Chapter Three
THERE WAS NOTHING like hanging off the side of a sheer rock face in high winds to put life into perspective.
To be truthful, Alex Kanin’s only perspective right now was on how much it would hurt if he fell. He surveyed the expanse of red rock above him, looking for the handhold he knew to be there, assuming he’d followed the proper route up the side. He forced himself to relax his grip and save the strength in his fingers and forearms for the next move, however contrary to instinct it was when facing one’s own mortality.
“Enough with the histrionics,” he muttered. He was clipped in to a bolt five feet below him. The worst the fall would do is give him a jolt through the climbing harness and some bruises as he banged into the rock. Assuming he didn’t die of a heart attack first.
“You thinking about building a summer home up there?”
The shout drifted up to him from his friend and climbing instructor, Bryan Shaw, then dissipated on the wind. Easy for him to say. Bryan was one of the top-ranked technical climbers in the country, whereas Alex had only been climbing for three years. This little 5.10-rated route in Colorado’s Castlewood Canyon State Park might be easy for Bryan, but to Alex it might as well be Everest.
The taunting must have worked, though, because there was his next hold, a full foot out of his reach. A dyno. Alex gritted his teeth and coiled his muscles in preparation for the leap. For one sickening moment, he hung in midair, his hands and feet free of the rock face. And then his chalked fingers found the hold at the deadpoint, the zero-gravity pivot between jumping and falling. His hands, forearms, and biceps strained against the downward pull of his body weight while he felt for his foothold and secured himself on the rock.
Bryan whooped triumphantly from below, and Alex laughed aloud. Now it was clear climbing to the top. Energy flooded his body as he scrambled up the last ten feet and levered himself over the edge. He clipped in to the top anchor and then flipped himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the forty-foot drop below.
“Yeah!” Bryan pumped his fist in the air, and Alex laughed at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Now you have to get back down!”
“Shut up!” he yelled back. “Let me enjoy this for a minute!”
Alex flexed his hands and rolled the kinks free from his neck, the knots a sure sign he’d been climbing tense. Only then did he notice the raw patches on his fingertips. That would make typing difficult tomorrow, but it was worth it. This route was his hardest climb to date, something he’d been too chicken to try until Bryan forced his hand. And now he couldn’t wait to do it again.
“All right. On belay?”
“Belay on.”
“Climbing.” He moved himself off the edge of the rock, ignoring the quiver of nerves as he got his hands and feet into position. He could have rappelled or walked back around, but Bryan insisted he be as comfortable with downclimbing as he was with the ascent. It was a slow process of finding his footholds and pausing to remove his quickdraws —the webbing-linked carabiners —from the permanent bolts.
When his feet finally hit the solid ground and he called off belay, Bryan greeted him with a hard, affectionate slap on the back. “Nicely done. I was sure you were going to bail for a second.”
“I almost did. I thought I was looking for a crimp and started doubting my route.”
“Now that you’ve led a 5.11d successfully, are you ready to try some easy multi-pitch climbs with me in California this fall?”
Alex laughed. That easy multi-pitch climb was a three-day ascent up Yosemite’s Half Dome. “Not remotely. Wait, what do you mean 5.11d?”
“I might have understated the difficulty of this one,” Bryan said. “But you were ready.”
Alex shook his head at his friend. He’d known Bryan since their high school days, and back then he’d already been a world-class junior climber. It was only when Alex started feeling the toll the writing career took on his body that he took Bryan up on his offer of lessons. He should have known he’d be pushing him every step of the way.
“I blame the fact you made it look easy,” Alex said. “I don’t think I have one more in me today, though.”
“I need to go anyway. I promised my parents I’d make an appearance at their thing tonight.”
The “thing” was more than likely a fund-raiser or a party that rivaled the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, but Bryan tended to regard the black-tie affairs like Alex would a potluck. The side effect of being the black sheep of a wealthy family, he guessed, or maybe his friend’s way of showing his gratitude that his father hadn’t disowned him when he became a professional climber rather than following in the family’s real estate business.
“Who are you bringing?” Alex began to remove the chalk bag and quickdraws that hung from his climbing harness.
“Kirsten.”
“Which one is she? The blonde?”
“They’re all blonde. She’s the yoga instructor. I fully expect her to ask my mom if she’s ever tried a juice cleanse before the night is up.”
Alex chuckled. So maybe Bryan didn’t toe the line completely. “Ah, the vegan health nut. Think your mom will go for it?”
“I think there’s more chance of my mom getting Kirsten to eat meat than doing anything remotely like a cleanse.” He shrugged. “It makes for good entertainment on a boring night. Don’t suppose you’d like to drop by?”
“Not with that kind of resounding endorsement. Besides, they didn’t invite me.”
