Read Online Fly Away Home by Jennifer Weiner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Weiner
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while. Make some money. Build my war chest.” He bent down to tug at her boots, and if he noticed the three pairs of white athletic socks that came off with each one, he was nice enough not to comment. “Then I’ll run for the New York State Assembly. Then the U.S. Senate.”
“They’re going to vote for you?” she murmured, as he climbed back onto the bed beside her. “They don’t like outsiders.”
“Oh, the good people of New York are absolutely gonna vote for me,” he said, sliding his hand up her shirt and unhooking her bra one-handed. “We’ll have lived in Manhattan for years by then.”
She pushed him a few inches away, lifting her body up on her elbows so she could see his face in the dim light. “We?”
“I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Sylvie,” said Richard. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said. Before she had time to savor the compliment, to enjoy the taste of the word sweetheart , he added, “You’re also the most organized person I’ve ever seen. Your notebooks are something.”
“You’re hot for my notebooks?” she asked, her amusement back and growing stronger. Her notebooks, she had to admit, were something—cross-tabulated, color-coordinated, with different colors for each class and a different color ink for each topic.
“You ever seen mine?” he asked, and leaned up on one elbow, reaching over to his desk and producing a battered black-and-white composition book. His handwriting was a mess, his notes were almost illegible, and, Sylvie noted a little smugly, he only ever used black ink. “I saw those notebooks, and I thought, That’s the girl for me .”
Later, it would occur to her to ask the obvious question, which was Why? Of all the girls at Yale, many of whom took excellent notes, why had he chosen her? Later, she would wonder whether Richard had sought her out because she was Selma Serfer’s daughter, because her status (relatively wealthy, from an educated and influential family, a native New Yorker, resident of perhaps the one city in America where being Jewish wasn’t an automatic political drawback) had a luster that would make his own homespun, small-town scholarship-boy story even more impressive in contrast. But that night she didn’t ask. She let him take off her top, let him press his bare chest against hers, crooning her name— Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie —and thought that he had what she didn’t: an agenda, a plan. It was almost like a fairy tale: once upon a time, there was a boy from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, who grew up to be president. Richard would write the story; he would draw the map. She would help him navigate, and together, triumphant, they would arrive at the destination he had chosen, where they would, of course, live happily ever after. Do you trust me? he’d ask her—this was on their second date, when he’d taken her to a matinee, and out for Chinese for dinner. They were in bed together, naked beneath the Kennedy poster, about to have sex for the first time (another detail she’d never shared with a reporter), and when he’d asked his question, she’d answered with the words of a bride: I do .
They’d gotten married right after law school graduation, in a ceremony in Yale’s chapel conducted by a Supreme Court justice, one of Selma’s friends. Sylvie remembered Richard’s father talking too loudly, whacking her own father on the back repeatedly, and giving a drunken rehearsal-dinner toast in which he’d referred to Sylvie as “the little lady.” Selma had smiled tightly, and Richard’s mother had whispered apologies in the ladies’ room, but privately, Sylvie hadn’t been offended. Secretly, she’d liked the way it had sounded.
Her parents had offered to help with a down payment for a place near them, on the Upper West Side, but Richard had refused.
“I know they mean well,” he said, twisting from side to side on the narrow bed in his New Haven apartment, “but I just wouldn’t feel right, and I don’t
“They’re going to vote for you?” she murmured, as he climbed back onto the bed beside her. “They don’t like outsiders.”
“Oh, the good people of New York are absolutely gonna vote for me,” he said, sliding his hand up her shirt and unhooking her bra one-handed. “We’ll have lived in Manhattan for years by then.”
She pushed him a few inches away, lifting her body up on her elbows so she could see his face in the dim light. “We?”
“I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Sylvie,” said Richard. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said. Before she had time to savor the compliment, to enjoy the taste of the word sweetheart , he added, “You’re also the most organized person I’ve ever seen. Your notebooks are something.”
“You’re hot for my notebooks?” she asked, her amusement back and growing stronger. Her notebooks, she had to admit, were something—cross-tabulated, color-coordinated, with different colors for each class and a different color ink for each topic.
“You ever seen mine?” he asked, and leaned up on one elbow, reaching over to his desk and producing a battered black-and-white composition book. His handwriting was a mess, his notes were almost illegible, and, Sylvie noted a little smugly, he only ever used black ink. “I saw those notebooks, and I thought, That’s the girl for me .”
Later, it would occur to her to ask the obvious question, which was Why? Of all the girls at Yale, many of whom took excellent notes, why had he chosen her? Later, she would wonder whether Richard had sought her out because she was Selma Serfer’s daughter, because her status (relatively wealthy, from an educated and influential family, a native New Yorker, resident of perhaps the one city in America where being Jewish wasn’t an automatic political drawback) had a luster that would make his own homespun, small-town scholarship-boy story even more impressive in contrast. But that night she didn’t ask. She let him take off her top, let him press his bare chest against hers, crooning her name— Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie —and thought that he had what she didn’t: an agenda, a plan. It was almost like a fairy tale: once upon a time, there was a boy from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, who grew up to be president. Richard would write the story; he would draw the map. She would help him navigate, and together, triumphant, they would arrive at the destination he had chosen, where they would, of course, live happily ever after. Do you trust me? he’d ask her—this was on their second date, when he’d taken her to a matinee, and out for Chinese for dinner. They were in bed together, naked beneath the Kennedy poster, about to have sex for the first time (another detail she’d never shared with a reporter), and when he’d asked his question, she’d answered with the words of a bride: I do .
They’d gotten married right after law school graduation, in a ceremony in Yale’s chapel conducted by a Supreme Court justice, one of Selma’s friends. Sylvie remembered Richard’s father talking too loudly, whacking her own father on the back repeatedly, and giving a drunken rehearsal-dinner toast in which he’d referred to Sylvie as “the little lady.” Selma had smiled tightly, and Richard’s mother had whispered apologies in the ladies’ room, but privately, Sylvie hadn’t been offended. Secretly, she’d liked the way it had sounded.
Her parents had offered to help with a down payment for a place near them, on the Upper West Side, but Richard had refused.
“I know they mean well,” he said, twisting from side to side on the narrow bed in his New Haven apartment, “but I just wouldn’t feel right, and I don’t
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