Song of Solomon (2)
submission two, Song of Solomon
Ruth was supervising the painting of the Den when Solomon returned home, covering his nose to reduce the inhaled fumes. “Dear, I thought it was unique that the walls were white,” he said as he removed his overcoat and hanged it upon the gold-plated rack. “It was a statement, you know?”
“Oh Solomon, shut up,” she interjected. “You know that was your excuse for indolence.” Her focus moved from him to the painters and she began instructing them again. “No, that is too deep of a maroon; I’m looking for more of a burgundy. Carry on.” She brushed past her husband and into the kitchen. “I’m making latkes,” she called.
“Ah, something else to contribute to my obesity,” he lamented, loosening his tie. Solomon was anything but fat, and he loved to jest with obvious contradiction.
“If you’re overweight, Solomon, then I am Anna Karenina,” Ruth said as she flipped a sizzling potato pancake in the frying pan. “And we both know I am not Anna Karenina.” He put his arms around her stomach, hugging her from behind, and kissed her neck.
“You are the belle of my ball, at least, and prettier than Anna Karenina,” he whispered, as she turned to kiss him. The kiss was brief but loving, and he let her continue with her cooking.
“You cajole me, boy,” she laughed. “Yes, you do.” She used a spatula to move three latkes from the pan onto a plate and Solomon picked one up and took a bite.
“Not bad,” he ventured, even though they were very good. “Maybe I’ll take one or seven with me to my study, for I think I have some sort of inspiration to write. This Pacific Autumn isn’t going to write itself, and Maresca insinuated that it was coming along too slowly.” He filled a plate with her latkes and opened the refrigerator, retrieving the orange juice. As he poured a glass, he continued, “With the success, or what’s deemed success, of White Noise, he thinks that my name alone will sell the new book. Isn’t that nice, dear?”
“Lovely,” said Ruth, as she fried another latke.
Solomon had been in his study an hour, clattering away at his antiquated electric type-writer, when Ruth decided to call the kids. They had not phoned or sent any word that they were coming home for the holidays, and Ruth was curious as to their plans. She dialed Zachary’s number first. “Hello, dear, it’s your mother,” she said to his answering machine, “I was calling to remind you that the nineteenth is Hanukkah, and you haven’t called yet to confirm that you’d be here. If you’re busy, maybe you could come for Christmas, instead. I haven’t seen you lately, I do hope you’ll oblige. I love you, Zach. Good-bye.” She was always very formal when it came to telephones. She felt like she was being interviewed or judged in some way, and her voice assumed a falsetto pitch and an almost English tone. She then proceeded to call her daughter. “Lily, darling, how are you?”
Lily had grown into quite an attractive lady, and had married the previous year. She was intelligent, especially for her youth, as she was only twenty-five years old. She had attended college in Boston and planned to further her education abroad before she met Luciano Cioppino, whom she took to quickly and married. They hoped to one day move to Europe to continue their respective college careers. Lily had strayed from her original Jewish upbringing and had wandered from religion to religion, searching for where she felt she “belonged." She had always felt awkward at the synagogue and had never had a bat-mitzvah. Ruth labeled her rebellious and never brought up the issue of religion when Lily was present, but Solomon was proud of his daughter for thinking for herself. Luciano was a Roman-Catholic, and Lily a Buddhist.
“Hello Mother! I am fine, just fine. I am sorry I've not called you, but we have been so busy lately, always on the go, you know. Lou has a new job where he is making good money, you know, and I have been just as busy as ever!”
Ruth detected something in her daughter’s voice that told her Lily was trying to hide something. Lily was rarely long-winded though she was verbose and had a way with words. However, she seemed somewhat nervous, and she was obviously trying to be clandestine. “Lily, what is going on? You can tell me, dear, I am your mother.”
“Oh, Mother, I knew you’d be able to tell... yes, there is something up, but I don’t want you to get all excited or anything, because it’s not for sure, you know, I’ll have to see a doctor, but Mother... I think I’m pregnant.”
There was a pause on the line as Ruth absorbed the information and as Lily gathered herself back after using such courage. “I’m astonished,” her mother finally replied, “simply astonished. This is probably the only time you’ve left me speechless. Allow me to gather my thoughts.” Another pause. “Lily, I really am happy for you. It’s a wonderful thing, being a mother. But after raising you and your brother, my only advice to you is to pray for anything but twins.”
