Do Not Hurry the Journey

By Ellen Boneparth

A love story about Alzheimers? How can an author join romance and mental illness into a compelling story about a publisher and fiction editor who meet early, part, and then reconnect in an intriguing professional and personal relationship twenty years later? Do Not Hurry the Journey takes fiction editor Paula Levitt and publisher Bill Walden on a voyage that tests life and love in ways few people experience. It is also a love story of giving and receiving that most people yearn for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504904384

Ellen Boneparth

In her many novels, Ellen Boneparth usually features a woman who discovers a social problem and becomes embroiled in ways to confront it. Boneparth draws on her experiences working in government, academia and diplomacy. She also frequently draws on her domestic and overseas travels to provide foreign locations and unusual environments. In NOA's ARC, the heroine's journey to confront drug addiction takes her from New York to Washington, D.C., to the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma, and to drug programs in the Northwest and Canada.

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DO NOT HURRY

the JOURNEY

a novel by

ELLEN BONEPARTH

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Ellen Boneparth. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/07/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0437-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0438-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: 1992

PART I: TRUST 2012

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

PART II: GUILT 2012 -2013

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART III: LOVE 2013 – 2014

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

PART IV: MEMORIES 2015

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

EPILOGUE: 2015 – 2018

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ITHAKA

As you set out for Ithaka

hope the voyage is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery…

Hope the voyage is a long one.

May there be many a summer morning when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors seen for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you are destined for.

But do not hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you are old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you would not have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard.)

PROLOGUE

1992

For Paula Levitt the story with Bill Walden started in 1992. She was in her last semester at NYU, soon to obtain an M.S. in Publishing: Digital and Print Media. After a year and a half of preparing for a career as an editor, she was more than ready to finish her studies and immerse herself in the real world of the publishing business.

Paula was one of a few students in her cohort pursuing a print media degree. The print students, mostly women, still loved old-fashioned books – those produced on high quality paper, situated inside artistic covers, printed in elegant fonts. The males in the class, captivated by the new digital world, had little use for publishing unless it involved cutting edge Web innovations, eBooks, or social media communications.

The only times the women let go and made their voices heard were at coffee hours in the Village organized by Paula at a coffee house whose spicy aromas wafted down several blocks of cobblestone streets. There, in a quaint brownstone, Paula and her friends fiercely analyzed new books and attacked ever-expanding mega-store companies for squeezing out corner bookstores. Winding her long blond hair around her finger, Paula spoke ardently about the need to preserve small, quality publishing firms and support the creation of new ones.

For her last semester, Paula had saved the course she most looked forward to – Editing Creative Content. The course culminated with a publisher bringing a yet-unpublished book to the seminar and giving each class member a chapter to edit. Since Paula’s goal was to become a fiction editor, she was disappointed the publisher chosen for her seminar published only history, creative nonfiction and biography. Nonetheless, she liked her assignment – a chapter from a biography on the Roosevelts that featured Eleanor’s national and international leadership on human rights after FDR’s death.

The publisher of the biography, William Walden, visited the class near semester’s end. He reviewed each of the twelve editing jobs then asked the three best students – Paula one of them – to meet with him privately at Gemstone, his relatively new publishing house. As Jonas, Michael and Paula made their way to Walden’s luxurious midtown office, they talked about the meeting. They were too inexperienced to qualify for job offers, but they knew Walden, at forty-two, had a reputation for mentoring younger aspirants for publishing careers.

Tall and slim, with piercing blue eyes and thick brown hair that fell in locks over his forehead, Walden cut a dashing figure in an Oxford blue shirt and a bright floral tie in reds, blues and pinks. Welcoming the students, he seated them at his oak conference table laden with china plates, silverware, and fancy pastries. His secretary took coffee orders and passed out copies of the entire manuscript the students had worked on.

Walden complimented the students on their work – Jonas, for making a wordy chapter concise, Michael, for reorganizing material in a coherent fashion, and Paula, for integrating material on Eleanor Roosevelt’s professional accomplishments with her personal attitudes and experiences. Next, Walden made his offer, inviting the three to work as a team on the book after they finished NYU and while they were engaged in job searches. Jonas and Michael jumped, but Paula hedged, saying she’d think about it and get back to Walden within a week.

After reflecting several days, she decided to decline the offer. Apparently surprised, Walden asked her to meet him for coffee and explain her decision. He proposed the same coffee house where she held her print book meetings. She asked how he knew about the meetings and was flattered when he said he’d been doing some research on her.

Paula relished the springtime walk in the sunshine, passing brownstones bursting with daffodils and coral, raspberry and white azalea bushes. The coffee house, decorated with travel posters from countries known for growing coffee, was almost empty at 3 p.m. She arrived early, chose a table in the back garden in a pool of sunlight, and was engrossed in the New York Review of Books when Walden arrived.

I’m impressed you actually read that thing, he said. I always intend to, but I’m ashamed to say, I never get to it.

She smiled, held out her hand. Graduate students have a lot more time than publishers.

No, I just lack the power of concentration. He shook her hand firmly, took a seat across from her. What would you like?

