Description: FAREWELL, DOROTHY PARKER ALSO BY ELLEN MEISTER The Other Life The Smart One Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA Farewell, DOROTHY PARKER Ellen Meister G. P. PUTNAM''S SONS NEW YORK THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO Betty Mogavero IN LOVING MEMORY The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue. --DOROTHY PARKER FAREWELL, DOROTHY PARKER Chapter 1 Violet Epps stood before the matre d'' in the lobby lounge of the Algonquin Hotel, waiting to be noticed. She cleared her throat and he looked up, glancing right past her. "Who''s next?" he said. Me, she thought. Me. But before she could summon the courage to get the single syllable across her tongue, a young man behind her spoke up. "We have a reservation," he said, putting his arm around the pretty girl at his side. "Dr. Walker." Doctor my ass, Violet thought. Guy was maybe twenty-three years old, probably a waiter who just walked over from his afternoon class at the Actors Studio. Violet closed her eyes and tried to find the gumption she needed to speak up and tell the matre d'' she was there first. But as usual, social anxiety paralyzed her vocal cords. Too bad she couldn''t channel Dorothy Parker the way she did at work. Violet Epps was a thirty-seven-year-old movie critic whose withering zingers were inspired by the famous wit who had made the Algonquin Hotel her home for many years. Dorothy Parker was Violet''s hero, and not just for her scathing reviews, clever jokes, quotable poetry, and insightful short stories but for her potent social courage. The diminutive Mrs. Parker, as she was often called, was so commanding that even her friends thought of her as larger than life. So far, Violet had been successful in summoning her muse only when writing her movie reviews. In her personal life, she was held captive by her own timidity. Today, she hoped, would be different. She was meeting her boyfriend, Carl, for dinner, and needed to tell him it was over. She had tried this once before--just a few weeks ago--and failed. Worse, Carl had made a strong case that the only problem with their relationship was that they didn''t spend enough time with each other. He even managed to convince her that if they were together more he would drink less. And so she caved, agreeing to let him move in with her. In two short days it would be happening. Everything in the "apartment" he rented in the basement of his parents'' home would be loaded into a U-Haul and moved to her house. As the matre d'' led the young couple to their table, Violet glanced inside her oversized handbag, where a tiny bundle of fur lay sleeping. It was Woollcott, a funny-looking little dog who had survived the car crash that killed her sister and brother-in-law. Violet had petitioned for temporary custody of her thirteen-year-old niece, who had also survived the accident, but wound up with the dog. Violet knew that Dorothy Parker, whose most famous quotes were uttered right here in this room, would have made a glib joke about the trade-off. After all, it was life''s most painful events that brought out Mrs. Parker''s famously wicked sense of humor--like the time she responded to an unwanted pregnancy by saying, That''s what I get for putting all my eggs in one bastard. Violet gave Woollcott a pat. He was, she had discovered, a mellow companion who had a calming effect on her nerves. That was why she had decided to sneak him into this meeting with Carl; if she couldn''t channel Dorothy Parker from the hallowed walls of the Algonquin Hotel, at least she had this little dog to help steady her. A grab from behind gave Violet a start. It was Carl. She pulled his hands from her waist. "Hey, babe," he said. "Where''s our table? Didn''t you tell them who you were?" "You scared me," she said. "But I was just horsing around." Violet sighed. What did one thing have to do with the other? Surely she was entitled to be startled regardless of the intent. But that was Carl. He was so sure he never did anything wrong that you couldn''t suggest otherwise without feeling like you had done something truly villainous. Violet shook her head. This relationship was not just dead. It was starting to rot. They had met three years ago at a crafts fair in Stony Brook, Long Island, and Violet was immediately intrigued, as he was the opposite of her rigid ex-husband. Carl McDonald was an artist and looked the part, with a messy mass of long wiry locks, parted in the middle. He was thickset with large hands and bitten nails, which usually had paint embedded deep in the cuticles. Carl had carved out a niche for himself painting nostalgically kitschy designs on small pieces of furniture, and eked out a living selling his work in cramped booths at local shows. Recently, he