It was decided that Luciano and Lily Cioppino would indeed come to New York for Christmas. Zachary Cohen returned his mother’s phone call, and he too confirmed that he would book a flight. Zach lived in Los Angeles and rarely ventured back east, so this was enough to make his mother happy for a few days, at least.
Zach had not married as of yet, and preferred living single for the time being. It had been long since he had felt love pangs and had known nothing romantic save meaningless sex for nearly a year. He was a good-looking man, taking after his father, and kept his body trimmed and toned. He was tan and had perfect teeth and bright eyes. He kept his hair long, though it was not girlish, and his numerous affairs proved him desirable. He was a rather shallow person and had not attended college, but he was strong in opinion and loyal. He had followed his dream of becoming a film director to Hollywood.
His mother had set about to cleaning the Den and preparing it for the visitors it would receive over the holidays. She bought a new rug for the kitchen, a delicate shade of brown, and hired housekeepers to clean the windows and toilets. The deep burgundy of the freshly painted walls was almost soothing, and kept both Cohens in amiable spirit. Ruth had brought the menorah from its resting-place in the closet, and had begun preparations for Hanukkah. “We’re not going to do anything big this year,” she had told her husband, “because the kids aren’t coming until Christmas and Hanukkah’s not that big of a thing anyway. I’ll go buy the candles for the menorah and I’ll cook a nice meal, but we’re not going to do presents like we did last year.”
Solomon had deemed it right that the twins were not coming in until Christmas, for Zach had returned on Rosh Hashanah and Lily on Yom Kippur. He did not then expect them to come for both Hanukkah and Christmas. He had always liked Hanukkah, but realized that as he was progressing with age, the novelty had begun to wear away. He no longer found anything entertaining about a dreidel, and latkes were fattening, after all.
Lydia Sandler, though professional, had a way of making one want to befriend her. She was modest and sincere, and nearly always very affable. She was capable of becoming a socialite, though she restrained herself with undue effort. She found most people rather disagreeable, her ex-husband included, and was quite comfortable standing alone. She was usually punctual and always organized, and her intellect was astounding.
As co-founder and CEO of Mirror Image Publishing, her job left little spare time on her hands. A small branch of Mirror Image, called Heritage Publishing House, had recently obtained the rights to publish many classics, from Eliot to Shakespeare. This had increased the revenue from Heritage, and the executive in charge of the house, David Montgomery, had bigger plans for it.
Lydia was not against the expanding of the Heritage Publishing House into a larger player, for she had always preferred these novels to the others published by her company. Besides classics, Heritage had always signed authors with an auspicious style, much like that of the Henry Jameses, the Edith Whartons, and the Hortense Calishers of the world. Now that they were adding these sorts of names to their collection, what could be better? However, she felt that Montgomery was losing sight of what Heritage was to begin with: an outlet for the best. Montgomery’s plan for expansion included lowering the standards significantly.
Lydia Sandler’s heels resonated against the hard wood floors of the office building, providing a certain austerity, and as she walked into the elevator she turned and stood taciturn and still. Her dress-suit was neat and formal, and her hair was combed into a stern bun. She had mentally prepared a thousand times over for this conference with David Montgomery, and though this hyperbole was nearer to truth she did not feel confident or ready. She knew that Montgomery’s propositions would most likely include branching out from Mirror Image all together, taking his newfound strength and attempting to stand independently. However, they both knew that without Mirror Image’s support that Heritage Publishing would be sure to falter.
David Montgomery was already seated when she entered the large conference room, reclining in one of the many chairs arranged about the large table. His feet were propped on the surface of the table and his cell phone was at his ear. He concluded his conversation quickly and appropriately, and straightened his posture upon noting Ms. Sandler’s entrance. She cleared her throat, set her briefcase on the table, and took the seat across from him.
“I presume we are ready to begin,” she said, professionally, opening her briefcase and pulling out a manila folder with “Montgomery” written on the tab. David Montgomery was arrogant but refined, and he smirked at Lydia’s comment.
“I’ve been ready,” he returned. Ms. Sandler was perhaps a minute or two late, though she preferred to be punctual, but Mr. Montgomery’s comment was inappropriate as a minute or two of leniency are usually not very much to ask. However, Lydia was prudent and was able to contain herself and her attitude against inflammation.
“Ah, then, Mr. Montgomery, let us begin,” she continued.
