My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [122]
“It’s so boring here; I don’t want to stay! I want to go back to the city!”
I whisper to Fletch, “Do you think they might be willing to adopt us?”
“I have a stronger back and I’m much more efficient with a shovel. If they’re taking anyone, they’re taking me,” he responds.
Eventually, the family clears out and we go back to our reading. I’m engrossed in my novel when I hear a voice next to me. “Excuse me, but is that the new Kindle DX?”
I glance up to the twentysomething kid standing beside me. “Yes. This one just came out a few weeks ago. You see how much bigger the screen is? It’s more like reading a hardcover book than a paperback. Care to take a look?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I say, handing it over. I’d be willing to bet my, well, I guess my Kindle that he’s not going to take off with it.
I show the kid all the features and demonstrate how to purchase a book, and then I show him where all my stuff’s archived. He scans my library of titles. “Hey, Henry Miller and Margaret Atwood? You have good taste.”
Sheepishly, I admit, “I’m hoping they balance out the Lauren Conrad.”
He laughs and says, “Yeah, I saw that.” Then he tells Fletch and me about how he’d talked to some girl at a party last night and she got all officious, saying she’d never once seen a reality television show. He sums up the encounter saying, “I figure she was lying or incredibly pretentious; in either case, no, thanks. I mean, come on, The Hills? Everyone watches reality television.”
Oh, random beach guy, don’t I know it.
I’m standing in the breakfast room of the inn, freaking the hell out. I’m having a huge crisis of confidence right now. Fletch, for lack of knowing what else to do, has taken me down here to fill up on freshly baked cookies before our car service arrives. (They have homemade key limeade but it doesn’t pair well with white chocolate chip macadamia cookies, so I stick with wine.)
Hearing me panic and pace, the manager steps out of his office to offer assistance. Considering the level of service we’ve received here—beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers, six kinds of freshly baked cookies, et cetera, I’m sure he’d shoot me with a tranquilizing dart should I request one.237
“Can I do anything for you?” he asks.
“Do you know how to stop a panic attack?” I reply, while Fletch stands behind me mouthing “drama queen” and making drinky-drinky gestures.
“I’ve yet to figure that out,” the manager admits. “If you find a way, please share. Seriously, though, what’s happening?”
I explain about Authors Night and how I wheedled my way into coming and how even though I did everything I could to prepare, I still feel like I’ve shown up for the first day of seventh grade n-a-k-e-d.
“Are you an author?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Have you sold books?”
“Yeah, kind of a whole bunch.”
“Then you belong there.” The manager leans in conspiratorially to me. “Listen, years ago I used to be a TV writer. I wrote soap operas. Once back in the eighties, I was nominated for an Emmy, and I felt so unworthy.”
Fletch has stopped mocking me and started listening. “What did you do?”
“I went to the awards ceremony, and when they called my name as the winner, I tamped down any feelings I had of insecurity, I walked on that stage in front of Susan Lucci and everybody, and I said thank you. And it was one of the best moments of my life.”
I exhale, suddenly feeling much better. “That’s a really good story.”
The manager shrugs. “I was a really good writer. Now it looks like your car is here, so you go walk in there like you own the joint. Remember, own it!”
We get in the car and arrive at Authors Night a few minutes before it starts. The event’s being held in an enormous white tent, right behind the East Hampton library. Something like a hundred authors are participating, signing donated books, with all the proceeds going directly to the library. Patrons get to mingle and drink cocktails and meet any writer who catches their interest.
There are four quadrants of tables under the tent, and I make almost an entire lap