Page 1 of A Small Town Spring

Spring

Kingston

One

It’sspring at last and I am ready to spring out of the city for a weekend in the country.

I whistle to myself as I step into the mirror-lined elevator and hit the button for the garage nine floors below.I’m escaping the city as early as possible this fine Friday morning.There’s a little work in my LV shoulder bag, but mostly I’m going to Rosedale to unplug.

In the garage, I greet Mason the weekday garage attendant with a grin, which I temper when I remember his asthmatic grandson was in the hospital with bronchitis a few days ago.

“How’s Jaden?”I ask as he gets my key from the box.

“Doing much better,” he says.“They gave him a new inhaler, and it’s working.”

“Great news.”I take the key from his outstretched hand and walk to a nearby bay.I pay extra to keep my baby close enough to extract it myself.“Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Mr.James.”Mason’s old school—won’t call me Kingston no matter how many times I ask.It’s a remnant of old-style Manhattan manners I confess to taking pleasure in.It may be why I chose this building, Central Park-adjacent, complete with doorman and snooty neighbors.I myself am one of the snooty neighbors, even if my one-bed one-bath is one of the smallest apartments.Size, in this case, doesn’t matter.It’s a place to live during the week while I’m working at the Fenster Literary Agency, where I have sixteen children’s and young adult authors on my list and bring in more revenue than the next three best-performing agents combined.But it’s not home.

Home is where I’m headed once I stash my bag in the trunk of my gleaming San Remo Green BMW 8 Series.I’ve had the convertible for six months, but this might be the first day I’ll actually be able to put the top down on my drive to Connecticut.On a good day, it takes two hours door to door.Fingers crossed traffic will cooperate today.I’ve got a podcast loaded up, a green tea latte in my Ember travel mug.I’m ready to go.

I cut across the park and hook up with the Henry Hudson, my foot on the pedal nice and heavy as I accelerate for all of twenty seconds before I’m forced to brake for the inevitable logjam.I sigh.It’s the worst part of my bifurcated living situation.I could take the train, but it takes almost as long, and I need a car to get around Rosedale.

My podcast is interrupted by a voice alert that I have a text.I poke a button and a sonorous male British accent floods my car.It’s the voice I’ve chosen for my phone’s virtual assistant, who I jokingly call Jarvis.Jarvis reads out a text from Pete Blekitny.

“Dinner tonight at ours?Having a couple people over I want you to meet.”

I never say no to dinner with two of my favorite people.I’d love Pete and his husband, Jack Avery, even if they weren’t my highest-earning clients.

But I can’t make it too easy on them.I poke another button and Jarvis takes a memo for me.“Depends.What are we having?”

The return message comes as the Henry Hudson gives way to the Cross County.“Donovan and Beck are coming too, and they’re in charge of the menu.”

Beck is almost as good a cook as he is a baker, and even if he’s ordering food, he won’t put out anything less than a top-tier spread.“I’m in.Who are the mysterious guests?”

Instead of a text, I get a phone call.“I know you’re driving,” Pete says, his warm voice competing with traffic noise, even as slow as I’m going.

“Feels more like I’m parked on the parkway, but so it goes.”I sigh.“So, who do you want me to meet?Is this a ploy to set me up with one of Jack’s rich, handsome Texan cousins?”

“Nope, not a set-up.I’m wooing a local artist to join the Art Center board, so I need you to charm her.”

“I charm everyone,” I say, inching the car forward a few feet.The V8 engine growls with restraint.

“Yes, you do,” Pete agrees.“So come be your charming self.”

“What can I bring?”

“Just you.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you and Jack about something this weekend, so if there’s no opportunity tonight, maybe we can plan something for later on?”

“Sure—Cleo, stop—uh, gotta go.Cleo’s decided Daddy’s slipper is her new chew toy.”

“Which Daddy?”I ask.

“Jack,” he says, sounding distracted.“See you tonight.”

“Ciao,” I get in before he ends the call.I chuckle and flip back to my podcast.It’s a book podcaster interviewing an agent named Stephanie Collier.I’ve never met her, but she represents a lot of successful commercial fiction authors.I heard through the agent grapevine she’s not happy at her agency.

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