"A latte would be great." She immediately asked why he’d been doing research on her.

Grinning, he said, I’ve never had anyone turn down a job offer before and wondered why. Please tell me.

Well, this has nothing to do with Gemstone. My interest, however, is fiction. There didn’t seem to be any value for me in working on Eleanor Roosevelt.

Not even for the salary?

I still have a bit of money left from before graduate school, enough to hold me until I find a job. Also, NYU gave me a generous fellowship.

What was your life like before NYU?

Paula was surprised he cared, wondered where the conversation was going. I grew up in D.C., the daughter of mundane civil servants. My older sister introduced me to all the social movements of the times. After college, I worked at Planned Parenthood as a lobbyist in D.C. then as a development officer in New York.

She leaned back in her chair, scrutinized his face. Now you’re going to ask why I left nonprofit work. Right?

He nodded, sipped his cappuccino.

Well, that’s easy. I never found activism fully satisfying. I wanted something more creative, although still related to women.

Women?

I’m mainly interested in women’s fiction.

Did you learn much about that at NYU?

She stirred her latte. I didn’t come to grad school for that. I needed to learn the business end of publishing.

And did you?

I hope so. I can’t say I found it too exciting, though definitely useful.

Walden looked at his watch. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I need to see the professor in your class. He has only a half hour for me. Can we continue over dinner? Next week? I may have some ideas for you in terms of breaking into fiction.

You don’t do fiction.

He left money on the table, stood up to go. I know lots of people who do.

Walden sent his dinner invitation by email. Chinese? Spicy? If so, there’s a fine family restaurant, Hunan Spice, just off Union Square. Any day next week?

The following Thursday, Paula detected the restaurant a half-block away by the tangy smells of garlic, chili and peppers. She had worn jeans, figuring a family restaurant would be informal, but Hunan Spice had an expensive red and gold décor, bright white tablecloths and napkins. Walden got up from his seat at the bar, waved at the bartender, grabbed his beer and escorted her to a table.

You give the impression you own this place, she said.

He chuckled. Only a small part.

Oh!

I’ve known the family for years. It makes sense to invest in a place you want to keep around.

A young waitress greeted Walden and set down fried wontons and more Chinese beer. Walden explained he’d already ordered the main dishes because he knew what was best. Removing his jacket and tie, he suggested they get to know each other a bit before getting into book talk.

Okay, tell me about you, she said.

I’m from a rather pedestrian background. My parents were immigrants from Scandinavia. My father found his niche in the dry-cleaning business in New Jersey. I’m an only child, spoiled but determined to justify my parents’ investment in me.

Have you also made them proud grandparents?

I’m a big disappointment in that category. I haven’t married, haven’t found anyone I want to settle down with. But I haven’t given up. I’m keen to have a family even though family life would mean curtailing some of my current passions.

Paula was intrigued. What are they?

Travel, nature photography, skiing.

Sounds like a tall order for a prospective bride.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t found her. Now, tell me about you.

Paula grinned. Well, as we feminists often say, I wouldn’t mind a wife, but I’m not sure about a husband.

You just need to find a husband rich enough to pay for housework.

And child care, and family responsibilities, and social life. No, I’d rather invest in my career.

A tall, handsome waiter laden with dishes, who, from his broad smile, obviously knew Walden, brought mounds of food to the table – lamb with pea pods, shrimp, green beans in garlic sauce, and a crispy duck. Astonished by the quantity, Paula protested, but Walden assured her he would take leftovers home to dine on over the next week.

In between mouthfuls of delectable food, their conversation turned to publishing. Walden pulled a list from his pocket of publishing houses specializing in fiction where he could get Paula interviews. She felt uncomfortable. She appreciated his gesture but found the prospect of starting at the bottom of a corporate operation depressing.

Mr. Walden, you’ll probably think this ridiculous but I’m trying to find a way to start my own outfit.

Please call me Bill, okay?

She nodded.

As for your own outfit, that’s a fine idea. It’s what I’ve done myself. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of resources.

I know. I’m aiming for a partnership with two or three other editors. We would give it a couple of years to see what we can do. I have one editor who is interested and willing to supply the office space.

I see. He cocked his head. Well, you’re ambitious, which I admire. Keep me posted and let me know if I can ever help.

You could invest 100,000 bucks. Thank you.

In the interim, it would be nice to dine from time to time – as friends, of course, no trolling for a mate.

She felt he was being sincere. That’s fine, as long as for our next meal you let me invite you to my favorite Italian restaurant. It’s also a family place, in the Village.

"Grazie tanto. I’m off next week on a photography trip to Costa Rica, but I’d love some Italian food when I get back."

And so began several months of meals at which Bill gave Paula advice about starting a publishing house and she gave him feedback on the books coming out of Gemstone. Occasionally, she cooked for him at her place. Once in a while, he had her over to his apartment to see his latest photographic works and enjoy a meal he ordered in. Inevitably, with growing mutual admiration, their warm friendship blossomed into an affair.

