Chapter One When Addison Irwin reflects on the fateful day in June when her life was upended, it plays out in front of her eyes like the opening sequence of a nineties rom-com. Music and all. In her mind, Vanessa Carlton belts the title track "A Thousand Miles" as Addison makes her way downtown "walking fast / faces pass," though she's work bound, not homebound. It is summer in Manhattan, and Addison is dressed in a crisp white blouse, tan linen capris, and ballet flats. She ascends from the subway station at Fifty-Third and Lex with the confidence of a thirty-four-year-old woman rumored to be first in line for promotion to art director at the Silas and Grant Advertising Agency. This will most definitely be a day to remember, she was happily thinking to herself. She wondered where it would stand compared to receiving the Danhausen award for sculpture at art school graduation or attaining her highest-ranking title thus far: Color War General at Camp Mataponi. Addison's rumored promotion would make her not only the youngest to hold the role of art director at the firm, but the first woman to do so. She'd been channeling the seventies advertising icon Shirley Polykoff, who was the inspiration for the fictional Peggy Olson on Mad Men, since she had first arrived. Unlike most women her age, whose motivation to move to the Big Apple stemmed from watching episodes of Sex and the City, Addison Irwin was a Mad Men girl. Though it should be noted that she ended up with a matching set of friends to Carrie Bradshaw's three besties-if not in personality, at least in hair color. Today, all the years of late nights and canceled plans would finally pay off. Addison crossed her fingers that the company's illustrious CEO, Richard Grant, would make the big announcement-her big announcement-during the company-wide Zoom this morning. She picked up her pace. Richard Grant, the grandson of the Grant in Silas and Grant and the heir to the seventy-year-old advertising agency, had been groomed to lead the company since birth. He was competent enough, and fairly democratic in his leadership style, but there was a disconnect that prevented anyone from truly liking him. He was tone-deaf to the point of embarrassment, and while his tendency to see things only from his own perspective made for hours of interoffice laughter and camaraderie, it annoyed Addison immensely. While Addison loved the fact that the firm had been in the same family since its start, she recoiled when Grant bragged about his accomplishments, personal and business, as if his success had nothing to do with his prince-like status and familial connections. Addison caught her freckled reflection in a store window on Madison Avenue and twisted her wavy brown hair into a high pony. You got this, she thought to herself, pushing any remaining butterflies from her belly. As she stepped out of the elevator and into the cold but chic reception area of Silas and Grant, all eyes turned to her, corroborating that the office buzz matched her gut instinct regarding her promotion. Today would indeed be the day. She brushed her hand past her mouth, hiding the small grin that had escaped. Emma, her favorite junior staffer, approached, doing an awful job of hiding her excitement. She looked as if she might burst. Addison had recruited Emma two years earlier at a job fair at their shared alma mater-the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She saw a lot of herself in Emma, especially her laser focus on career goals. Like Addison, Emma was that unusual combination of right-brained creativity and left-brained logic. Addison tucked away the impostor syndrome-based anxiety that she'd been fighting all morning, winked, and returned Emma's smile. As with any good rom-com, the music continued in the background as Addison closed her office door behind her and did a brief happy dance to the beat in her head. She sat down at her desk, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, took a deep, cleansing breath, and pulled up the Zoom link with minutes to spare. Soon the screen exploded with both familiar and unfamiliar faces from the London, LA, and New York offices. She pinched her leg, hard, to keep herself from looking too happy. CEO Richard Grant's moon-shaped face appeared, front and center, pushing the other zoomers to the peanut gallery. Though Addison was still careful to keep her composure-hands folded, smile pasted-she checked her image in the floating thumbnail window. