ONE
The very first thing he does is fix me with those wonderfully brown eyes and say, "It's possible I'm too drunk to judge, but you might have something there."
It's October 1920 and jazz is everywhere. I don't know any jazz, so I'm playing Rachmaninoff. I can feel a flush beginning in my cheeks from the hard cider my dear pal Kate Smith has stuffed down me so I'll relax. I'm getting there, second by second. It starts in my fingers, warm and loose, and moves along my nerves, rounding through me. I haven't been drunk in over a year--not since my mother fell seriously ill--and I've missed the way it comes with its own perfect glove of fog, settling snugly and beautifully over my brain. I don't want to think and I don't want to feel, either, unless it's as simple as this beautiful boy's knee inches from mine.
The knee is nearly enough on its own, but there's a whole package of a man attached, tall and lean, with a lot of very dark hair and a dimple in his left cheek you could fall into. His friends call him Hemingstein, Oinbones, Bird, Nesto, Wemedge, anything they can dream up on the spot. He calls Kate Stut or Butstein (not very flattering!), and another fellow Little Fever, and yet another Horney or the Great Horned Article. He seems to know everyone, and everyone seems to know the same jokes and stories. They telegraph punch lines back and forth in code, lightning fast and wisecracking. I can't keep up, but I don't mind really. Being near these happy strangers is like a powerful transfusion of good cheer.
When Kate wanders over from the vicinity of the kitchen, he points his perfect chin at me and says, "What should we name our new friend?"
"Hash," Kate says.
"Hashedad's better," he says. "Hasovitch."
"And you're Bird?" I ask.
"Wem," Kate says.
"I'm the fellow who thinks someone should be dancing." He smiles with everything he's got, and in very short order, Kate's brother Kenley has kicked the living room carpet to one side and is manning the Victrola. We throw ourselves into it, dancing our way through a stack of records. He's not a natural, but his arms and legs are free in their joints, and I can tell that he likes being in his body. He's not the least shy about moving in on me either. In no time at all our hands are damp and clenched, our cheeks close enough that I can feel the very real heat of him. And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest.
Excerpted from The Paris Wife by Paula McLain. Copyright © 2011 by Paula McLain. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
The Paris Wife is Paula McLain’s deeply evocative retelling of a love affair thwarted by ambition and betrayal that begins in Chicago, 1920, when Ernest Hemingway meets the love of his life, Hadley Richardson. After a whirlwind courtship, the couple marries, sails to Paris and gets caught up in a lifestyle that will change their lives forever.
Befriended by such icons as F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein and others belonging to the fabled “Lost Generation,” the Hemingways are ill-prepared for hard-living, hard-drinking Jazz-Age Paris. And though Ernest finds the inspiration for his great masterpiece, The Sun Also Rises, Hadley’s lost sense of self paves the way to deception and indescribable heartbreak.
Softcover : 336 pages
Publisher: Ballantine Books Inc./Random House ( February 22, 2011 )
Item #: 13-473567
ISBN: 9781617932656
Product Dimensions: 5.5 x 8.25 x 0.67inches
Product Weight: 11.0 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It is well written and offers insights into the early life of Ernest Hemmingway through the perspective of his first wife.
Reviewer: Debbie W
Disappointing after reading "Hadley".
Reviewer: Jett
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