Three-Martini Lunch by Suzanne Rindell Read Free Book Online

semester wound down and graduation drew near, I informed Mr. Hightower of my plans to go East in order to try my own hand at publishing. I remember it was after class on a Friday, following his last lecture of the year. I worked up my nerve to tell him and when I did, he looked at me with surprise, then shrugged.
    â€œI think that’s a fine idea, Eden,” he said, packing up his things. “A very fine idea, indeed. Of course you know Rome wasn’t built in a day. You’ll have to start at the bottom and prove yourself. But having said that, I think you’d make a fine editor—someday. Women of your generation are doing all kinds of surprising things.” He stopped packing up his briefcase and patted me on the shoulder and looked at me with glassy eyes and forthe first time the realization dawned on me that he would be sorry to see me go. While plenty of girls had crushes on him, I don’t suppose there were that many other students who’d taken as strong an interest as I had in his professional life, and when I left Fort Wayne there would be one less inquisitive thread tying his past to his present.
    He was still holding my shoulder when his gaze turned thoughtful. His eyes roved slowly over the entirety of my person, from my carefully combed ponytail to my blouse to my black wool pencil skirt, registering each in turn. His upper lip twitched faintly and his hand involuntarily squeezed my shoulder. He moved as though to say something. But just as abruptly as the impulse took hold, he abandoned it; he stopped himself short and relinquished his grip. “Ah, to be young again,” he finally said in a resigned, trite voice, sighing and returning his attention to the buckle on his briefcase. He looked at me one more time as he made his way out the classroom door and gave a little strange half-smile of defeat.
    â€œTell you what,” he said, mashing a slate-gray fedora down on his head. “You’ve been a sterling student. I’ll write you a letter of introduction. That ought to help you get your foot in the door to start.”
    The next time I saw Mr. Hightower it was in the stadium, over an expanse of green lawn steaming with the heat of high noon, just after the last graduation speech had been given and the caps had been thrown in the air. The initial hullabaloo had started to break up and all the parents had begun to mill about, each family hollering out the name of their newly-anointed alumna. I turned my head and saw Mr. Hightower striding towards me with a businesslike expression etched into his distinguished features. I was expecting an envelope containing the letter of introduction he had promised, and was surprised when he handed me not one but two.
    â€œI took the liberty of writing one in the name of Eden Katz, and one in the name of Eden Collins.”
    I squinted into the sun. My surprised hands accepted the envelopesand turned them over, puzzled. A daunting insecurity dimly formed itself in my brain. Was I so unmemorable a student that my professor had never been sure of my name? I looked up at Mr. Hightower with a confused smile.
    â€œIt was the best approximation I could think of,” he said, as though that explained it.
    â€œOh!” I murmured, still not understanding but wanting to. I continued to look at him with wide eyes. I must’ve looked pretty stupid about it all because he seemed to read the bafflement on my face. My parents, who had been standing by my side just moments before Mr. Hightower’s arrival, were now at least ten paces away from us and were busily chatting with Dolly Worthington’s folks. He gave them a nervous glance, then leaned in and lowered his voice.
    â€œPublishing is a pretty friendly business to . . . all types,” Mr. Hightower confided. “But even so, some circles are friendlier than others and with the ones that aren’t, you’ll want to play your cards