Free Riverside Park by Laura van Wormer Page A

I’ll be there shortly. I’m sorry, Mom,” Howard said, hanging up the phone, “but I’m afraid I have to go out.”
    When Howard saw Celia behind the bar at Captain Cook’s he thought, How weird is that? Amanda had just asked himabout Celia today and now here he was walking in like the regular he wasn’t.
    â€œHow are you?” Howard greeted the insurance salesman who was sitting at the bar, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder.
    â€œNervous as hell,” the insurance salesman said, tossing back what smelled like whiskey.
    Celia came over to their side of the bar. “He’s worried he’s going to have to sell insurance for the rest of his life,” she told Howard.
    â€œHi, Celia.”
    â€œHi.”
    â€œAnd he’s scared you’re going to give up on him,” a strange woman with a lot of makeup said from the corner of the bar.
    â€œHe’s been hitting it pretty hard,” another customer explained.
    â€œA Beck’s, please, Celia, thank you,” Howard said, sliding onto a stool. He looked at the writer. “I don’t know about your career in insurance, but I did get an offer from an Australian publisher for UK rights on your novel. It’s a modest offer, but you’ll be published in Australia, England, Ireland—”
    The writer threw himself at Howard to hug him. The customers at this end of the bar cheered. Howard laughed, slapping the writer’s back, savoring the moment. This was the joy of his job. (Telling a writer that every publisher in America had rejected their manuscript was the worst.)
    Celia placed a frosted mug and a bottle of Beck’s in front of Howard. “Nicely done.”
    She was a pretty girl. It was funny, he didn’t remember her as such. While the writer grilled him for details, Howard watched Celia and began to realize why she might have given Amanda pause for thought. She was one of those seriouslyAWOL Fairfield County girls, a fascinating Waspy creature who could exude a kind of smoldering sexuality.Maybe it was the way her jeans fit her. She had a great ass.
    When the writer left to use the bathroom Celia put a dish of pretzels down in front of Howard. “Thank God you had good news. He’s been depressed for as long as I’ve been serving him.”
    Her eyes were nice.Very dark. Like her hair. “Which is how long?”
    â€œThree years,” she said, leaving to get another patron a drink.
    When she came back Howard told her, “There is a school of thought that says it’s good to keep writers depressed because then they stay home and write.”
    She laughed. It made her much more attractive. She had a great smile.
    â€œI hear you ran into my wife early this morning.”
    Her eyebrows went up. “I did?”
    â€œIn the lobby. Around three this morning?”
    Celia still looked uncertain and held up a finger, signaling that Howard was to hold that thought while she got another customer a drink.
    Howard saw the writer standing just outside the bar area, holding a cell phone to one ear and covering his other with a hand. He guessed he was calling his wife with the good news.
    â€œI got sort of hammered here after work last night,” Celia admitted on her return. “I think I remember seeing her. With the baby. Your wife has really beautiful hair, right?”
    â€œYes, she does.”
    â€œAnd absolutely huge tits,” Celia added.
    Howard did a double take.
    Celia covered her mouth, aghast. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. My roommate and I watch this show on BBCAmerica, What Not to Wear, and this lady Trinny’s always saying stuff like that so we’ve been saying it to each other. I didn’t mean to be rude—”
    â€œMiss?” a customer called.
    â€œI meant it as a compliment,” she said, moving away. “I mean, look.” She gestured to her own breasts and then