“You know you’re like family. You don’t need an invitation.”
That was true. Maybe he’d dust off the tuxedo and drop in. The evening might be slow, but the food would no doubt be amazing. He’d been to more than one of those events in high school, during the long periods he’d lived in one of the Shaws’ spare rooms while his professor parents were off at a conference or doing a research sabbatical in Europe. Bryan’s dad and mom had never balked at Alex’s presence. They’d simply put another plate at the table, signed his permission slips, and bought him new school clothes when he’d outgrown his own but run out of the money his parents left in his account.
“If I don’t show up, tell your dad I’m in for the fall gala.”
“I will.” They hoisted their gear and started up the far gentler ascent toward the parking lot where they’d left their cars. With every step, Alex’s rubbery legs complained even more. He’d be feeling this climb for days. He’d thought he was in pretty good condition, but he was going to have to add another weight day into his workout schedule. Bryan seemed determined to make a respectable traditional climber out of him, even though Alex had barely graduated from artificial terrain at the gym.
The clouds were beginning to mound overhead when they reached the parking lot, and the first big drops of rain spattered down around them, raising the musty smell of damp concrete. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
“Tuesday at Red Rocks?” Bryan asked.
“I’ll be there. We’re running the steps first?”
“You know it.” They heaved their gear into the back of their cars, then slammed the trunks. Alex slipped into the driver’s seat as the clouds let loose.
Rain drummed on the roof of the car and poured down the window. They were out of the flash flood range now, but had they been a few minutes later, Alex would have been stranded on the slab while Bryan bolted for safety. The gullies and ravines that made up the park’s climbing areas could turn into deadly rivers in mere minutes.
With visibility so bad, he had no choice but to wait it out. He reached for the cell phone he’d left in his cup holder and saw the blinking green light that indicated messages.
The first one was from his literary agent, Christine. “Alex, have you been on Twitter? Call me as soon as you get this.”
The next three were from Christine as well, various permutations of the first. What exactly had happened to cause the usually sanguine agent to turn so twitchy?
He tried to open his Twitter app, but the state park was located in a sketchy cell zone south of Denver, so all he got were connection-error messages. Might as well hear it directly from Christine then. He dialed her number, and after a couple of seconds of deciding whether to connect or not, the call rang through.
“Christine?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning!”
Alex blinked. She was nothing if not brusque and businesslike; this note of excitement in her voice was completely foreign. “I was climbing. I left my phone in the car.”
She didn’t even acknowledge the comment. “Have you seen Twitter?”
“I don’t have data out here.”
“It went viral.”
“What went viral?” By the sound of her voice, he was thinking a contagious disease.
“Your new essay for the New Yorker. It went up online last night and it’s already been shared thousands of times.”
“What?” Alex leaned back against the seat of the car. This particular piece had been written as exclusive online content, not even to be printed in the magazine. He’d figured no one would bother reading it.
“It hit a nerve. People are sharing it everywhere, talking about what’s wrong with our social media society. I’ve got to tell you, Alex, I thought you were procrastinating, but you really played this one right.”
“I didn’t —” He broke off. There was no point in arguing the issue. He hadn’t set out to write a viral post —as if one could even predict what would make a piece take off. In fact, it had been little more than a veiled rant, coming off some unkind, if rather ironic, reviews of his book, Mis-Connected, a volume of essays about his traditional upbringing in the digital age. “What does this mean?”
“Well, for one, it means that the e-book is trending at number thirty right now. You’re outselling David Sedaris in memoir at the moment.” Christine paused. “We have to capitalize on this, Alex. Your publisher is being flooded with interview requests. You need to do as many as you can. This is your chance.”
To salvage his career as an essayist, she meant. Interviews meant more exposure, which meant more book sales. He knew how this went. Milk the publicity for all it was worth, use that to get another book deal while the publisher was still excited about him.
Show up all the critics who had used him and his absurdly large advance as an example of what was wrong with legacy publishing today.
“Okay. I’ll call Stephen this afternoon and see what they have for me.”
“Good. Good. And I’ll want a new proposal as soon as you can have it done. Don’t let this one slip away, Alex.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” Alex clicked off the line and sat there for a moment, stunned. He’d pretty much written off Mis-Connected as a failed experiment, and as recently as this morning, he’d been sure the book he was supposed to be writing a proposal for would never see the light of day. He made a pretty good living as a freelancer, so that had seemed like a smarter way to spend his time. Until now.
The rain passed almost as quickly as it had come, decreasing to a halfhearted spatter, so he put his car into gear and made the slow, winding drive out of the park onto the rural highway. As soon as he neared the town of Parker, the little icon indicating a data connection blinked to life on his phone’s status bar, and he pulled into the first gas station he saw. He had to resist the urge to check his book’s online sales rankings, instead opening Twitter to see his mentions.