For Paula, her relationship with Bill was enriching both professionally and personally, with much honesty and laughter and none of the pressures associated with finding a partner. Bill was apparently smitten, told her she was the smartest and yet easiest woman he’d ever been with. As winter came on, he introduced her to skiing, which she enjoyed at her own beginner’s pace and which brought lovely long weekends in New England. While Bill pushed himself on expert runs, Paula often remained, with pen and notepad, by a fire at the ski lodge, engrossed in a manuscript.

The romance took on more serious tones, at least on Bill’s part. In February, they went to a writer’s conference in Los Angeles then headed to Tahoe for a few days of snow. After dinner on their first night at the lodge, Bill proposed a brandy by the fireplace in their suite. He built a fire, pulled a small bottle of brandy from his suitcase then moved to the window to gaze at the dazzling moonlit slopes in the distance.

Clearing his throat, he said, Paula, there’s no right way to put this.

She waited awkwardly, suspecting their comfortable arrangement was about to become less comfortable.

Finally, he said, I’m not getting any younger. Neither are you. Forty-three and thirty. He took a sip from his snifter. We’re lucky to have a fine rapport, common interests, respect for each other’s ways. I’d like to build on that, make this relationship into something more permanent.

She stared into her glass, nervously swirled the brandy around. We’ve got all the things you mentioned, but I don’t believe they’d last if we add domesticity. She looked up, straight into his longing gaze. Bill, I’d like to keep things the way they are. I’d rather not experience conflicts between a domestic partnership and publishing. I don’t want to choose between my career and a relationship.

He sat beside her on the couch, took her hand. You can have both.

"No, you can have both. I’d be tugged one way or the other."

Don’t you want to try? See how it goes?

Bill, I care for you. She brushed a lock of his hair way from his forehead. This has nothing to do with you. It’s me, pursuing what I want in life.

He stood again, pulled the heavy drapes closed. I guess that says it although I think you’re making a mistake. I’ll sleep out here.

Paula bit her lip, saddened by his response. She wanted to hold onto their affection and companionship, but she wasn’t looking for togetherness.

No, you take the bed, she said. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll head back to New York in the morning.

I’m sorry it had to end this way.

It didn’t. You’ve ended what we had, wanting something more. I appreciate your honesty. I hope you appreciate mine.

He glared at her, his brows furrowed. I’m going to the bar. Make yourself comfortable out here. He took hold of the front door. I’ll be on the slopes early tomorrow. See you in the city.

Right. Enjoy your weekend.

Over the following years, Paula and Bill ran into each other infrequently. Their professional paths rarely crossed and, when they did, the two were cordial but formal with each other. Paula’s sadness lasted a while, not for what might have been, but for what they’d lost.

At the same time, her work increasingly consumed and rewarded her. She launched The Printed Page, a small fiction house with two women partners, had some major early successes, and eventually bought out her partners. In the publishing world the field of women’s fiction grew rapidly. Authors and agents, especially women, sought her out. She hired additional junior editors, moved to a larger office, and, within a decade, had made a name for herself. Her success was small in comparison to Bill’s at Gemstone, an ever-expanding operation. She was glad for him. At the same time, she was thrilled to be on her own, secure in her publishing niche, and increasingly recognized as someone who could turn a worthy manuscript into a creative gem.

PART I

TRUST

2012

Chapter 1

Giving in to a big yawn, Paula Levitt lay down the thick manuscript she was reading. Her office was tidy, other manuscripts in neat piles on the shelf beside her along with a row of coffee mugs, coffee machine, and a basket containing coffee from exotic places. How she wished she were in one of them – on a tropical island, Mediterranean beach, or in a steaming jungle – any place but in a midtown Manhattan office on a gray, late March day.

As she reached for a mug, her assistant, Christine, a grin on her round face, barged into her office. I know I’m not supposed to inter—

"Unless it’s very important."

Oh, it is. I just got a call from William Walden’s secretary. He’s inviting you to lunch tomorrow. Le Bistro du Midi.

Lunch? Paula’s voice rose in surprise. I haven’t had lunch with him in twenty years.

Oh! So you lunched with him in your youth?

Let’s just say we were friends twenty years ago.

Christine’s eyebrows lifted. How come you never told me about this relationship?

It wasn’t a rela… Well, maybe it was for a few months, but in the end we wanted different things.

Such as?

The usual. He wanted marriage and family. I wanted my own firm.

Why couldn’t you have both?

Paula rolled her eyes. Life was different in 1992. Few couples were making it as dual career families. Nothing like now. Anyway, Walden wasn’t a great candidate for spouse or father. He was consumed by his own interests.

Whatever. But he wants to dine with you tomorrow.

Paula glanced at her calendar. I can’t. I’m going with Betsy to her oncologist at two.

Christine thrust her hand on her hip. You can still do that. Lunch is at noon and with a top independent New York publisher.

Paula reached for the crimson phalaenopsis at the corner of her desk, shifted the orchid around so it would get more sunlight from the long, narrow window looking out toward the street. She would not be at Bill Walden’s beck and call; she never had been and she wasn’t starting now. Make lunch with him for another day.

Her red curls bouncing, Christine plopped her plus-sized body in an armchair across from Paula’s desk. "My dear boss, you hired me at Printed Page as