right?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Lowenstein replied. “Why are you showing me this?”
Claire regarded her curiously. Lowenstein looked away; she wiggled her pencil, she pressed a finger to her lip.
“Because Richard just gave me the manuscript, the one Charlie was working on. He wants me to … well, finish it. Charlie stipulated in his will that if anything should happen to him I would be responsible for any unfinished work.”
After an unnaturally long pause, Lowenstein spoke.
“Let’s not be trivial about this,” she said. “That is a huge commitment.”
She cleared her throat, then continued. Her voice had raised in pitch. “You didn’t know what he was working on, then?”
“I wasn’t interested. And Charlie never brought his work home. So, no.”
Lowenstein set her pen and notebook on her desk and assessed the pictures in Claire’s lap. “That is a profoundly attractive man,” Lowenstein said. Then she took up her pen again and wrote something down.
13
“See, this is what I mean!” Claire waved Sunday’s New York Times Style section at Ethan.
They were eating brunch and sharing the paper at Pastis. October had dawned cool and rainy, as if to emphasize that time kept moving, even when people were stuck. “Did you read Modern Love?” Claire asked.
“No, honey. It’s hard for me to read it when you have it,” Ethan said.
“It’s from a widower. Five hundred sappy words on why he’s already sleeping with someone four months after his wife died. I needed the distraction. She would’ve wanted it that way. Are we supposed to believe his wife wanted him screwing around four months later, and that she’d be happy for him? I’ll tell you something, it’s not like that on my side.”
Ethan took a slow drink of his coffee.
“Did I tell you Melanie Stark fixed me up?”
“No, you didn’t. I hope he was rich.” He was reading the Sunday Magazine . A quick glance at the article revealed none other than Charlie’s muse: “Huxleys in Hollywood: Then and Now.”
“There must be a movie coming out.”
Ethan whistled low and shook his head. “That is one pretty man.”
“Anyway, yes, he was rich, Melanie’s setup. He was also seventy and widowed.”
Ethan was scanning the Huxley article.
“May I remind you that I am thirty-two? That’s too young for seventy,” Claire said, loud enough to make the man two tables over glance their way. “What? You’ve never heard a woman raise her voice?” Claire snapped at him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, honey,” Ethan said. He put the paper down.
“My point is that this guy was old and widowed less than two months and he’s getting fixed up with me. A husband dies and the world gets just another widow. A wife dies, and a star is born.”
“That’s catchy.”
“Seriously, Ethan.” Claire crossed, then uncrossed her legs.
“Okay. Does it bother you?” Ethan asked.
“Yes, it does. There’s no protocol for men. It’s like breaking up: they’re just single again, suddenly, and they run back out and fool around. I mean, what about Scout’s dad in To Kill a Mockingbird— what was his name?”
“Atticus.”
“Right, Atticus. He didn’t start hitting on Scout’s teacher right after his wife died. He stayed sober and serious. He made his children his focus, not getting laid. This Modern Love guy has a seven-year-old daughter. Can’t he just watch porn like everyone else? It’s pathetic.”
“What’s pathetic? That he’s in a relationship, and you’re not?”
“No. That’s not … no. It’s this ruse of doing it for his wife. He says she told him, ‘If I die, I don’t want you to be unhappy the rest of your life,’ then says she added jokingly, ‘just for a couple years.’ Well, maybe she wasn’t joking, maybe she did want him to be unhappy for a couple of years. These widowers have no respect and it’s demeaning to all of us.”
“No one’s saying you can’t have a life, Clarabelle.”
“Nancy
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Lowenstein replied. “Why are you showing me this?”
Claire regarded her curiously. Lowenstein looked away; she wiggled her pencil, she pressed a finger to her lip.
“Because Richard just gave me the manuscript, the one Charlie was working on. He wants me to … well, finish it. Charlie stipulated in his will that if anything should happen to him I would be responsible for any unfinished work.”
After an unnaturally long pause, Lowenstein spoke.
“Let’s not be trivial about this,” she said. “That is a huge commitment.”
She cleared her throat, then continued. Her voice had raised in pitch. “You didn’t know what he was working on, then?”
“I wasn’t interested. And Charlie never brought his work home. So, no.”
Lowenstein set her pen and notebook on her desk and assessed the pictures in Claire’s lap. “That is a profoundly attractive man,” Lowenstein said. Then she took up her pen again and wrote something down.
13
“See, this is what I mean!” Claire waved Sunday’s New York Times Style section at Ethan.
They were eating brunch and sharing the paper at Pastis. October had dawned cool and rainy, as if to emphasize that time kept moving, even when people were stuck. “Did you read Modern Love?” Claire asked.
“No, honey. It’s hard for me to read it when you have it,” Ethan said.
“It’s from a widower. Five hundred sappy words on why he’s already sleeping with someone four months after his wife died. I needed the distraction. She would’ve wanted it that way. Are we supposed to believe his wife wanted him screwing around four months later, and that she’d be happy for him? I’ll tell you something, it’s not like that on my side.”
Ethan took a slow drink of his coffee.
“Did I tell you Melanie Stark fixed me up?”
“No, you didn’t. I hope he was rich.” He was reading the Sunday Magazine . A quick glance at the article revealed none other than Charlie’s muse: “Huxleys in Hollywood: Then and Now.”
“There must be a movie coming out.”
Ethan whistled low and shook his head. “That is one pretty man.”
“Anyway, yes, he was rich, Melanie’s setup. He was also seventy and widowed.”
Ethan was scanning the Huxley article.
“May I remind you that I am thirty-two? That’s too young for seventy,” Claire said, loud enough to make the man two tables over glance their way. “What? You’ve never heard a woman raise her voice?” Claire snapped at him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, honey,” Ethan said. He put the paper down.
“My point is that this guy was old and widowed less than two months and he’s getting fixed up with me. A husband dies and the world gets just another widow. A wife dies, and a star is born.”
“That’s catchy.”
“Seriously, Ethan.” Claire crossed, then uncrossed her legs.
“Okay. Does it bother you?” Ethan asked.
“Yes, it does. There’s no protocol for men. It’s like breaking up: they’re just single again, suddenly, and they run back out and fool around. I mean, what about Scout’s dad in To Kill a Mockingbird— what was his name?”
“Atticus.”
“Right, Atticus. He didn’t start hitting on Scout’s teacher right after his wife died. He stayed sober and serious. He made his children his focus, not getting laid. This Modern Love guy has a seven-year-old daughter. Can’t he just watch porn like everyone else? It’s pathetic.”
“What’s pathetic? That he’s in a relationship, and you’re not?”
“No. That’s not … no. It’s this ruse of doing it for his wife. He says she told him, ‘If I die, I don’t want you to be unhappy the rest of your life,’ then says she added jokingly, ‘just for a couple years.’ Well, maybe she wasn’t joking, maybe she did want him to be unhappy for a couple of years. These widowers have no respect and it’s demeaning to all of us.”
“No one’s saying you can’t have a life, Clarabelle.”
“Nancy
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