“Do you need any help here?” my daughter asks.
“Thanks but no, darling.” I like being surrounded by memories, a chorus of bells only I can hear.
“Call if you need me,” says my fair-haired Wendy Frances with her blue eyes and love of books. Who is her father? No one need know. I will always be the sum of my secrets, as tangled as a handful of shiny gold chains tossed into a box and hidden away.
My shelves are almost empty. The F. Scott Fitzgerald Encino Editions I will pack last. They hold pride of place next to the sterling silver pitcher that was my last Christmas gift from Scott, which I had to open alone. I will wrap it in his frayed pink shirt, and nestle it next to his red bow tie and the blue cashmere sweater he never got to wear. I feel its warmth—and Scott’s—as I work this afternoon.
How do you get over F. Scott Fitzgerald? You don’t. The moment we met my life began to snap into focus, revealing a gate to which only he had a key. Like a 1930s torch song, his spirit will always glide next to me, seducing, teasing, praising, and sometimes asking for a dance. I remember us as a couple in the grand tradition, when men were men and music made women swoon. That we never married is a minor footnote.
Long ago I tallied the days of our romance when Scott was drunk: nine whole months of our three and a half years together. There are those who believed I should have broken off with him when he misbehaved. They were wrong. We were always worth keeping, and his faults, despite their epic scale, never diminished our bond, which ran deep. Only the two of us knew what we meant to each other.
At times Scott broke my heart, but he also taught me to be strong, brave, and perhaps even wise. He accomplished this with his own magic—by believing in me—and in doing so, he has kept me as safe as he once promised. My inheritance.
I live without regret because Scott Fitzgerald was no fever dream. He made me who I am today, following me through countless flirtations, numerous flings, and two incidental marriages. None succeeded because I have always loved him most.
Destiny truly is what you make of fate. Thank you, Matron Weiss, and thank you, Scott.
Every night, before I go to bed, I kiss his portrait, which will go into the final box alongside my dog-eared copy of The Last Tycoon, where our love enriches every word. Scott’s novel was never truly finished. Neither, I know, are we.
Acknowledgments
It’s fair to say I wrote the novel I wanted to read. In doing so, I fell in love with F. Scott Fitzgerald, who was, when he wasn’t knockdown drunk, the world’s best boyfriend—at least to an English major. I wish I could have known him. And Sheilah Graham, too, with her exceptional blitz of qualities I admire: grit, wit, cunning, generosity, and a powerful work ethic. I hope that both of them—along with Sheilah’s children, Wendy Fairey and Robert Westbrook—would approve of this novel and understand why, in reaching for emotional truth, I blurred timelines and a handful of details.
Sara Nelson, my editor, said she feels that for us to work together is beshert, a Yiddish word for “destined” that Sheilah might have taught Scott. I feel the same way. With Sara’s deep publishing background and our shared affection for this book’s leading male, I could not imagine a finer editor. Deep gratitude as well to the entire Harper team—notably Robin Bilardello for designing this beautiful cover; Leah Carlson-Stanisic for its vintage-inspired interior design; Leah Wasielewski and Katie O’Callaghan for overseeing an extensive marketing campaign; Tracy Locke for masterminding publicity; and Daniel Vazquez and Christina Polizoto for patiently juggling countless other details.
I am long indebted to Christy Fletcher, who warmed instantly to the idea of this novel. She deserves special gratitude, which I also extend to her gifted colleagues Sarah Fuentes, Melissa Chinchilla, Erin McFadden, and Grainne Fox.
Writing is a lonely business, which makes me grateful to be in the trench with a tribe of readers/writers/friends with equally big brains and hearts. Vivian Conan, Chaya Deitsch, Barbara Fisher, and Sally Hoskins showed unwavering enthusiasm for this unfolding story while helping to blow the whistle on anachronisms, ill-conceived metaphors, and missing commas. Thanks, too, to Janet Chan, Patty Dann, Evelyn Renold, and Charles Salzberg, who read the manuscript in its early days. A big hug goes to members of my two smarty-pants book clubs—Meakin Armstrong, Betsy Carter, Cathy Cavender, Alexandra Horowitz, Aryn Kyle, Judith Roth, Patrice Samuels, Carol Tannenhauser, and Jennifer Vanderbes—for their analysis of distinguished authors who inspire my humbler efforts. Michele Willens, what would I do without our breakfasts, and Jane Greenberg, our calls?
Befriending writers and booklovers on social media has widened my community in ways I could never have imagined when I published my first novel ten years ago. Thank you, cyberfriends—in particular, Andrea Peskind Katz, Robin Kall Homonoff, and the remarkable Tall Poppies and NextTribe writers. Age boldly! Thanks, too, to Dale Berger, Rochelle Caplan, Vicki Kriser, and Betsey Teutsch—sisters all—and my amazing mother-in-law, Helen Sweig, for never failing to ask, “What’s up with the book?”
Last, but first in my heart, thank you to Robby, who puts up with a wife too often glued to her laptop; to Jed, Anne, Rory, and Kim; and to our next generation of readers, Emil, Madeline, Fin, and William. You make me proud in countless ways.
About the Author
SALLY KOSLOW is the author of The Widow Waltz; The Late, Lamented Molly Marx; and With Friends Like These, and the nonfiction work Slouching Toward Adulthood. Her debut novel, Little Pink Slips, was inspired by her long career as the editor in chief of the iconic McCall’s magazine. Her books have been published in a dozen countries.
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Also by Sally Koslow
The Widow Waltz
Slouching Toward Adulthood
With Friends Like These
The Late, Lamented Molly Marx
Little Pink Slips
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ANOTHER SIDE OF PARADISE . Copyright © 2018 by Sally Koslow. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Artwork by CkyBe/Shutterstock, Inc. and supermimicry/Shuttertock, Inc.
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover photograph © Bert Hardy/Picture Post/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition MAY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-269678-6
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-269676-2
About the Publisher
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue