Page 2 of On Fire Island

I excitedly pitchedA Long Way to Tipperaryat the office that Monday, thrilled by both the prospect of editing it and that my boss’s plan to discourage me had backfired. I detailed my vision and explained how perfectly I felt it fit on our list. I comped it to epic bestsellers like Ken Follett and Pat Conroy and came just short of promising him the next Hemingway. My boss agreed to get to ittout de suite(his words, not mine) and then strung me along, as if he were in the process of reading, for weeks. Until one day, when I learned fromPublishers Weeklythat Random House had acquired it in a preempt. Telling my boss, who still hadn’t read it, “I told you so,” was of no consolation. I was frustrated and heartbroken.

The book landed on theNew York TimesBest Sellers list within weeks of publication and I witnessed one person after another lugging around the hefty page-turner everywhere I went. TheNew Yorkerdid a piece on Benjamin Morse, dubbing him the city’s new Renaissance man on account of his ability to craft both epic love stories and gripping sports pieces with equal pizzazz. In the interview, he unsurprisingly attributed his passion for sports to his dad and surprisingly attributed his intimate understanding of the romance read to his grandmother, who had lived with him growing up. He said that as her mind aged, he would let her recount entire tales to him from memory as if they were true stories. The anecdote made me think he was a nice guy.

The entire thing would still eat at me if it hadn’t led to a promotion. Word of the debacle rose from watercooler gossip to the editor in chief, who called me into her office and said that the nexttime I discovered the next big thing, I should bring it directly to her. No more middleman. A few months later I did, and soon became one of the youngest women to be named editor at my publishing house. It took weeks to wipe the giant grin that exploded with pride and amazement from my face every time I caught my name on my new office door.

Julia Gold, Editor

Still curious about Benjamin Morse, I followed him on social media. His meager display of incongruent images of ball games and book PR gave me little insight as to who he was as a person. I even read some of his articles, trying my best to reconcile the guy to land the first post-scandal interview with Tiger Woods with the one who infused just the right amount of titillating lust and tender longing into the pages of his novel.

I yearned to meet him in person and tell him how much I loved his work. While my insides would sometimes twist and turn when meeting my favorite authors, I hadn’t fangirled on a novelist this much since my childhood obsession with Judy Blume.

Then, on a cool spring night, while waiting for the aforementioned doctor, whose company I had been infrequently keeping and even less frequently enjoying, I finally had the chance when Benjamin Morse ponied up next to me at the bar at The Odeon. It wasn’t lost on me that literary greats like Tom Wolfe and Jay McInerney were known to have patronized the downtown eatery and had possibly even warmed the same stool that Ben Morse was sitting on. I wondered if that weighed in his decision to choose this particular restaurant, and if so, whether it was out of phoniness or nostalgia. I hoped it was the latter.

He looked younger than I’d expected. His success and proclivity to use old-fashioned language in his writing often made me forget he was just five years older than I was. He ordered, without a menu.

“A New York strip, rare, with a side of fries and a Scotch and soda, please.”

It was just what I imagined Ernest Hemingway would order. I drained my glass of merlot and garnered the nerve to speak to him.

“Sorry to bother you, but are you Benjamin Morse?” I asked, already knowing the answer. To be fair, he was taller than I imagined.

“Hey,” he curtly answered with a dismissive grin.

“I’m Julia, Julia Gold,” I said, which brought just a nod in return.

“I want you to know that you broke my heart,” I added.

He looked annoyed, as if he had heard this same refrain a dozen times or possibly as if he were just full of himself and didn’t want to chat at the bar of a busy NYC restaurant where chatting was not only tolerated but expected. I guessed he knew that Tom Wolfe and Jay McInerney frequented The Odeon, and he came here ironically. I felt the sinking feeling of disappointment burn in my belly.

“I’m sorry I killed off Patrick O’Reilly,” he said, adding, “you know they aren’t real people though, right?”

I could have left it at that, since clearly my fantasy of Benjamin Morse far outweighed the ornery real thing, but for some reason I didn’t want him to think of me as just an ordinary fan.

“Not in that way,” I explained. “I’m an editor at Sopher-Grace. I read you on submission.”

“Well, you were the only house we didn’t hear back from, so I guess you didn’t like it.”

“I loved it actually, ergo the broken heart.”

“But you didn’t throw your hat in the ring?”

Finally, he spoke like he wrote. This made me smile, even though I was pretty sure he would not measure up to my lofty expectations.

“My boss didn’t back me up,” I admitted.

“Maybe you need a new boss.”

“I got one, thanks.”

His steak arrived, and he navigated the perfect bite. I looked to the door for my date and adjusted myself as not to interrupt Ben’s meal. Soonhereengaged.

“Did you ever read the final version?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And it was good.”

---