Who could ask for more?

Last time, on 3 Spencer Place. Michelle anxiously awaits a call from HarperCollins about a job, while Adam whiles away the hours at home. Will she get the call? Will Adam go stir crazy before his job starts? Will Forrest discover Ariana's affair with Lodge? And who is the mysterious new poolboy? Find out...on this episode of 3 Spencer Place.

I left off last Sunday, which was the day Adam and I decided to go to Brighton Beach. It's really just a hop, skip and a jump from here, about 30 minutes on the Q all the way to the bottom edge of Brooklyn. On the way we saw some really cute houses that sort of reminded me of Pittsburgh, which we decided we should look into one day. Once we got there, we followed the steady stream of flip-flopping beachgoers to the shore. The most interesting thing about Brighton Beach is the astounding number of Russians who live in that area. It's to the point where most of the signs are in Russian. So we found a little spot on the surprisingly soft, white sand, spread out our towels, and lay there goggling about how just half an hour ago we were in the middle of the city. Strange. We tip-toed, oh-ing and ah-ing, into the cold water and floated around for a bit. A large woman barked at me in Russian, gesturing to my head. I think she thought I should dunk myself, so to be less cold. Nice of her.

After some sunbathing, we walked along the boardwalk to find something to eat. We settled on a very Russian cafe, where we ate some meat dumplings and chicken shish kabob (it came with cold peas and red cabbage). Then some more sunbathing, then home and a much-needed nap.

On Wednesday night after work, I met Adam at Washington Square Park so we could go to a place called The Bar Next Door at La Lanterna. It was this little, out of the way spot that you could easily miss on the street, except for the sounds of jazz emitting from it every night. It's a small, candlelit little bar, with only enough chairs for about 15 people. We arrived early to have dinner and drinks, and the jazz trio (drums, string bass and acoustic guitar) started around 8:15. We listened to Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk as the light at the window faded, sipping on the remnants of my martini. The lead guitarist's face was quite incredible, it looked as if every note gave him unexplainable pleasure.

Thursday night, our friend Vicki invited us to join her at a friend's barbecue in Williamsburg, which is north of us in Brooklyn. Adam and I met at the Bedford stop near there and walked together to his apartment. The building looked like a warehouse right on the edge of the river, which we found out was quite accurate: long ago, it was a doll factory. The guy who lived there told us at one point that he's occasionally found little doll eyes pressed into the concrete. I found this creepy.

The place was pretty out of the way and shady looking, but since the neighborhood is so artsy and hip, it turns out that a bunch of young, hip people live there. We climbed the concrete stairs to his apartment and were welcomed in by his girlfriend, Marisa and Vicki. The apartment was an enormous, yawning place with exposed rafters and pipes streaming every which way. You could tell it was not meant for living, but living had been forced upon it, closets and bathrooms constructed, curtains hung, shelves built. A huge abstract painting of a cat and birds, done in greens, blues and yellows, covered one wall. Dante, for that was the host's name, was playing oldies on the CD player. As he was barbecuing, we discovered that he is our neighborhood police officer. How weird is that?

We sat and talked as more people arrived, Vicki's old roommate Natty; AJ and Tiffany, two sketch comedy artists; Nikki and her boyfriend, who worked with Natty in Cameroon for the Peace Corps. They were all lovely. Some of us sat at the kitchen table and picked mint leaves for the mojitos and talked. If you've never had a mojito, they are delicious. Rum, sugar water, lime juice and fresh mint. After we all had our mojitos, we climbed the last flight of stairs and stepped out onto the roof, a blast of cool air reaching us from the East River. The glittering skyline of Manhattan looked back at us, breathtaking in the darkness of 10pm. We stood, drinking and chewing mint, talking about being poor and noble, laughing at AJ and Tiffany's jokes, all while the sounds of the Beastie Boys playing live nearby floated by, mingled with cheers. We drank and laughed, tossing our heads in the wind, and watched the city as if it was ours alone to love and to conquer.

We didn't get home until 1am (damned late night subway silliness), and so Friday I was exhausted. It was my last day at Penguin, and even though it was a half day it was busy. The editors and designers treated us with donuts and coffee, thanking us for all our hard work. The clay figures and colorful scribbles from our Crayola brainstorming meeting on Thursday littered the tables and reminded me why children's publishing was so completely awesome. Around noon, I said my goodbyes and took down numbers and e-mail addresses, and then went to turn in my keycards. Walking out of the building, I checked my cell and noticed two voicemails. One was my Mom, which was expected since my parents were coming to visit this weekend, but what was the other? It was HarperCollins. "Call me," she said. Before I could get to shelter, for it was pouring down rain and turning my umbrella inside out, Adam called.

"Your parents aren't coming!"
"What?"
"Your Dad had a kidney stone!"
"WHAT?"

And so on. I didn't tell him about the call from HarperCollins. Too much was going on all of a sudden. I got to a cafe, sat down and calmly called the number to HarperCollins.


"Hi, Rebecca? This is Michelle. I just got your message."
"Oh, hi Michelle! Yes, well, Tim would like to see you back here for a second interview. How's Wednesday or Thursday?"
"Oh....oh. Yes, Wednesday is great."
"OK. 2pm OK?"
"Yes. Yes."
"OK. You'll be meeting with Virginia, she's the president, Tim and some others."
"Great, yes. Yes."

I hung up, took two breaths, and called my Mom. She was upset, and I consoled her. Next week, next week isn't far away. Dad's OK? Yes. That's good. Don't worry. Oh, and I have good news...

So, my Dad's OK and they're coming next weekend. And lo and behold, Ben and Nat, who were supposed to come then, are coming this weekend instead! How lovely!

It's been quite a week. But aren't they all?