This concludes the first chapter.
Ruth was supervising the painting of the Den when Solomon returned home, covering his nose to reduce the inhaled fumes. “Dear, I thought it was unique that the walls were white,” he said as he removed his overcoat and hanged it upon the gold-plated rack. “It was a statement, you know?”
“Oh Solomon, shut up,” she interjected. “You know that was your excuse for indolence.” Her focus moved from him to the painters and she began instructing them again. “No, that is too deep of a maroon; I’m looking for more of a burgundy. Carry on.” She brushed past her husband and into the kitchen. “I’m making latkes,” she called.
“Ah, something else to contribute to my obesity,” he lamented, loosening his tie. Solomon was anything but fat, and he loved to jest with obvious contradiction.
“If you’re overweight, Solomon, then I am Anna Karenina,” Ruth said as she flipped a sizzling potato pancake in the frying pan. “And we both know I am not Anna Karenina.” He put his arms around her stomach, hugging her from behind, and kissed her neck.
“You are the belle of my ball, at least, and prettier than Anna Karenina,” he whispered, as she turned to kiss him. The kiss was brief but loving, and he let her continue with her cooking.
“You cajole me, boy,” she laughed. “Yes, you do.” She used a spatula to move three latkes from the pan onto a plate and Solomon picked one up and took a bite.
“Not bad,” he ventured, even though they were very good. “Maybe I’ll take one or seven with me to my study, for I think I have some sort of inspiration to write. This Pacific Autumn isn’t going to write itself, and Maresca insinuated that it was coming along too slowly.” He filled a plate with her latkes and opened the refrigerator, retrieving the orange juice. As he poured a glass, he continued, “With the success, or what’s deemed success, of White Noise, he thinks that my name alone will sell the new book. Isn’t that nice, dear?”
“Lovely,” said Ruth, as she fried another latke.
Solomon had been in his study an hour, clattering away at his antiquated electric type-writer, when Ruth decided to call the kids. They had not phoned or sent any word that they were coming home for the holidays, and Ruth was curious as to their plans. She dialed Zachary’s number first. “Hello, dear, it’s your mother,” she said to his answering machine, “I was calling to remind you that the nineteenth is Hanukkah, and you haven’t called yet to confirm that you’d be here. If you’re busy, maybe you could come for Christmas, instead. I haven’t seen you lately, I do hope you’ll oblige. I love you, Zach. Good-bye.” She was always very formal when it came to telephones. She felt like she was being interviewed or judged in some way, and her voice assumed a falsetto pitch and an almost English tone. She then proceeded to call her daughter. “Lily, darling, how are you?”
Lily had grown into quite an attractive lady, and had married the previous year. She was intelligent, especially for her youth, as she was only twenty-five years old. She had attended college in Boston and planned to further her education abroad before she met Luciano Cioppino, whom she took to quickly and married. They hoped to one day move to Europe to continue their respective college careers. Lily had strayed from her original Jewish upbringing and had wandered from religion to religion, searching for where she felt she “belonged." She had always felt awkward at the synagogue and had never had a bat-mitzvah. Ruth labeled her rebellious and never brought up the issue of religion when Lily was present, but Solomon was proud of his daughter for thinking for herself. Luciano was a Roman-Catholic, and Lily a Buddhist.
“Hello Mother! I am fine, just fine. I am sorry I've not called you, but we have been so busy lately, always on the go, you know. Lou has a new job where he is making good money, you know, and I have been just as busy as ever!”
Ruth detected something in her daughter’s voice that told her Lily was trying to hide something. Lily was rarely long-winded though she was verbose and had a way with words. However, she seemed somewhat nervous, and she was obviously trying to be clandestine. “Lily, what is going on? You can tell me, dear, I am your mother.”
“Oh, Mother, I knew you’d be able to tell... yes, there is something up, but I don’t want you to get all excited or anything, because it’s not for sure, you know, I’ll have to see a doctor, but Mother... I think I’m pregnant.”
There was a pause on the line as Ruth absorbed the information and as Lily gathered herself back after using such courage. “I’m astonished,” her mother finally replied, “simply astonished. This is probably the only time you’ve left me speechless. Allow me to gather my thoughts.” Another pause. “Lily, I really am happy for you. It’s a wonderful thing, being a mother. But after raising you and your brother, my only advice to you is to pray for anything but twins.”
