As Husbands Go (45 page)

“If I still had
Talk of Miami,
I’d have an intern look it up,” Grandma Ethel said. She was downcast for an instant, but then she
took my arm and smiled. “So, what’s the best restaurant around here? I’m talking four stars. I’m paying.”

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” I told her.

“It doesn’t mean you don’t eat. Life goes on, toots, whether you like the way it goes or not. The best a girl can do is mind her ethics—and eat a nice lunch.”

Acknowledgments

True, this is a work of fiction. The novelist needs imagination, the passion to write the story she most wants to read, and talent. Facts, too. Make an avoidable error and some knowledgeable reader will smack palm to forehead in annoyance—and at the same time be pulled out of the universe of the novel. Facts also matter because, as author, the more I know about an aspect of the world I’m creating, the more authentic and authoritative my writing will be. So thanks to the following generous and patient individuals who answered all sorts of questions. However, when their facts did not fit my fiction, I went for the story. The inaccuracies are mine, not theirs.

Joan Smith of Joan Smith Flowers in Port Washington, New York, is a gifted floral designer whose work is gorgeous and sophisticated yet cheery. When I decided to put Susie Gersten in the flower business, I began by asking Joan about her work. Through her generosity, I actually wound up “helping” in the back room of her shop, learning some of the lingo, getting hands-on experience. What fun! I loved the work—plus Joan is a hoot and a half.

I can write short and long fiction, screenplays, op-ed pieces, and book reviews, but I learned I cannot write a clever tabloid headline. After I turned out a series of clunkers, I called Andie Coller—journalist, pundit, and former headline writer—for help. Not only did she do what I could not but she did it expertly and breathtakingly fast.

Jules B. Kroll, founder of the global risk-consulting giant Kroll Inc., told me everything I needed to know about missing persons
and private investigative agencies. He was thoughtful, patient, and a charming raconteur. He also was kind enough to introduce me to his former colleague Annie Cheney, who offered me some sound insights.

When my great pal from high school and college, Suzy Sonenberg, told me her son Dan was going to be the father of triplets, I knew his wife, Alex Sax, was someone I needed to ask, well, what it’s like to be pregnant with triplets. Alex was informative, knowledgeable, and delightful. (And their three sons are adorable!)

I’m indebted to my friend Adrienne Arsht for reading a draft of my manuscript. She is not only smart about life and art, but about dangling modifiers. And thanks to my pals Victoria Skurnick and Bob Wyatt for prodding me until I came up with this novel’s title.

I’m also grateful to Dr. Andrew Jacono for answering my questions about how plastic surgeons work. He is a certified good guy, the national chairman of the Face to Face Committee for the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, which offers pro bono consultation and surgery to victims of domestic violence. For the past six years, he has chaired About Face: Making Changes, an annual Long Island benefit for survivors of domestic violence.

Also, thank you to Dr. Janice Asher, Dr. Gerard A. Catanese, Samantha Zises Cohen, Susan Lawton, Anthony Lepsis and Brian Whitney of North Hills Garden Design, Lara Zises, and Susan Zises.

The following people made generous donations to charities by “buying” characters’ names in this novel: Maureen Ferrari, Lizbeth Holbreich, Gary and Corky Paston, and Chris Pierce (for her mother, Eddie Huber).

I am lucky to have two of the greats of the book business on my side: Nan Graham, my editor, and Susan Moldow, the publisher of Scribner. I’m also indebted to Katherine Monaghan, Paul Whitlatch, and their colleagues. Giga-thanks also to Susanne Kirk; she was a blessing in my life.

I am grateful to the staffs of the Port Washington (New York) Public Library and the Brooklyn Public Library.

My assistant, Ronnie Gavarian, has been a professional caterer, legal assistant, and jewelry maven. In my house we say “Ronnie can do anything.” And she does everything, from copyediting to research to cake decorating, brilliantly.

Richard Pine is a super literary agent and a gracious human being. I’m glad he’s in my corner.

I keep learning from my wonderful children and in-law children: Elizabeth and Vincent Picciuto; Andy and Leslie Stern Abramowitz.

In ancient days, writers of comedy had Thalia. My muses are Nathan and Molly Abramowitz and Charles and Edmund Picciuto.

And after two score–plus years, my husband, Elkan Abramowitz, remains the best person in the world.

About the Author

Susan Isaacs, novelist, essayist, and screenwriter, was born in Brooklyn and educated at Queens College. Her twelve novels include
Compromising Positions, Close Relations, Almost Paradise, Shining Through,
and
Past Perfect
. A recipient of the Writers for Writers Award and the John Steinbeck Award, Isaacs serves as chairman of the board of Poets & Writers and is a past president of Mystery Writers of America. Her fiction has been translated into thirty languages. She lives on Long Island with her husband.

A Bonus Essay by Susan Isaacs on her inspiration for
As Husbands Go

She began as someone for whom bravery was defined as electing to wear wide-leg pants in a season of skinny crops. Was there a way for such a woman not only to think courageously but to act it? Or was it simply too late?

I’ve got a license to daydream. Being a novelist is the adult version of a kid creating a make-believe world. But unlike a child, a writer of fiction has to come up with a structured story, one that has as much meaning for others as it has for her.

There is no “right” way to begin a novel, but for me, plot has to wait. The character comes first. Some new person comes strolling into my head asking I write his or her story. If I ignore them they insist. If I mutter,
I don’t think so,
even the quietest ones get pushy:
Just do it!
They’re convinced they picked the right writer for the job and they don’t like resistance.