Tweet after tweet with comments like:
This!
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Finally, a guy who gets it.
Why isn’t this guy married? He’s totally hot.
Okay, so that last one made him smile a little wider.
And then some unexpected ones:
Anyone know who this chef is?
Has to be Rachel Bishop.
Why hasn’t anyone called out @CarltonEspy?
Some of them linked back to the restaurant review that had helped spur this article in the first place, a few of them linking to Rachel Bishop’s restaurant or her page on the James Beard Award website.
The first hint of disquiet rippled over Alex’s skin. He’d tried to be judicious about the details he’d used, not wanting to send more people to read the disgusting reviews that Espy churned out. But he’d underestimated the cross section of readers who would have seen that review and read the New Yorker, or who at least spent too much time on Twitter. Still, it had to be a good thing, right? It called attention to the unfairly harsh criticism leveled at people in creative careers, specifically women. This was the kind of article you wanted to go viral, compared to, say, a photo essay on Kim Kardashian’s butt.
He let out a long breath while he processed the news, then tossed the phone onto the seat next to him and stepped out of his car, headed for the gas station’s mini-mart. He’d call Stephen, the publicist who had handled Mis-Connected and who incidentally had stopped taking his calls nearly three months ago. But first, coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
Thirty minutes later, reviewing the notes spread across his desk, Alex knew he would need more than coffee to get through the coming weeks. The promotion schedule Stephen had set up for him would require a continuous caffeine IV. Print, radio, maybe even some television. The in-house publicist had apparently been instructed to go big while the buzz was still strong enough to catch the attention of segment producers.
He should be excited. He was getting a second chance that few writers did —but those were the books that went on to hit bestseller lists, and his publisher knew it. Christine had to be very specific that he was to do everything and anything they asked of him while she began talking to his editors about a second book.
So why did he feel like he’d done something terrible?
It was because he’d inadvertently given those trolls a national stage, which was exactly what they wanted. And he was profiting from it. The whole thing made him feel like an ambulance chaser.
He made his decision before he realized he was even considering it, his fingers closing on the plastic-shrouded hanger that held his tuxedo. Mitchell Shaw might be his best friend’s father, but he’d also been something like a mentor. In the time Alex had known the family, Mitchell’s company had gone from a modest commercial developer to a major player in Denver’s urbanization movement, all without losing the guiding principles and morals that had made him a success. If anyone could help him put his uneasiness to rest, it would be Mitchell Shaw.
Alex showered and shaved and then pulled on his formal wear, praying it still fit. He spent most of his time in sweatpants and T-shirts these days; ever since he and Victoria had broken up, there was little need for a tux. To his relief, it fit well enough to wear, even if the trousers’ waist was a little loose and the jacket a bit snug across the shoulders, a result of his expanded climbing routine.
Bryan hadn’t mentioned what time the event started, but seven was a safe bet, so Alex timed it to pull into the driveway of the Shaws’ Capitol Hill mansion a few minutes past. He’d once been intimidated by this hulking 1920s brick edifice, so far removed from his family’s modest bungalow in its equally modest east side neighborhood. The Shaws might as well have been the Waynes of Gotham to his thirteen-year-old self. Only later did he learn Mitchell and Kathy had rescued the historic home from demolition during the new wave of conservationism in Denver.
Alex turned over his Subaru to one of the uniformed valets on the large circular driveway, straightened his tuxedo jacket, and strode up the brick steps of the home into the paneled front foyer, which glittered with light from the crystal chandeliers and buzzed with conversation. Dozens of guests milled around with glasses of champagne or cocktails in hand, the men garbed in tuxedos and the women in opera-worthy evening gowns.
He moved into the main parlor and then the dining room, looking for Mitchell or Kathy among the crush of guests. He finally found them in the library toward the back of the house, speaking with a distinguished-looking older couple. Alex took a flute of champagne so he had something to do besides stand awkwardly at the edge of the room and wait to be acknowledged. Finally, Mitchell looked his direction, his eyebrows rising for a moment before he lifted a hand and waved him over.
“What a surprise!” Mitchell held out his hand, which Alex shook enthusiastically. Kathy greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said. “Do you know Roberto and Carol Veracruz?”
Alex shifted so he could shake the hands of the couple to whom they’d been talking, as Kathy went on. “Alex is a close friend of our son, Bryan. He’s a critically acclaimed essayist and writes for the New Yorker, among other publications.”
Carol’s eyebrows lifted. “How interesting,” she said, and did legitimately seem interested. “I’ll have to look you up.”
Alex smiled politely and exchanged a couple words of small talk before the Veracruzes wandered off to chat with someone else. Now that they were alone in the conversation, Kathy put her hand on his arm. “I saw your post. Beautifully written, Alex. It was something that needed to be said.”