It was decided that Luciano and Lily Cioppino would indeed come to New York for Christmas. Zachary Cohen returned his mother’s phone call, and he too confirmed that he would book a flight. Zach lived in Los Angeles and rarely ventured back east, so this was enough to make his mother happy for a few days, at least.
Zach had not married as of yet, and preferred living single for the time being. It had been long since he had felt love pangs and had known nothing romantic save meaningless sex for nearly a year. He was a good-looking man, taking after his father, and kept his body trimmed and toned. He was tan and had perfect teeth and bright eyes. He kept his hair long, though it was not girlish, and his numerous affairs proved him desirable. He was a rather shallow person and had not attended college, but he was strong in opinion and loyal. He had followed his dream of becoming a film director to Hollywood.
His mother had set about to cleaning the Den and preparing it for the visitors it would receive over the holidays. She bought a new rug for the kitchen, a delicate shade of brown, and hired housekeepers to clean the windows and toilets. The deep burgundy of the freshly painted walls was almost soothing, and kept both Cohens in amiable spirit. Ruth had brought the menorah from its resting-place in the closet, and had begun preparations for Hanukkah. “We’re not going to do anything big this year,” she had told her husband, “because the kids aren’t coming until Christmas and Hanukkah’s not that big of a thing anyway. I’ll go buy the candles for the menorah and I’ll cook a nice meal, but we’re not going to do presents like we did last year.”
Solomon had deemed it right that the twins were not coming in until Christmas, for Zach had returned on Rosh Hashanah and Lily on Yom Kippur. He did not then expect them to come for both Hanukkah and Christmas. He had always liked Hanukkah, but realized that as he was progressing with age, the novelty had begun to wear away. He no longer found anything entertaining about a dreidel, and latkes were fattening, after all.
Lydia Sandler, though professional, had a way of making one want to befriend her. She was modest and sincere, and nearly always very affable. She was capable of becoming a socialite, though she restrained herself with undue effort. She found most people rather disagreeable, her ex-husband included, and was quite comfortable standing alone. She was usually punctual and always organized, and her intellect was astounding.
As co-founder and CEO of Mirror Image Publishing, her job left little spare time on her hands. A small branch of Mirror Image, called Heritage Publishing House, had recently obtained the rights to publish many classics, from Eliot to Shakespeare. This had increased the revenue from Heritage, and the executive in charge of the house, David Montgomery, had bigger plans for it.
Lydia was not against the expanding of the Heritage Publishing House into a larger player, for she had always preferred these novels to the others published by her company. Besides classics, Heritage had always signed authors with an auspicious style, much like that of the Henry Jameses, the Edith Whartons, and the Hortense Calishers of the world. Now that they were adding these sorts of names to their collection, what could be better? However, she felt that Montgomery was losing sight of what Heritage was to begin with: an outlet for the best. Montgomery’s plan for expansion included lowering the standards significantly.
Lydia Sandler’s heels resonated against the hard wood floors of the office building, providing a certain austerity, and as she walked into the elevator she turned and stood taciturn and still. Her dress-suit was neat and formal, and her hair was combed into a stern bun. She had mentally prepared a thousand times over for this conference with David Montgomery, and though this hyperbole was nearer to truth she did not feel confident or ready. She knew that Montgomery’s propositions would most likely include branching out from Mirror Image all together, taking his newfound strength and attempting to stand independently. However, they both knew that without Mirror Image’s support that Heritage Publishing would be sure to falter.
David Montgomery was already seated when she entered the large conference room, reclining in one of the many chairs arranged about the large table. His feet were propped on the surface of the table and his cell phone was at his ear. He concluded his conversation quickly and appropriately, and straightened his posture upon noting Ms. Sandler’s entrance. She cleared her throat, set her briefcase on the table, and took the seat across from him.
“I presume we are ready to begin,” she said, professionally, opening her briefcase and pulling out a manila folder with “Montgomery” written on the tab. David Montgomery was arrogant but refined, and he smirked at Lydia’s comment.
“I’ve been ready,” he returned. Ms. Sandler was perhaps a minute or two late, though she preferred to be punctual, but Mr. Montgomery’s comment was inappropriate as a minute or two of leniency are usually not very much to ask. However, Lydia was prudent and was able to contain herself and her attitude against inflammation.
“Ah, then, Mr. Montgomery, let us begin,” she continued.
This concludes the first chapter.