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this self-conscious. A few minutes in, after basic intros and niceties, Richard Grant promised a few exciting announcements, beginning with his own. "I am thrilled to share that I will appear on the front cover of next month's Adweek as the number one philanthropist in the business. I was equally shocked and honored." It was the perfect example of exactly what annoyed Addison about this guy. The "honored and thrilled" was fair. The "shocked"? So clueless. Emma private messaged her-as they always did during Zooms-with the childish goal of making the other laugh on camera. And by philanthropy, we mean ability to write a huge check. Addison smiled-and while she wasn't about to desecrate her game face with a laugh, she couldn't resist a comeback. There had been a New York magazine cover story overanalyzing nepotism, declaring a nepo-baby boom and pushing the phrase nepo baby to the forefront. Emma, like most recent transplants to the city, was obsessed with New York magazine. Addison crafted her response. Number one nepo baby is more like it! She homed in on Emma, waiting for her reaction. Emma's hands flew to her face. Got her! Addison thought. But when her hands came down, Emma looked more pained than amused. In fact, everywhere Addison looked, people's hands were flying to their faces, one by one by one, like a wave in the stands at a ball game. Addison looked to the group chat at the top of her screen, where her name and words sat for all to see-including Richard Grant. Addison Irwin: Number one nepo baby is more like it! The world as she knew it came to a crashing halt, along with the nineties soundtrack. The blood drained from her face, and her chest burned with a heat so strong that she wondered if she was having a heart attack. She controlled her trembling hands enough to delete her comment and switch to her away photo. The picture of her with bright eyes and a big toothy grin almost made it worse. It was, indeed, a day to remember. Chapter Two Six days, a zillion missed calls, a dozen grilled cheese sandwiches cut on the diagonal, and seventy-three episodes of The Nanny later, Addison Irwin pulled her fired ass off her sofa and answered the insistent buzz of her apartment intercom. "I didn't order anything, Anthony," she answered impatiently. "Your friends are here to see you, Miss Irwin." "Ugh. Tell them I'm not home." "We can hear you," her three besties shouted back in unison. "Go away," she barked in return. Within seconds, they were banging on her door. It was clearly an intervention of sorts as the three women bounded in like the Catastrophe Avengers, armed with groceries and flowers and self-help books titled Better Days Ahead and Now What? That last one really got to her. "Now what?" was not a question Addison had ever contemplated before. Addison was a planner, and once she set goals in her head, she had tunnel vision until they were achieved. Nothing and no one would get in her way. Losing her promotion and then her job in such a public manner was not something Addison had ever envisioned. She did not know if and when her career, and her self-esteem, would rebound. It certainly was a cautionary tale, and as such Addison was sure it had already been repeated up and down Madison Avenue and beyond. And if, by chance, someone in the ad world didn't catch the story of her career-ending faux pas, it landed on Page Six of the New York Post. With her photograph. A stellar career snuffed out by one dumb joke. Lisa Banks, the first to enter, pulled Addison into a strong embrace. Addison had met Lisa, a single, straight-haired, straitlaced psychologist and fellow Chicago native, while bonding over their accents years earlier at a Midtown bar. She was the blonde of the group and the most affectionate of her friends, as evidenced by the one-sided hug she currently had Addison enveloped in. When Lisa finally released her, she preached, "The universe is telling you what I've been saying for years!" Lisa often lectured Addison about her all-consuming work ethic-warning her of the dangers of putting work first and life second. Addison was in no mood for I told you sos-though she gave her a knowing nod. "Save the shrinking for another time," Kizzy Weinstein piped in, while habitually twirling her index finger through one of her deep-brown curls. Kizzy was a headhunter, married to her Manhattan prep school sweetheart. She added, "I know all the candidates for your replacement-they don't touch you." "My team feels awful-especially Emma. They call every day." "With questions, no doubt. You ran that place, let's see how long they last without you," added Prudence Parker, a redheaded attorney originally from Georgia, married to another easily sunburnt ginger, with whom she had one adorable red-haired baby boy. You could practically see the gears in her head quietly turning, in search of a litigious angle. Addison sighed. She had to admit that it was nice of her friends to come. It felt good to be cared for. She may have put her job above her love life over the years, but at least she had nurtured her friendships. She thought of her last