The Last September: A Novel

“But it is,” Charlie said, leaning toward me, eyes twinkly and intent, but most of all convincing. Any flutter of jealousy instantly tamped down. Then he said, “I remember that poem. He’s looking at a painting, right? Of his wife? Didn’t he kill her?”


“That’s the most common interpretation,” I said. “Did you read it?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But I remember the discussion in class.”

“Charlie,” I said. “I can understand not reading a whole novel. But a poem? You didn’t even read a poem?”

“It’s a long poem,” Charlie said, with a blameless shrug.

I started to say something else, but the waitress returned with the wine. Charlie leaned back, that same motion, but this time was careful to keep his eyes, his smile, on me, even when she showed him the label, and poured the smallest bit for him to taste. After dinner, we went back to our hotel, and I think it may have been that night, careless on our travels, that Sarah was conceived.

IF I HADN’T PRESSED him, if I hadn’t foisted the money on him, what would Charlie have done that year while I was pregnant and finishing my course work? In hindsight, cooking in someone else’s restaurant would have made a lot more sense. Charlie was good at food, but neither of us had a head for business. When we were done splurging on research trips, we splurged on a space downtown on Main Street. We figured we’d get foot traffic first, word of mouth later. Sometimes I thought we were being adventurous and savvy. Other times I thought we might as well have loaded up my inheritance in his mother’s old car and driven down the highway with the windows open, bills fluttering out into the wind.

It was Gift of the Magi. I thought I was giving Charlie this extraordinary opportunity, his own restaurant, while he went along with it only to please me. Both of us waited for the other to be grateful. When Charlie told me he wanted to call the restaurant the Sun Also Rises, I said, “You know that novel takes place in Pamplona. This is a literary town. People will expect Spanish food.”

A warm night in April, we were sitting in the new, empty space at a table in front. Through the large front window, we could see people walking past, some still clinging to sweaters, some already in summer clothes. Charlie had a stack of résumés and was taking notes on a yellow pad. I reminded myself that I’d never seen him work so hard. He was trying.

He said, “It starts out in Paris, doesn’t it? And doesn’t everyone always think of Hemingway in Paris?”

I placed hands on my pregnant belly and cocked an eyebrow at Charlie. At this point he may have discovered Google, but I still hadn’t seen him read a novel other than Riddley Walker. He put down his pencil and said, “I’ll add some tapas to the menu.” Obviously nothing I’d said would dissuade him from the name he’d chosen. His phone buzzed from underneath the sprawl of paperwork. Charlie had to shuffle through the mess to find it. As soon as the person on the other end started talking, his face went grim. I knew without asking the topic if not the speaker. Eli.

“Oh my God,” I said when Charlie hung up before he could even fill me in—always a different version of the same disaster. “I can’t handle this right now.”

“Sorry,” Charlie said, a new hard edge in his voice. “I’ll tell my brother he has to have his psychotic breakdown when it’s more convenient.”

“You could call your father,” I said. “Let him deal with it for once.”

Charlie pushed his chair back and went toward the kitchen. Not quite ready to run after him, I pulled a résumé off the top of the pile. Deirdre Bennet. I scanned the page as if I’d have something to do with the hiring, then put it aside. I could see the restaurant was a mistake before it had even begun.