“No, it sounded very early stage. He did say he was considering acquiring an existing publication to build around.” (Another idea of Leo’s from back in the day.) “He asked for suggestions. I told him to look at Paper Fibres.”
“He can do better than that.”
“Paul’s respected, Leo. I respect him. He could use an influx of cash. And Paul does stuff with the public schools and literacy, and Nathan was also interested in the philanthropic angle.”
“Since when is Nathan interested in philanthropy?”
“Since he got married and had a couple of kids and is probably looking to impress the private school admissions committees. He went to Darfur a few months ago.”
Leo snorted a little. Literacy? Darfur? All he could think about in that moment was a particularly depraved evening at some bar on the Lower East Side one late, late night (early morning? probably) when a bleary-eyed Nathan outlined the SpeakEasyMedia financial model on a series of napkins: how they’d make their first million, how quickly he’d leverage it into more, how many people along the way would bend to his vision—“collateral damage, can’t be helped”—how soon they’d be retired. Leo had sat next to him on the barstool, half listening, while an extravagantly pierced but fetching young musician flirted with him and then leaned against Nathan and then back into Leo, making her interest in both apparent. “Do you guys want to come home with me?” she’d finally said, as the bartender was ushering them out the door. “Both of you?” He’d been relieved when Nathan passed out the second he landed on her sofa. If he was going to engage in a threesome, it wasn’t going to be with Nathan. Pierced, as he sometimes still fondly thought of the musician, kept Leo up until sunrise; she taught him some things.
“I feel like Rip Van Winkle right now,” Leo said to Stephanie. “Like I woke up and everyone became their exact opposite. Paul Underwood’s a literary force. Nathan’s a philanthropist.”
“Yeah, well. Things changed while you were otherwise occupied.”
At first, Leo just pretended to be interested in Nathan’s new venture, a way to kill time while waiting for his divorce to be final, an amusing lark that would keep everyone off his back and halt all the lame suggestions about work. But the more he talked to Paul Underwood, the more he realized the potential sitting there, untapped.
Paul’s content was stellar—Leo was impressed with who and what he was publishing—so was the layout, design, art. But everything else was dismal. The office was chaotic and inefficient, like almost anything in the publishing world. Without even trying, Leo could think of a dozen things they could do immediately to raise the profile and productivity of the magazine and expand in a multitude of interesting ways, starting with a more robust online presence. Social media. A blog. An app! Paper Fibres could—should—publish a handful of books every year. They needed a bigger staff.
Once Leo decided to put a proposal together, take himself and Paul seriously, and approach Nathan with a multifaceted well-thought-out plan for bolstering and expanding, he started having fun. His mood lifted. He was sleeping better than he had in years, waking up before Stephanie and going for a run in Prospect Park, no matter how cold. He spent his days reading, researching, thinking, and working so hard at times he lost track of time. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be interested, absorbed, stimulated. He made dinner some nights: huevos rancheros, beef stew, French onion soup. “You’re making me fat!” Stephanie complained one night. “Don’t let me have seconds.”
If he could get something going, Leo started to think that maybe he could borrow money to pay his family back and leave his investments intact, maybe even borrow from Nathan. Rebuilding wasn’t unthinkable. He’d done it all before. And if his efforts stopped being interesting? If he stopped having fun? He still had money in the bank. He still had options. Doing some research, putting together his ideas, meeting with Nathan—it would all be, to use one of Nathan’s favorite expressions, “win fucking win.”
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Leo walked to the front bedroom and looked out the window. Bea was standing on the front stoop, shivering and clutching something in her arms. He went down and opened the door.
“IT’S MY STUFF,” she said, handing Leo a leather case he vaguely remembered buying for her ages and ages ago. “Meaning, I wrote those pages.”
“You still have this,” he said, examining the satchel. “I don’t remember it being so nice. This is nice.”
“To be honest, I haven’t used it in years. I thought it was lucky and then I thought it was unlucky and, well, here it is, here they are, and here I am. Ha.”
Leo examined Bea’s face, tried to make eye contact. She looked stoned. He undid the front straps and peered inside. “Lot of pages in here.”
“I think it’s a quick read. I don’t know what it is yet, exactly, but—” Bea looked uncomfortable. “I was hoping you’d read and then pass along to Stephanie.”
“You want me to read it first?” he said, surprised.
“Yes.” She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and looked up at him with a weak smile.