I suppose it helps that we christened every room within the first two weeks, however.
A few days after we’d moved in, Trip replaced the destroyed portrait of his father, hanging it in the same spot in the hallway where it once was. I still work on him from time to time—unobtrusively, nowadays—trying to help him heal his conflicted feelings about his old man. We’re making progress. But for now, the little things let me see that he’s learning to forgive. He doesn’t need to say the words.
I set up my office on the third floor, in a room whose window can see the hiking trails out in the woods. Hidden from the trees, underneath the boughs, is our clearing. The place where we’d spent one amazing night in a shabby, turquoise tent; the place where I found out Trip was in love with me. Tucked in a drawer of my desk is a stack of letters and cards he and I had written each other over the years, reunited at last, and tied up with a bow, as if they were a gift. They are. Framed on the wall—in spite of my too-cool boyfriend’s protests—is the first letter Trip ever wrote me, his Mind Ramble. He has some reservations about his sappiness being put on display, but I had a promise to keep to myself.
My fiction novel, “The Last Act” is coming out this winter, but my Trip memoir was released a few months ago. It’s doing well. Trip was finally able to get on board with Fields as the publisher, once he realized that aside from the random call relayed through my agent, I didn’t need to have much contact with the guy. Devin’s book-publishing branch had pretty much cornered the market on celebrity tell-alls and was the most logical house to ensure it would be marketed with the proper enthusiasm. His magazine, however, is still spewing out the same old celebrity gossip, and reporting on the latest “news” with their usual brand of cheese. Their cover story last month was about Ella Perez having a love child with Sasquatch or something. I don’t know. I don’t really pay much attention to those things these days.
Case in point: Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.
I’m working on my next novel. It’s a story about a twenty-six-year-old writer in New York City who’s trying to break into a journalism career when her ex-boyfriend suddenly pops back into her life.
I just wonder where all these book ideas could possibly come from.
I’ve written under some different pen names, but most of the time, I write as L.P. Warren. The P stands for Prudence, which, God help me, is my middle name. Aside from Clapton and Springsteen, my mom was a pretty big Beatle fan, too. I make a modest living from being a writer, and that, amongst other things, keeps me happy.
I may not be at the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List—yet—but I love what I do, and I’m pretty sure that’s more important. No matter what stories I write, however, I kind of hold a special place in my heart for that memoir. I hear some other people do, too.
Actually, you may have heard of it. It’s called “Remember When”.
*
“WELCOME ST. NICETIUS CLASS OF ’91”
We’re at the Meadowbrook Ballroom in New York City’s Times Square for our reunion. Our last shindig was originally scheduled for early fall of 2001, but in the weeks after 9/11, a high school get-together didn’t seem so important. So, in true St. Norman’s fashion, we bucked conventionality and decided to have a fifteenth in order to compensate for that canceled tenth.
Everyone has turned out in full force for the thing, and it’s pretty incredible to have the whole gang back together under one roof again.
I see Penny and her husband all the time, being that she still lives in Jersey and is related to Pickford and all. But that hasn’t stopped us from hanging out most of the night, boogying with Becca and her husband. He’s a really nice guy, but I can’t help but be startled by his appearance. He looks an awful lot like Cooper.
Coop had come up for a visit over the summer, but this is the first time I’ve been in the same room with his wife Suzy since their wedding last year. She’s a gorgeous redhead with a pixie cut that I’d never be able to pull off. She’s also a very patient woman. Not only did she tough it out waiting on that ring for so many years, but she’s smiling through this entire evening, getting along really well with her husband’s old crowd.
We’re not the easiest bunch to take.
Rymer’s already tied one on, and I keep waiting for his inevitable queries to poor Suzy, wondering aloud whether the carpet matches the drapes or something. He’s always had a thing for redheads. Then again, he may be a little distracted, as he’s been spending the whole night hitting on Margie Caputo. He always said she gave him the best head he’s ever had, and I guess he’s looking to recreate history.
At least she’s got that going for her, because hot damn, that chick’s ass has gotten fat.
Oh hey! I just realized Lisa owes me ten bucks!