The cool, marble foyer leads me to a fabled place. Inside the hushed walls, moving past gleaming surfaces, I'm finally coerced to the elevator bank and a new state of mind.
The hallowed halls of Hemingway.
The offices of Scribner Publishing.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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