Page 1 of The New Couple in 5B

ACT I

the inheritance

Look like the innocent flower,

but be the serpent under it.

William Shakespeare

Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 5

one

Sometimes the smallest things are the biggest.

Like the slim rectangular box that sits at the bottom of my tote. Maybe just six inches long and two inches wide. Light, flimsy, its contents clatter when shaken. But it’s a whispering presence, a white noise buzzing in my consciousness.

Max, dapper in a houndstooth blazer and thin camel cashmere sweater, peers at the oversize menu, considering. As if he isn’t going to order the penne ala vodka and salad he always does. I hold mine, as well, perusing my options. As if I’mnotgoing to get the pizza margherita, no salad. The tony Italian restaurant on Broadway across from my publisher’s office is packed, silverware clinking, conversations a low hum. Lots of business being done over sparkling waters and tuna tartare.

Outside the big picture window, beside which we sit, the river of traffic flows, horns and hissing buses, the screech of brakes, the occasional shout from annoyed drivers. Beneath all of that, I feel it, the presence of that slim box, so full of possibility.

The waitress takes our expected orders, deposits Max’s usual bottle of Pellegrino. I’m a tap water girl, but he pours me a glass, always the gentleman. I note his manicured nails, buffed and square, the white face of his Patek Philippe. No smartwatch for him. Max appreciates timepieces for their elegant union of form and function.

“So,” he says, placing the green bottle on the white tablecloth.

I don’t love the sound of that word. Max and I have known each other a long time. There’s a heaviness to it, a caution.

“So?”

“Your proposal.”

That’s why we’ve met for lunch, to discuss the proposal I’ve submitted for my new book.

He slips my proposal out of the slim leather folder he’s laid on the table between us.

“There’s a lot to like here.”

That’s publishing code forI don’t like it. How many times did I say the same thing to authors I was editing?

I have always been a writer, scribbling in the nooks and crannies of my days, my foray into publishing just a stop on the road to the writing life. But Max never wanted to be anything else more than an editor, the one who helped talented writers do their best work.

“But?” I venture. He lifts his eyebrows, clears his throat.

Max and I met when we were both editorial assistants, fresh out of the Columbia Publishing Course. We were so eager to enter the world of letters, literature geeks seduced by what we imagined was the glitz and glamour of the industry. He climbed the corporate ladder, while I stayed up late, got up early, holed up on weekends to complete my first book.

By the time I had finished my first draft, Max was a young star editor at one of the biggest publishing companies in New York, the first person I asked to read my manuscript; he was the first person to say he believed in me, the first editor to buy something I’d written and to make me what I’d always wanted to be. A full-time writer.

He runs a hand through lustrous dark hair, which he wears a little long, takes off his tortoiseshell glasses. “I don’t know, Rosie. There’s just something—lacking.”

I feel myself bristle—lacking? But underneath the crackling of my ego, I think I know he’s right. The truth is—I’m notthatexcited about it. The belly of fire that you need to complete a project of this size, honestly, it’s just not there.

“There was so much fire in the first one,” says Max, holding me in the intensity of his gaze. He’s so into this—his job, this process. “There were so many layers—the justice system, the misogyny in crime reporting, the voices of the children. It really grabbed me, even in the proposal you submitted. I could see it. It was fresh, exciting.”

“And this isn’t.” I try and probably fail to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

He leans in, reaches a hand across the table. “Itis. It’s just notasexciting. The first book, it was a success, a place from where we can grow. But the next bookneeds to bebigger, better.”

Bigger. Better. What’s next? That’s the mantra of the publishing industry.

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