty important."
"Honey, Evelyn Unger is a workaholic and a slave driver. The Harvard Press is not the New York Times. What couldn't possibly wait three weeks?"
"Gavin Wilson," she replied.
"Isn't he in Washington teaching the National Security Council how to attack Massachusetts?"
"Yes. But he'll be in Cambridge tomorrow. Only tomorrow."
"What does that have to do with you?"
"He's a big star on our backlist. And Evelyn wants to cash in on his new visibility and reissue his books."
"I thought university presses weren't supposed to be venal. Besides, Wilson's foreign policy stuff is old hat."
"Which is why Evelyn wants me to meet with him. She wants to convince him to do some revisions and updating."
"And for this you have to sacrifice a chunk of your vacation?"
She looked at him and said quietly, "I'm flattered to be asked, Bob."
He understood. Or at least thought he did. At this delicate moment she wanted some objective reafiErmation of her worth. He should be glad for her.
"Yeah," he said after another potato, "it is flattering, isn't it? Well, haven't I always said you were the best damn editor they had? I say it's about time they acknowledged it."
"And I say keep peeling," she replied cheerfully.
Bob had made a fire, and they were sitting peacefully, listening to the music of the waves.
''Hey/' he said as spontaneously as possible. "I've got an idea."
"What's that?" she asked.
"Why don't we drive up to Cambridge together?"
"What about the kids?" Ah, thought Bob optimistically, she's not averse.
"We could get Susie Ryder to sleep over."
"Sleep over?" He had tipped his hand a bit.
"Well, I thought we might give ourselves a break and stay over at the Lexington house. Just the two of us."
His eyes were saying. Come on, Sheila, we both need this.
"It's a bit impractical," she replied.
"Okay, then let's just go up, you have your meeting, I'll buy some records at the Coop, we can have an early dinner and come back."
Please, Sheila, he was thinking. Please see how badly I want to splice the broken wires of our relationship.
She mulled it over.
"Not this time. Bob," she said at last.
Well, at least it was a conditional rejection. "Not this time" had an implicit corollary of perhaps another time.
She stood up.
"I'd better get a good night's sleep," she said. And before he could rise to join her, she walked over to his chair, put her arm near his head, and whispered, "Thanks for asking."
Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead and started to the stairs.
A small gesture. But it was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks.
ill, Sheila/' called Maureen the reception-ist. ''He's in Evelyn's office. Lucky you."
Funny, thought Sheila, as she started down the corridor toward the editorial department. Maureen's usually blase, accustomed to the likes of Kissinger and Galbraith parading by.
When she turned the corner, she saw him having coffee with Evelyn at her desk. He was long and lanky, with graying hair and square tortoise-shell glasses. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt reading GO BOSTON RED sox! She was somewhat startled, for she had prepared herself to meet a three-piece suit (the Washington influence) with a cultured English accent (the Oxford influence).
He stood up as she approached. He was very tall. Evelyn introduced them.
''Gavin, this is Sheila Beckwith, our number one editor."
"How do you do," said Wilson. (At least the accent was still there.) "I understand you've had to interrupt your holiday on my account. Via terribly sorry."
"On the contrary, I'm happy to have the chance of working with you, Dr. Wilson."
113
"Gavin, please. And may I call you Sheila?"
"Of course. I know you're on a tight schedule. Would you like to come right to my office and begin?''
He smiled and turned to Evelyn. "You didn't exaggerate—she's a harsh taskmaster." And then, turning to Sheila, "May I get you a coffee en route?"
"Please," said Sheila. "White, no sugar.'*
By the time he
"Honey, Evelyn Unger is a workaholic and a slave driver. The Harvard Press is not the New York Times. What couldn't possibly wait three weeks?"
"Gavin Wilson," she replied.
"Isn't he in Washington teaching the National Security Council how to attack Massachusetts?"
"Yes. But he'll be in Cambridge tomorrow. Only tomorrow."
"What does that have to do with you?"
"He's a big star on our backlist. And Evelyn wants to cash in on his new visibility and reissue his books."
"I thought university presses weren't supposed to be venal. Besides, Wilson's foreign policy stuff is old hat."
"Which is why Evelyn wants me to meet with him. She wants to convince him to do some revisions and updating."
"And for this you have to sacrifice a chunk of your vacation?"
She looked at him and said quietly, "I'm flattered to be asked, Bob."
He understood. Or at least thought he did. At this delicate moment she wanted some objective reafiErmation of her worth. He should be glad for her.
"Yeah," he said after another potato, "it is flattering, isn't it? Well, haven't I always said you were the best damn editor they had? I say it's about time they acknowledged it."
"And I say keep peeling," she replied cheerfully.
Bob had made a fire, and they were sitting peacefully, listening to the music of the waves.
''Hey/' he said as spontaneously as possible. "I've got an idea."
"What's that?" she asked.
"Why don't we drive up to Cambridge together?"
"What about the kids?" Ah, thought Bob optimistically, she's not averse.
"We could get Susie Ryder to sleep over."
"Sleep over?" He had tipped his hand a bit.
"Well, I thought we might give ourselves a break and stay over at the Lexington house. Just the two of us."
His eyes were saying. Come on, Sheila, we both need this.
"It's a bit impractical," she replied.
"Okay, then let's just go up, you have your meeting, I'll buy some records at the Coop, we can have an early dinner and come back."
Please, Sheila, he was thinking. Please see how badly I want to splice the broken wires of our relationship.
She mulled it over.
"Not this time. Bob," she said at last.
Well, at least it was a conditional rejection. "Not this time" had an implicit corollary of perhaps another time.
She stood up.
"I'd better get a good night's sleep," she said. And before he could rise to join her, she walked over to his chair, put her arm near his head, and whispered, "Thanks for asking."
Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead and started to the stairs.
A small gesture. But it was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks.
ill, Sheila/' called Maureen the reception-ist. ''He's in Evelyn's office. Lucky you."
Funny, thought Sheila, as she started down the corridor toward the editorial department. Maureen's usually blase, accustomed to the likes of Kissinger and Galbraith parading by.
When she turned the corner, she saw him having coffee with Evelyn at her desk. He was long and lanky, with graying hair and square tortoise-shell glasses. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt reading GO BOSTON RED sox! She was somewhat startled, for she had prepared herself to meet a three-piece suit (the Washington influence) with a cultured English accent (the Oxford influence).
He stood up as she approached. He was very tall. Evelyn introduced them.
''Gavin, this is Sheila Beckwith, our number one editor."
"How do you do," said Wilson. (At least the accent was still there.) "I understand you've had to interrupt your holiday on my account. Via terribly sorry."
"On the contrary, I'm happy to have the chance of working with you, Dr. Wilson."
113
"Gavin, please. And may I call you Sheila?"
"Of course. I know you're on a tight schedule. Would you like to come right to my office and begin?''
He smiled and turned to Evelyn. "You didn't exaggerate—she's a harsh taskmaster." And then, turning to Sheila, "May I get you a coffee en route?"
"Please," said Sheila. "White, no sugar.'*
By the time he
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