launched a Web site to try to broaden his customer base. He was handsome in an offbeat way, and Violet, God help her, loved his disheveled-artist look and the intensity of his dark blue eyes. Yes, he was different, but that was why she felt so immediately electrified. Here was a man with passion--someone who could love. But when they met, she was still on the rebound of her failed marriage and got involved way too soon. What seemed like disarming emotional honesty in the beginning revealed itself to be nothing more than a self-involved kind of neediness. And then there was the drinking. She leaned in to take a whiff, hoping he hadn''t stopped someplace for a shot or two on his way to meet her. He misinterpreted her body language and responded by kissing her on the mouth with passion more appropriate for a private room than a hotel lobby. She pushed him away before her body had a chance to react. She was, she believed, too easily stimulated by the smallest touch. "How much did you have to drink?" "Nothing. Just two little Bud Lights." He snapped his fingers at the matre d''. Violet cringed. "Don''t do that," she whispered. "For God''s sake." "Can I help you?" the host asked. He was classically handsome--almost a central-casting version of a matre d'', Violet thought--with dark hair, rigid posture, and a wisp of Middle Eastern accent. "Reservation for Violet Epps," Carl said to him, pronouncing her name loudly enough for several diners to overhear. This was typical. He loved having a well-known girlfriend and always thought it was a good idea to use her celebrity to their advantage. "Yes, of course," the host answered. "Right this way." A few heads turned as they were led to the Round Table Room, which was really just a section in the back of the open lobby. As they made their way past people relaxing in the overstuffed chairs and sofas of the hotel''s famous lounge, Violet heard someone quoting from one of her crankier reviews: The best thing I can say about By the Longhairs is that people who have been given two months to live might be dead before it comes out on DVD. Violet squirmed. It wasn''t the notoriety that made her uncomfortable. In fact, she liked being cited in newspaper ads and didn''t even mind getting trashed online. But being recognized in public was a horror-film double feature compared to seeing her name in print. She let her hair fall in front of her face. "Your server will be right with you," the matre d'' said, as they took their seats. "Could someone get me a Dewar''s, rocks?" Carl asked. The host bowed and left. Violet balanced her open bag on her lap and petted Woollcott. Carl leaned over the table to get a look. "You brought that ugly mutt with you?" "He''s not ugly," Violet argued, though she knew she would have a hard time defending that position under cross-examination. He was, without a doubt, one of the oddest-looking dogs she had ever seen. In addition to the dull beige fur that stuck out in every direction, he had a pushed-in snout, round bulgy eyes set too far apart, and a nose and mouth cramped too close together. And though he was her niece''s dog, Violet was the one who had named him. She took one peek at his face and decided he looked like Alexander Woollcott, the famous theater critic of the 1920s and founding member of the Algonquin Round Table--the group of wits who met daily for lunch at this very spot. But unlike his vinegary namesake, this Woollcott was so sweet and docile she considered him the world''s most perfect pet. Without opening his eyes he stuck out his pink tongue and licked her hand. She rubbed his ear. "I have to talk to you about something," she said to Carl. "Something important." "Is it the garage?" he said. "Because--" "It''s not the garage." Ever since she agreed to let him move in, Carl had been badgering her about the detached garage, which he thought would make a perfect studio for him. But it was crammed full of family possessions Violet was not prepared to part with. "It''s just that there would be so much room in there if we got rid of all that--" "Carl," she said, and then hesitated. There was simply no way she was letting him do this. "I can''t--" "I''ll rent the truck for an extra day and put the stuff in storage myself." "Wait," she said. "Please." She petted Woollcott again and tried to find the words. She put her head in her hands and mumbled, more to herself than to him, "This isn''t working." "What''s the matter? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad about the beer?" Yes, I''m mad about the beer, she thought. I''m mad that you can always find time to get a buzz on but can never find time to come with me to one of my screenings. I''m mad that it''s always abo

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