A Bigamist's Daughter by Alice McDermott Read Free Book Online

not since Henry Miller have I seen such understanding.”
    He deflates a little. “Henry Miller?”
    She laughs. She’s overdone it. “Miller? Did I say Henry Miller?” She searches her mind. “James. I meant Henry James.”
    He grins. “You were probably thinking of Daisy Miller.”
    “Yes,” she says. “Not since James have I seen women dealt with so well.”
    His neck is flushed beneath the turned-up collar of his white alligator. She fully expects him to yell, “EEE-Ha!” but instead he cries, “How about lunch? I’ll even buy. My treat to you!”
    She checks the clock. It’s only eleven-thirty, but her expense account is limited and a free lunch is a free lunch.
    She puts on her jacket and picks up her purse. As they walk out the door, he puts his hand on her elbow. Ann peers up over the partition and Elizabeth waves and tells her she’s going to lunch. Ann winks. Bonnie, a folded red-and-white straw stuck like a thermometer into the corner of her mouth, scowls at Tupper Daniels as they leave.
    In the elevator, they stand apart. She notices he is wearingsocks today, gray ones. He has his hands crossed over his fly. She wonders what he thinks the relationship between an editor and an author should be. At the third floor, a young Puerto Rican woman gets in. Elizabeth has seen her before, she works in the styrofoam factory in the building. She chews gum impatiently and dances a little as the elevator descends. Tupper Daniels glances at her from beneath his eyelids. Elizabeth wonders if she wears her bright green high heels while she makes styrofoam.
    “Well,” Tupper Daniels says when they get outside. “You’re the New Yorker, where is there a nice quiet place?”
    She looks up and down the street, as if deciding. The September air is cool, full of sun and grit. There’s a strong wind blowing in from the river and the street is filled with gray trucks. This far west, there are more parking garages than quiet restaurants.
    “There’s a place down the block,” she tells him, shouting over the trucks. He puts his hand out for her to lead the way.
    Inside at their table, he looks around and compliments the place as if she had decorated it herself. He likes the white tablecloths, the short oak bar, the bare floors, the ferns in the one small window. He likes the candlelight at lunchtime and the waiters who wear black bow ties and white bibs. He likes the wine and the bowl of black olives and celery sticks. She wonders if this is his way of repaying her for complimenting his book. She wonders how long he’s waited for such compliments.
    “So,” he says, after having raised his glass and whispered, To a wonderful relationship. “How do you usually work with your authors? Should I come in every day, every other day? Do we have lunch together a couple of times a week?”
    She takes a sip of her wine. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d actually want to spend time with her. “Well, it mostly depends on what’s convenient for you,” she tells him, improvising.“Maybe you should just write an ending, or a couple of endings and then show them to me.”
    He nods and spits an olive pit into his cupped hand. “Well, I thought maybe we could just talk about it first. You know, kick some ideas around.”
    “Fine,” she says, “if that will help.” She can’t have him in her office three or four times a week. “Why don’t we start right now?”
    He laughs a little, showing his square smile. “Good,” he says. “You’re dedicated. That’s what I need. I’m a terrible procrastinator—like most writers, I’m told. If it had been up to me, we’d just sit here and get drunk and get to know each other.” He sits up, smoothing the white tablecloth before him, serious. “Okay. You said you had some ideas. Shoot.”
    She wonders if he thinks she’s a bore. She sips her wine again. “Well, first I’d like to know how you’re thinking,” she tells him. “How do you see the ending?” A good