breakup. The guy had claimed he came in fifth place after her job and three besties. He was right. Her phone rang. It was a number from an unknown law firm that she had been ignoring all week. "Who's that?" Prudence asked, while glancing at Addison's mobile. "Nelson, Nelson, and Leave Me the Hell Alone. They've called me at least six times this week-they're probably ambulance chasers for wrongful termination suits or whatnot." "It would thrill me to get them off your back." Prudence held up the phone and stepped into lawyer mode. She never met a debate she didn't win. "Knock yourself out," Addison encouraged. Pru walked away with Addison's phone and returned ten minutes later, carrying the last remaining contents of Addison's fridge: a bottle of Bottega prosecco she'd been saving for her promotion and four glasses. "Addison. Do you have an aunt Gloria?" "Um, yes, my father's estranged sister, Aunt Gicky. We were never close." "Well, we are meeting with her lawyers tomorrow morning at nine. Apparently, you were close enough for her to leave you her house on Fire Island!" Week One Chapter Three Addison arrived at the Fire Island ferry terminal wearing a sundress, chunky heels, and a lost expression. The entire scene was unfamiliar to her. For starters, she was dressed for a summer soiree while everyone else looked like they were going to a clambake. She quickly realized that most of the contents of her four pieces of luggage, aside from bathing suits, tanks, and cutoffs, would remain unworn. She studied the crowd: families pushing strollers and carts overflowing with beach toys and baby gear; rowdy twentysomethings with cases of PBR and White Claw, and the obvious homeowners-holding little more than a paperback, a cup of clam chowder, and their dog's leash. There were a lot of dogs. It was only the second week in July, but from the look of the homeowners-tanned, toned, and tranquil-you'd think it was already mid-August. As Addison surveyed the crowd, she flashed back to the lunchroom in middle school, at a loss as to where she would fit in. She chewed on the side of her thumbnail, a habit she had only recently taken up, wondered if the inner spark she had carried around since birth would ever return, and began chewing on the other thumb. So much of who she'd been as an adult had been tied to her job, and now, without it, she felt at sea. As blissed out as those sun-kissed locals looked, becoming one was not currently a part of Addison's plan. She was excited to meet the real estate agent on the other side of the Great South Bay and ask her what she could get for her aunt's house. A quick Google search revealed that it was quite a lot. While most millennial procrastinators entertain themselves by scrolling through memes of baby hippos and of raccoons stealing tacos, their New York City counterparts spend a lot of time scrolling through apartment listings way above their means. It was Addison's favorite form of distraction, and getting this inheritance of the Fire Island house would up her purchasing power significantly. Fulfilling her dream of buying an apartment could keep the dreaded "What next?" question at bay for at least a month or three. Though it may be difficult to pass a co-op board as an unemployed, uncoupled, sparkless woman. Maybe by the time she found a place, the scandal would blow over and someone in the advertising world would take a chance on her again, reigniting the low-burning flame in her belly. Kizzy was already headhunting for her, though she had warned Addison that there wasn't much action in the current job market-not much happened over the summer. Addison waited in line for a ferry ticket. The woman who sold it to her was wearing a T-shirt with the words Fire Island, Blissfully Unaware embroidered across her chest. Addison imagined her own version: New York City, Painfully Suspicious. Maybe she could embrace the ferry worker's version for her stay-heed her friends' advice and reinvent herself a bit. "All aboard, Bay Harbor," the captain barked, causing Addison's stomach to drop to her feet, nervous to step into the unknown. With four large bags, two hands, and a considerable line forming behind her, she contemplated her options, when a tall stranger offered, "Need a hand?" She wondered if his words sprang from valor or impatience. "I got it," she insisted. "Are you an octopus?" he asked with a hint of indignation. Impatience, she decided. "I am not." She smiled in return, attempting to soften him. It worked; he reluctantly smiled back. She quickly sized him up: sarcastic tone, hard-to-earn smile. He seemed like the type of guy Addison usually steered clear of. She favored simplicity in a man. The you-get-what-you-see type. Excerpted from Seven Summer Weekends by Jane L. Rosen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
