“How old are you?” Liam asked, now seated at my side. He had that look, like Arden was a line of poetry he’d found lacking.
“Twenty-four,” Arden said.
“When did you start drinking?”
“Liam,” I admonished.
“Twelve.”
“That’s so young,” Aparna said with motherly concern.
“I lived on a boat,” he said as if that explained it.
“Like a pirate ship?” Franco asked.
Arden smiled. “Something like that.” We were all curious about this unusual upbringing, and our silence conveyed it. “My father was a sailor,” Arden said and then, “Well, more like a smuggler.”
“What did he smuggle?” Franco asked.
“He never told me.” Arden took another bite of salmon as if that were the end of this exchange. “This is delicious,” he said with a nod to Bitzy. Her smile was a delayed reaction.
“But you must have had some suspicions?” Liam said.
“I kept them to myself. I wasn’t a very good liar, and this way, when the Coast Guard or Customs boarded us, I wouldn’t give anything away.” Again, everyone’s gaze was riveted on him. Arden took it in stride. “But enough about me.”
Collette took over the conversation then, sharing that her family was opening a second shop in Morningside Heights and that she’d be determining the menu and managing it. We congratulated her on the expansion and promised to spread the word.
Conversation shifted then to the economy and which sectors were doing well. Franco had introduced me to my accountant and helped me with a monthly budget based on my advances and anticipated royalties. He’d even set me up with a retirement plan. When I mentioned this to Arden, his eyes widened.
“Retirement, wow. That’s so… optimistic.”
Bitzy snorted a laugh. Liam looked disdainful.
“Why is retirement optimistic?” Franco asked. He could be quite literal when it came to financial planning.
“Just that you all think you’ll be around long enough to enjoy it,” Arden said unapologetically.
He couldn’t have known that would trigger Franco’s sales pitch as to why a 401(k) made sense not only for future investments but also as a way to reduce your current taxable income. He then explained the drawbacks and benefits of that plan as opposed to a Roth IRA. Arden nodded along, but I could tell that he was struggling to keep up with the onslaught of information. It wasn’t easy when Franco started rattling off numbers like a sentient Excel spreadsheet.
Bitzy then brought up the recent success of my novel, which was clinging to the Best Seller’s list with a cadaveric death grip. I tended to not bring up my achievements in Liam’s company because he was still struggling to get a selection of poems published, and I didn’t want to gloat. Lucky for him, he had his trust fund to sustain him. His family were prosperous New York developers—old money—though, in my opinion, not the nicest people.
“What are you working on now, Michael?” Liam asked. “Something more serious I hope.”
“Nothing too profound,” I said lightly. Even in our critique circles at Columbia, Liam tended to be a bit of a literary snob. I’d sooner electrocute my own balls than admit to him I was suffering from writer’s block.
“I tried reading them,” Liam said. “We both did.” He motioned to Charlemagne. “But the plot was so very predictable. I guessed the killer within the first thirty pages. I don’t think mysteries are your strong suit, Michael.”
There was a hushed silence while I absorbed the barb and considered my riposte.
“If you’d read onto the second,” Arden said, “you’d know that Nathan Shields got it wrong and that Daphne wasn’t the killer after all. For a sleuth to put the wrong person behind bars is revolutionary in crime fiction.”
“I don’t know about revolutionary,” Charlemagne said. “I can’t even say that I found it all that entertaining.”
“Thankfully not every reader’s palate is as discriminating as yours, Charlemagne,” I said tightly.
“The thousands of people who bought his books would say it’s very entertaining,” Arden added. His smile was cold but even that held a certain icy appeal.
“Well, pulp is meant to be accessible,” Charlemagne continued. “Isn’t it written at something like an eighth-grade reading level? Meant for the lowest common denominator. Just like our public education system.”
