Ignoring the dash to each season’s trendy new restaurant, Nina Bradley can be found-winter, summer, spring, and fall-at her prime table at the Four Seasons. She understands the value of being seen and of seeing, and she enjoys the homage that she’s paid by the steady stream of media, publishing, and entertainment people who come through the restaurant. A brief stop at Nina Bradley’s table is a well-known New York ritual.
Nina, whose marriage to a much-too-dull businessman was, in her words, “a six-year cruise to nowhere,” is far too set-and content-in her ways to waste time looking for another man. She spends most weekends at her farm up in Columbia County. She loves the place, which she has willed to the Nature Conservancy. She maintains it impeccably and is proud of the cattle her farm manager raises organically. Nina has an occasional affair, but at her age eligible men are hard to find, and frankly, she sometimes thinks they just aren’t worth the trouble.
As Charles finishes up his steak, the waiter sets down Nina’s black coffee and removes her half-eaten grilled vegetable terrine. It’s been a good lunch. Something is definitely happening with Charles. She hasn’t seen him quite this animated in years; his recent bitterness seems to have evaporated. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he was in love. But it isn’t that. He’s being very cagey about his work, which is a good sign-he likes to surprise Nina.
“Thank God for our lunches. Anne never serves steak anymore,” Charles says, savoring his last bite. Nina loves the unabashed pleasure he takes in food. She can appreciate good cooking, but as for swooning and swaying over the latest Moroccan cheese or Ecuadorian roast-goat recipe, well, count her out. At least Anne has a sense of humor about all the culinary chatter.
“I hadn’t eaten a steak in two years when I bought my farm. Then I got to know a few cows and realized that any animal that dumb had to have been put on earth for man to eat,” Nina says.
Charles looks at Nina with unabashed affection. The man is feeling good about something. “Any industry gossip?” he asks.
“Vera Knee just got four hundred grand for the paperback rights to Honey on the Moon.” As soon as the words are out, Nina curses herself. Cows aren’t the only dumb creatures, she thinks ruefully, and quickly tries to recover. “Of course, her book is completely unreadable. And I don’t care if she got a cool million, I’m not interested in representing any of this recent crop of so-called writers with more personality than talent. I’ve got a stack of manuscripts this high in my office. I’m sending them all back unread.”
“But what if there’s one at the bottom of that stack that’s the real thing?”
“Then I hope it lands on the desk of someone who cares,” she says. “Will you excuse me, Charles.” Nina gets up and heads toward the ladies’ room to reapply her signature scarlet lipstick. She’ll be good goddamned if she’s going to switch to purple, no matter how hard MAC and Essence push it for black women. She thinks it looks like a bruise. Charles watches as Nina walks across the restaurant, watches as heads turn ever so slightly. In a black silk blouse and tailored black slacks, she is unarguably the most striking woman in the restaurant. Charles wishes he could tell her about Emma. But Charles and Nina’s relationship ends at a certain place, a place they both recognize and tacitly acknowledge, but never discuss. Friends to the death? Absolutely. Intimate? Never. Sometimes Charles wonders if she ever aches for someone to see her through the long night. But Nina knows what she’s doing, knows all about trade-offs, knows that no one-least of all a black woman of her generation-reaches her level of success without paying a price. And it’s a price Nina Bradley pays without a whimper or a whine.
Charles reaches into his briefcase and takes out a manila envelope. He opens it and lifts out a sheaf of manuscript pages. He reads the title page: Chapter One from
The Sky Is Falling
A novel by
Emma Bowles
Charles thinks of Emma, imagines her up in his office at this very moment, bent over her desk, writing. He removes the title page and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he puts the pages back in the manila envelope. He wants to make sure Nina gives the chapter an unbiased reading. There’s no way she’ll miss Emma’s talent and promise.
A ruddy-faced man in an expensive suit approaches the table. “Charles, how are you?”
Charles blanks. What is his name?… Arvin? Publicity director for a rival publishing company. A notorious boor.
“Hello, Arvin,” Charles says, hoping Arvin has the class to heed his indifferent tone.
No such luck. “I thought you were treated very unfairly on Capitol Offense. It’s a helluva book.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, I heard Vera Knee-”
“Fuck Vera Knee.”
“Good luck. She’s gay.” Arvin walks off, but not before favoring Charles with an oily smile.
Charles feels his mood curdle. He reaches for his wineglass and knocks it over, spilling its dregs on the white tablecloth. His stomach clenches and then burns.
Nina returns and sits down. “Charles, are you all right?”
“Fine. I spilled my wine.”
“That means five years of good luck. It’s an ancient African-American superstition I just made up.” She signals for the check. “Back to the salt mines. We should hear about the paperback sale of Capitol Offense within the week. Should be three or four bidders.”
“I should hope so,” Charles says.
The waiter appears and as Nina signs the check, he slides the envelope across the table.
“What’s this?” Nina asks, a glint of excitement in her eye.
“Just read it and give me your honest opinion.”
“Have I ever given you anything but? Listen, Charles, I know Capitol Offense has been a rough haul, but hang in there. You’ll prevail. You always have.”
Charles walks Nina out and sees her into a cab. He stands on the sidewalk and realizes to his surprise that there’s only one place in the world he wants to be at this moment: with Emma.