New York - The Novel

please your mother.” Of course when he did come, he’d been absolutely charming to everyone. But that didn’t really make her feel any better.
    She was getting seriously worried about him nowadays. He was nearly thirty and still living in Greenwich Village, on Downing Street—though why anyone would want to live there she couldn’t imagine. He was pretending to work for his father and the last she heard he was writing a play. She didn’t know what kind of women he was seeing, and didn’t want to. He probably wasn’t getting enough exercise of that sort or any other, tojudge by his waistline, and he was drinking too much. It was time her son took a pull at himself. And it was time for him to get married too. After all, what was the point in doing all you could for the family if there was no future generation to carry it on?
    All in all, she was distressed, and she felt she should speak her mind. But William had cautioned her.
    “I know he’s hurt you, but don’t quarrel with him,” he warned. “You might drive him away.”
    So when Charlie turned up for dinner that evening, she had gently suggested that he should take more care of his health, but said little more on the subject.
    They talked of all sorts of things. Charlie told her anecdotes about some of his playwriting friends, and she pretended to be amused. She told him that she was thinking of redecorating the Newport house, and he pretended to care. They all discussed the stock market. Rose knew that some people were saying it was too high, and she remembered the terrible scare back in 1907. But her husband didn’t seem to be concerned. Conditions were quite different now, he assured her.
    “By the way,” Charlie remarked to his father, “do you know we’ve got a new competitor to the brokerage, in the street right across from our offices?” He grinned. “Guess who it is. The boot boy.”
    “The boot boy?” cried his mother.
    “I swear to God. He was cleaning my shoes, and he started offering me stock tips. He has his own portfolio. Good news, by the way: he told me the market was going up again.”
    “Do we have his account?” his father said with a smile.
    “I don’t believe so.”
    “Well, bring him in then. Earn some commission, boy.” “You’re not serious, are you?” Rose said.
    But William shrugged. “Everyone’s in the market now, Rose,” he said.
    “I have another piece of news,” Charlie told them. “Edmund Keller’s bringing out a new book. It’s the story of the great days of Rome, but written for the general market. He’s hoping it’ll be a big seller.” Keller had been working on the project ever since he’d returned from three very happy years in Oxford.
    “Splendid,” said William. “We’ll buy a copy or two.”
    “Any chance you’ll put on a party for him?” Charlie inquired. “You know how he feels about you.”
    Rose saw her opportunity.
    “If you promise to take some exercise and work on your waistline. And that has to be a promise.”
    “All right. I guess that’s a deal,” her son ruefully agreed.
    When Charlie had left, William kissed his wife.
    “That was nice of you,” he said. “And clever,” he added. “Charlie was really grateful, you know.”
    “Well, I’m glad,” she said.
    The time had come. Everything that had been said at the dinner just strengthened her resolve all the more.
    “William, my dear,” she said gently, “I need you to do something for me.”
    “Anything.”
    “I want to do some work on the Newport cottage. I want to make it really special.”
    “You have a decorator in mind?”
    “Actually, dear, I’m going to need an architect. And I’m going to need some money. Could I have some money?”
    “I don’t see why not. How much do you need?”
    “Half a million dollars.”

    In early October, after drifting down for almost a month, the stock market started to rise again. It wouldn’t be long, people were saying, before it was back at its peak again. On Thursday, October 17, Mrs. Master threw a party to celebrate the publication of Edmund Keller’s
Mighty Rome
. The word was that the book was very good.
    Rose left no stone unturned. She invited everybody: people who gave parties, people who gave presents, people who owned bookstores, donors to the New York Public Library—sadly old Elihu Pusey had died—and a slew of journalists, magazine and literary editors drummed up by Charlie. The cream of the social, business and literary world was