She gestured toward a stone-paved path on the east side of the house’s exterior. Katie smiled, waving her hands around a bit. Perhaps thinking she’d shake Meredith’s, or, knowing Katie—which I did, or at least I used to, I really used to—hoping she’d accept a giant hug. But Meredith’s arms were full of wine and cat, so instead, we walked silently through a sprawling garden, past an endless woods and an ivy-drenched terrace, and toward driftwood stairs that ran over the dunes and straight onto the sand. There, a small round table had been set for three only ten yards from the shimmering sea.
Meredith took a seat.
“I so wish Selma could have joined us,” she said between long sips of her wine. There were a few bottles on the table. For brunch.For Monday brunch. “But, alas, she’s chosen to live in California. And we all know what that means.”
Katie and I, very quickly, exchanged glances. Quite obviously, we did not.
“It’s so amazing to meet you,” Katie said. “Thank you for having us. This is incredible.”
I nodded. I realized, then, that my hands were shaking. “Yeah, I’m really excited to write. I—”
“I understand you’ve read exactly none of my books, Tyler. Is that correct?”
“That’s, uh, not completely true. I readA Little Lost Without Youlast week, and—”
“Let me guess. Not a fan of romance?”
“It’s not that. It’s mostly—”
“They’re not your kind of stories?”
“I’m learning. I’m reading a ton. I studied English at Brown. I teach at this private school on the Upper East Side now, middle school, and Katie—Katie’s been great. I can definitely do this. I’m really grateful for the opportunity.”
Meredith made ahmmsound, then selected a sesame bagel and passed Katie the breadbasket. I touched nothing. There was an entire salmon in front of me, eyeballs and all. I wondered who’d roasted it.
“So,” Meredith said, “what kinds of books do you read, then? If not mine?”
“Mostly, like, literary fiction?”
Katie swallowed a smirk. She loved this, didn’t she? That, suddenly, I was ashamed to read art and not smut. I wanted to smother her with a linen napkin.
Meredith didn’t bother to hide her chuckle. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re one of those men who thinks a book doesn’t matter if it doesn’t teach you something new about the world?”
I was quiet. Clearly, this was a trap.
“That’s exactly what he thinks,” Katie said.
I glared at her and then said, “No.” It just came out. I couldn’t help myself. I was an idiot. “It’s not that.”
“No?” Meredith said. “What is it, then?”
“I just... I don’t think I believe in love. Not that kind, anyway. The kind they write books about.”
“Well,” Meredith said, still smiling. She reached for the whitefish salad, then scooped a helping onto my empty plate. Out of nowhere, the cat appeared, purring as it landed by Meredith’s glass. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Once Meredith and Katie had spent a good thirty minutes talking about skincare, bagels, and Danielle Steel, Meredith picked up a knife, cut into a lemony-looking loaf cake, and passed us each a heaping slice.
Katie had downed two glasses of wine and was getting the tiniest bit silly. Meredith—who I was pretty sure hadn’t consumed any actual food yet—had gulped twice that amount but seemed to remain at the same level of perma-lush. I, of course, was stone-cold sober.
“I brought you two out here today to discuss the manuscript,” Meredith said. “I know I’ve been, well, detached from my writing for quite a while. But I feel very strongly about this project you’re beginning. I had this vision, this calling. You see, I’m crafting anovel of my own right now, and I believe, in my heart of hearts, that this work will be my most significant. And that, in many ways, my project and yours must be written together. And I, well... I need us to get these stories right the first time. Before...” She took another sip of wine. “I’m afraid we don’t have very long. Just the summer, and your manuscript must be finished.”
Katie and I both nodded, even though nothing Meredith had said made any sense. Her books wrote themselves, sold themselves. I had, by this point, read the synopses for half of them. They were all, more or less, exactly the same. How could one book—a book she was not even going to write, a book she’d hired two twentysomethings to bang out over the course of a single season—have been important enough to bring us into her fortress, serve us four hundred dollars’ worth of smoked fish, and show us her unphotographed-for-decades face? And what could possibly be the rush? Sure, Katie and I were on a tight schedule, but Meredith? Didn’t she, by definition, have all the time in the world?
“I know this probably seems strange,” she said, and my eyes went a little wide. I took another bite of cake. It was very good. “And I’m sure both of you are wondering, why now? Why this book? Why us? The answer is simple: I, despite thirty years of success, have never written a novel that takes place here, in my hometown. The village I was born in, raised in, fell in love in. It has taken me a very long time to feel ready to share this place with the world. But I am now. And so, as I sat down to draft last night, I realized it: I’d like you two to write a love story of your own, also using Southampton as your muse. I thought our two projects could be in conversation with each other. That they might hold each other up, almost explain each other. Almost... intertwine.”
We just sat there, nodding. The cat curled up in a comma and fell asleep. Right there, on the table. The sun was rising higher and higher, those last hints of morning disappearing as the salt air warmed into day. A few wide, high clouds streaked the sky, and the horizon—long and blue—never ended. Meredith continued.
“I don’t want to tell you what story to write,” she said. “Clearly, Katie, you know what you’re doing. But, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to put together a framework while we’re all here today.”
