The Nest: America’s hottest new bestseller. Cynthia Sweeney D’Aprix
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arrival of warehouse-to-condo conversions.
Standing on a corner of Plymouth Street that afternoon, in the waning days of the twentieth century, listening to the clank and rattle of truck beds as they rumbled over the approach to the Manhattan Bridge to his north, watching the sun illuminate the massive arches of the Brooklyn Bridge to the south, Paul Underwood saw his future: a For Sale placard on a seemingly abandoned corner building. At the top of the building’s reddish-brown façade he could make out the faded, white letters of a sign from the long-defunct business the dwelling once housed: PLYMOUTH PAPER FIBRES, INC. He took the sign as an omen. He bought the building the following week and started his literary journal, Paper Fibres, the following year.
Paul lived on the top floor of the building (two bedrooms, nicely renovated, meticulously furnished, spectacular views) directly above the Paper Fibres offices, which were crammed into the front half of the third floor. The back half of the third floor and the entire second floor housed two modest but increasingly lucrative rental apartments. At street level there was a lingerie store. La Rosa didn’t sell fancy lingerie, nothing lacy or push-up or see-through, but what Paul thought of as old-lady lingerie, matron underwear. Even the plastic torso mannequins in the windows looked uncomfortable, bound tightly with brassieres and girdles that resembled straitjackets with their rows of steel hooks, dangling elastic belts, and reinforced shoulder straps. Paul had no idea how they stayed in business, had never seen more than one customer in there at a time. He had his suspicions, but the rent check was on time every month so as far as he was concerned La Rosa could launder hosiery or money, or sell whatever they liked to the odd selection of male customers who usually left empty-handed.
Paul went to great pains to keep his home and work life separate. He never brought work “upstairs,” he never appeared in the Paper Fibres offices in what he thought of as civilian clothes, always dressing for the commute one quick flight down. Every morning he put on one of his exquisitely tailored suits and chose a bow tie from his vast collection. He believed the butterfly shape beneath his chin provided a necessary counterweight to his overly long face and inelegant hair, which was baby fine, mousy brown, and tended to stick out around his ears or at the crown.
“You can get away with colorful ties,” his ex-wife had told him, diplomatically referring to his rather unremarkable features—gray eyes that were more watery than striking, thin lips, a soft, almost puttylike nose. Paul never minded his ordinary looks. They lent a valuable invisibility in certain situations; he overheard things he wasn’t supposed to hear, people confided in him, errantly judging him harmless. (His looks didn’t always work in his favor. There was the recent lunch, for example, which he’d scheduled with a young poet after their e-mail exchanges had turned flirtatious. That she’d been disappointed in his appearance versus the muscular wit of his correspondence had been abundantly clear by the look on her face. Well, he’d been surprised, too. Surprised to discover that she didn’t remotely resemble her author photo with its glossy hair, hooded eyes, and come-hither glistening lips.)
Paul valued routine and habit. He ate the same breakfast every day (a bowl of oatmeal and an apple) and then went for a morning walk along Fulton Ferry Landing. On weekdays he never deviated from his route, becoming an expert chronicler of the waterfront in all its seasonal mutations. Today the wind was fierce, battering the hearty souls brave enough to be outside; he leaned into it, pitching himself forward and wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. He loved the river, even during the grim New York winter, loved its steely gray shimmer and menacing whitecaps. He never tired of the view of the harbor; he always felt lucky to be exactly where he was, the place he’d chosen to belong.
As he headed toward the far edge of Fulton Ferry Landing, Paul saw Leo Plumb’s familiar figure sitting on one of the benches closest to the water. Leo and Paul had taken to walking together every so often. Leo looked up and waved. Paul picked up his pace. He’d actually begun to look forward to the days when Leo would join him at the bench. Stranger things had happened, he supposed.
PAUL HAD BEEN LIVID when SpeakEasy magazine folded and Leo hadn’t invited him to help start the website that would eventually grow into SpeakEasyMedia. Leo hadn’t taken everyone from the print magazine, but he’d taken those generally considered the sharpest, the most desirable, and Paul had always believed himself to fit squarely in that category. Maybe he wasn’t the most talented writer, the most fearless reporter, but he was reliable and capable and ambitious and shouldn’t all those things count for something? He met deadlines, his copy was pristine, and he pitched in where needed even when it wasn’t his responsibility. He did everything you were supposed to do to earn the things you wanted. He was nice
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