“Yes, as we’ve established. So that’s where we left off. With Esme.”
“The ‘fuck you Esme.’”
“Yes.” He let out a big breath, like he’d just told me a piece of gossip that he’d been dying to repeat. And maybe that was exactly what he’d done.
“Okay. One pile for all Esme or Rachel related notes. Future name to be determined,” I said.
I smiled as he laughed on the other end, then said goodbye.
Chapter7
“She’s an Esme,”I said when I picked up his call.
“I know, right?”
“But…”
“Yeah? A ‘but?’ It’s okay, give it to me.”
I was back in his office, having gotten there early, wanting to get back to work. Had I ever wanted to get to work?
Plus, I needed to leave in time to take the bus to the mall before it closed.
Knowing I’d probably be too engrossed in Montrose’s notes to notice the time later, I had set the alarm on my phone to go off in time for me to leave.
I’d been there about four hours when Montrose called.
“She’s Salinger’s Esme,” I broke the news to him.
“Fuck.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, no. I’m glad you did. Are you sure? I mean there’s not much even written yet, no prose or anything, bits of dialogue and character notes.”
“Well, then, maybe…” But there was doubt in my voice and he knew it.
“Fuck,” he said again. “I believe you. And, shit, I think I knew it.”
“It’s just…it’s her. Practical. Unsentimental. Wise beyond her years. Very matter-of-fact. And yet you know she’s going to rip your heart out. I’m sorry,” I said. It almost felt like consoling someone whose friend had just died. “I think,” I started, wanting to throw him a bone, “it’s because of these notes about her as a kid. They just feel so…so…Esme, you know?”
“Yeah,” he said, dejection—almost resignation—in his voice.
“But maybe if you just left those out? I mean, some of them even say ‘do not use, just for character development,’ so maybe if they’re not actually in the book?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, his voice perking up a little bit.
“I mean, obviouslyI’mlooking for it since you pointed it out, and I’m reading all these notes about her as a child, probably right around Salinger’s Esme’s age…”
“Yeah, that’s true.” More hope in his voice now.
“I don’t think you need to scrap her totally.”
“No?” he asked, like I was his editor or something, not just some college freshman who had no point of reference on what made a novel a masterpiece—other than having read many of them.
“But, you should probably go with Rachel, not Esme.”
A long, loud sigh on the other end. “Yeah, I guess.”
