Loonglow by Helen Eisenbach Page B

suddenly. He’d written down but hadn’t gotten around to suggesting a restaurant he’d gone to often when he’d first come to the city. He stared at the name, the amazement of his abrupt discovery momentarily stunning him. The barely legible letters loomed large: that was why she was so familiar, he’d seen her there. Years before, when he’d learned the truth about the beautiful girl, the girl he’d gone on to—he covered his eyes. It couldn’t be. Of all the people in New York—How could he not have recognized her? How could he not have remembered as soon as he’d laid eyes on her? True, she had short hair now, making her look different, younger—but even so he should have known her instantly.
    What were the odds of something like this happening? There was a pressure in his ears, as if he’d been dropped from an extreme height Would she remember him, too, once she had sat across from him for an entire evening? And what would she do if she did? He hardly knew what to think.
    The absurdity of the coincidence made him light-headed. Ah, the twists of contemporary fate, he thought: Louey Mercer. It seemed she had a story of her own. He wondered if he could get her to tell it to him.

By the time Louey arrived, Clay had finished two-thirds of his drink. Normally he didn’t mind being kept waiting; one of the things he hadn’t understood about New York was why people were always in such a hurry, so frantic to get wherever they were going. What was the rush? Now, however, he could barely sit still as the minutes ticked away. Surely he’d feel better once she gave him her verdict, good or bad.
    She appeared at last, seating herself across from him with a faint blush. “Sorry.” She was out of breath. “Have you been waiting long?”
    â€œI was early, actually.” He wiped uncharacteristically damp hands on his knees. “Never too soon to shatter your illusions, right?” He tried to grin. The waitress interrupted and Louey glanced at Clay, who had downed his drink as soon as she’d finished shaking his hand. “What would you like?”
    â€œClub soda with lemon?”
    â€œWe’ll have to do something about this self-destructive bingeing of yours.” He shook his head. “A club soda, and I’ll have another Scotch,” he told the waitress. “Do you really not drink at all?”
    â€œNot really. On rare occasions I feel so unlike myself I do all sorts of things—like drink, or cut off all my hair”—she ran a rueful hand across her head—“but on the whole I’m far too well behaved.”
    â€œDon’t you ever need to lose control?”
    â€œI guess I’m afraid of what I might do.” She shook a finger at him. “I can see where this is leading—you want me to make some sordid confession so you can tell my boss.”
    Choking on his ice, Clay gulped, “Far from it,” swallowing painfully. “So tell me,” he managed, “do you like being an editor?”
    â€œCan’t help myself,” she said. “What other profession lets you plumb the souls of total strangers? Only a small percent of whom turn out to be psychopaths.”
    â€œLucky you.”
    â€œYou”—she scowled—“are stalling. Listen, Clay, we’ve got to talk about this thing you’ve written sometime—and I bet you won’t be nearly as alarmed by what I have to say as you seem to fear.”
    He placed his hands flat on the table. “I’m ready.”
    â€œWell, to begin with, you write very well, and I enjoyed reading the book a great deal. No one breathing would deny that we behave the way you say, that this notion of love distorts our entire way of thinking and interacting with people. A lot of your theories are intriguing, and your examples from popular culture are fun, often very witty. I loved the songs you picked, and of course