I guess I picked them, too—no matter who they are or how unlikely a character-author pair we seem at first. Slowly, we form a working relationship. They begin to confide in me. I listen, ask questions. Gradually, it becomes a conversation that continues throughout the writing of their (fictional) memoir.

Having said all that,
As Husbands Go
didn’t happen that way. The would-be protagonist who came striding into my consciousness made me want to plead with her
For God’s sake, find some other novelist!
But I couldn’t whip up the courage because—I’m almost embarrassed to say it—this new, ultra-cool character in my head was too intimidating to challenge.

Not that she seemed hostile, loathsome, or even unlikable. In fact, she was the 2010 version of the American dream, female division: devoted mother (of four-year-old triplets, no less), loving wife. She had a successful, non-husband-threatening career as a floral designer, along with great looks and an enviable body. Money was no problem. Oh, and she had sublime taste. She stirred up every idiotic insecurity I’d experienced between sixth grade and my fiftieth birthday. Looking at her, my mind’s eye flickered uneasily. Talk about statuesque! I noted that her height and model-sleekness were enhanced by Jean Paul Gaultier jeans and Louboutin stilettos. My normal protection against such blatant elegance would have been to embrace the Me = Genuine, She = Superficial defense, which allows me to congratulate myself for not being the sort who’d spend eight hundred dollars on shoes.

What kept me interested in her was a puzzlement. Why was some empty suit (albeit a Prada) bothering me? I was a novelist, after all, not a stylist. And why did I need her? Did I want to spend the next two years growing progressively wearier of her ’tude, sublime appearance, and overt self-confidence? How could I explore the depths of a character when there seemed to be only shallowness?

Still, she got me wondering (not for the first time) what it must be like to be able to get along on your looks. Is it a perpetual high? Do women like this character merely glide through life, never experiencing the rough patches necessary for developing moral fiber? Were the people she charmed so preoccupied with her surface that they never challenged her ideas or values—letting her remain an exquisitely wrapped but empty package? Or were beautiful people no different from everybody else—aside from being capable of finding pleasure when shopping for bathing suits?

Our culture now places more emphasis on the visual than ever before. I needed to check out whether our greater-than-ever fascination with beauty, fashion, celebrity—style in general—keeps us from looking below the surface.

In case you’re wondering, my being intrigued and somewhat daunted by this character did not arise from some lifelong “I look like Quasimodo with a wig” anguish. I’m okay. Nevertheless, “gorgeous” would never appear on any Top 10 List of Adjectives Most Frequently Applied to Susan Isaacs. Furthermore, I couldn’t imagine writing a novel about someone who had that “g” word, along with “stunning” and “chic,” on hers.

One microsecond later. Or maybe it was two weeks. Hard to tell, as my Susan-the-novelist mind often does its work on its own while Susan-the-person carries on with what non-novelists refer to as real life. However long it really was, when the beaut next appeared in my consciousness, she was no longer someone to be intimidated by or condescended to. She was clear to me. Amazingly, I liked her. (Not that you need to like or even respect your protagonist. I can’t imagine Dostoevsky thinking,
Gee, that Raskolnikov is a total sweetheart.
)

I knew my protagonist’s name was Susan B Anthony Rabinowitz Gersten and—surprise!—she was going to show everyone the stuff from which she was made: a lot more than sugar and spice and La Prairie makeup. I couldn’t wait to write about her.

Best of all, I wasn’t observing her from the outside. I was inside her head. Not only was I comfortable in there, I felt at home; Susie and I had undergone that magical author-subject merge. We’d become one (though not to the point of my being able to wear her clothes).

From the inside looking out, I comprehended what it was like to be self-assured and pretty, just a tad away from beautiful: It felt good. Okay, that sensation was not enough to create a fully realized protagonist. But I now understood that Susie’s preoccupation with appearances was the key to her inner life. Her own prettiness and presentation was always a work in progress. The world beyond herself was subject to similar scrutiny. She’d been born with a sense of order and style. For me, seeing the world with that artistic eye was so challenging. I’d never been the sort who instinctively knew which car or chair or abstract expressionist painting had intrinsic worth. I rarely had the urge to rearrange anyone’s furniture.

What was it like to be supersensitive to fashion, art, or people’s appearances? I had my own supersensitivity—to nuances in language and behavior—but I wanted to experience the world through the eyes of someone who had the Eye.

After I had that insight into Susie, the rest of the novel fell into place fast. Her background: She’d been born into a rather boring, mildly depressed family—a swan among ugly ducks. I could see her growing up in a dreary Brooklyn apartment, yearning for some quality in her life. Okay, some of that yearning turned into banal social ambition, the desire to be in a position where she could own the lovely things she believed were necessary for fulfillment and status. But Susie also needed to create beauty for others who didn’t know how. I got a flash of her arranging roses in a bowl, inhaling their sweetness, getting pleasure from the process as well as the results. Bingo! She became a floral designer.

And who would be the man of her dreams? Jonah Gersten, a plastic surgeon, a man who also had the Eye, the aesthetic sense, as well as the need to make things beautiful. And since life is never perfect, Susie’s backstory included a struggle with infertility that did have a happy ending: as the novel opens, she and Jonah are the exultant though frazzled parents of four-year-old triplet sons.