“Thank you.” Somehow the praise made him feel guiltier. “I was hoping I could grab a few minutes of your time to talk about that, Mr. Shaw.”
Mitchell glanced at his watch and considered. “I have a few minutes until dinner. Kathy, do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Kathy smiled at the both of them. “I’ll go check on the caterers and see when we’ll be ready to begin seating.”
Mitchell gestured with his head for Alex to follow, and they wound their way through the crowd toward the front staircase, Mitchell pausing long enough to greet friends and acquaintances as he went. Alex climbed the stairs to the second floor behind him, feeling vaguely uncomfortable about taking him away from his own party.
“I’m sorry to crash the benefit,” he said. “What exactly are you raising money for?”
“The university arts program,” Mitchell said. “You knew Kathy studied music there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I remember her mentioning that.” Mitchell had been an engineering major and his wife had studied . . . flute, maybe? However comfortable Mitchell might seem with the high-society set, he’d always enjoyed the construction side of things more. An opposites-attract situation if ever there was one. And it seemed to work, considering they had been married for forty-two years.
Mitchell led him past the first two doors in the hallway, but Alex couldn’t help but pause and peer into the second one as they went. That had been his space for nearly his entire senior year of high school. It looked exactly as it had when he’d lived there —four-poster bed, heavy antique furniture, Oriental rug. No matter how many times they had told him he could decorate it to his taste, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to change a thing. It wasn’t his home, not really, and to settle in like it was would have felt like a betrayal. And yet when he needed advice, it was Mitchell Shaw he went to, not his own parents.
He hurried to catch up and followed Mitchell into a modest but period-appropriate study at the end of the hall. Alex took the chair that was offered him opposite the desk while Mitchell settled on the other side.
“I take it your parents aren’t back yet,” Mitchell said by way of opening.
Alex frowned. “Back?”
“Maybe I’m mistaken. I thought they were out of town for a conference this week. We’d invited them to the benefit, since it’s their university, but they sent their regrets.”
“Right, of course.” He hadn’t spoken with his mom and dad for almost two weeks; naturally they wouldn’t have thought to mention their upcoming trip. Ever since he had abandoned academia in favor of commercial writing, they seemed to think that made him a traitor to the cause.
“What’s on your mind, son?”
Alex poured out his concerns without hesitation, telling him how he felt like he was somehow morally culpable for bringing such filth to the attention of the wider masses and profiting off it. Mitchell sat and listened, his expression quietly considering.
“Let me ask you this: what obligation do you have to your publisher to help promote your book?”
“Contractually? It’s not really written in.”
“Maybe not legally, but there’s the expectation that you help promote it, right?”
Alex nodded.
Mitchell leaned back thoughtfully. “And refusing to do it will hurt the sales of the book?”
“Most likely.”
“Then you have a quandary. They paid you a great deal of money with the expectation you would do everything you could to make the book a success. If that now conflicts with your personal convictions, you need to decide which is more important to you —those, or keeping your word to someone who has invested in you.”
Somehow Alex had thought that Mitchell would help him come to an answer, not give him more to think about. “You think I’m being oversensitive, don’t you?”
Mitchell smiled. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you think deeply on everything. It’s what makes you a good writer. But let me ask you one more thing —have you prayed about it?”
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d known it would eventually come around to this, just as he knew he was going to have to answer no. It still wasn’t second nature to him to seek God’s guidance on daily matters. He’d been raised in the Russian Orthodox Church, which focused far more on traditionalist doctrine than personal spiritual experience. By that definition, Mitchell and Kathy, with their nondenominational Protestant beliefs, didn’t even qualify as true Christians. Besides the night he announced he was quitting his PhD program, the moment he told his parents he was leaving the Orthodox Church was the most disappointed he’d ever seen them.
And yet times like now, he realized how much he still reached for some sort of rule book for answers.
Mitchell smiled as if he understood his conflict. “Think about it. Pray about it. The fact that you’re concerned about doing the right thing means you’re halfway there. Just remember, you’re not responsible for everyone else’s actions. Only your own. So whatever decision you make, be sure you’re doing it because it’s what God would have you do, not simply because it’s most comfortable.”
Alex stood and held out his hand to shake Mitchell’s. “Thank you.”
“You know I’m always here if you want to talk. Are you going to join us for dinner?”
“I shouldn’t. I didn’t realize you were having a plated meal. Thank you, though.”
Mitchell ushered him out of the office. When Alex set foot on the bottom floor, instead of turning toward the dining room with the rest of the guests, he headed for the front door. He would do what Mitchell suggested. He’d weigh his responsibilities and ask God for guidance. He hoped that today God felt like answering back.