Envy(13)
No, he’d come this far, he was committed to seeing it all the way through the denouement. But between here and there, he couldn’t make a single misstep. Each chapter had to be carefully thought out, with no mistakes allowed. It had to be the perfect plot.
And if his resolve to finish it ever faltered, he had only to remember how f*cking long it had taken him to reach this point in the saga. Six months.
Well… six months and fourteen years.
* * *
Maris groped for the ringing telephone. She squinted the lighted clock on her nightstand into focus. Five-twenty-three. In the morning. Who—
Then panic brought her wide awake. Was this that dreaded, inevitable phone call notifying her that her father had suffered a coronary, stroke, fall, or worse?
Anxiously she clutched the receiver. “Hello?”
“Maris Matherly-Reed?”
“Speaking.”
“Where do you get off screwing around with my life?”
She was taken completely off guard and it took a moment for the rude question to sink in. “I beg your pardon? Who is this?”
She sat up, switched on the lamp, and reached out to rouse Noah. But his side of the bed was empty. She gaped at the undisturbed linens, at the pillow that was still fluffed.
“I don’t appreciate you calling the sheriff,” the caller said hotly.
Where is Noah? “I’m sorry… I was… you caught me asleep.… Did you say sheriff?”
“Sheriff, sheriff. Ring any bells?”
She sucked in a quick breath. “P.M.E.?”
“A deputy came to my house, snooping around. Who the—”
“I—”
“—hell do you think you are?”
“I—”
“To mess with people’s—”
“You—”
“—lives. Thanks for nothing, lady.”
“Will you please be quiet for one second?”
Her raised voice brought him to an abrupt silence, but Maris sensed waves of resentment pulsing through the line. After taking a couple of calming breaths, she assumed a more reasonable tone. “I read your prologue and liked it. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I had no way of contacting you. You left me no way to contact you. So I called the sheriff’s office in the hope that—”
“Send it back.”
“Excuse me?”
“The prologue. Send it back.”
“Why?”
“It’s crap.”
“Far from it, Mr.—”
“I shouldn’t have sent it.”
“I’m glad you did. These pages intrigue me. They’re compelling and well written. If the rest of your book is as good as the prologue, I’ll consider buying it for publication.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I’ve got a southern accent, but I’m still speaking English. Which part didn’t you understand?”
His voice was geographically distinctive. Usually she found the soft r’s and slow drawl of southern regions engaging. But his manner was abrasive and disagreeable. If she hadn’t seen real potential in his writing, recognized an untapped talent, she would have ended the conversation long before now.
Patiently she asked, “If you didn’t want your book published, why did you submit the prologue to a book publisher?”
“Because I suffered a mental lapse,” he answered, imitating her precise enunciation. “I’ve since changed my mind.”
Maris took another tack. “Do you have a representative?”
“Representative?”
“An agent.”
“I’m not an actor.”
“Have you ever submitted material before?”
“Just send it back, okay?”
“Did you multiple-submit?”
“Send it to other publishers, you mean? No.”
“Why did you send it to me?”
“You know what, forget sending it back. Toss it in the nearest trash can, use it for kindling, or line your birdcage with it, I don’t care.”
Sensing he was about to hang up, she said quickly, “Just one more moment, please.”
“We’re on my nickel.”
“Before you decide against selling your book, a decision I think you’ll regret, I’d welcome the chance to give you my professional opinion of it. I promise to be brutally honest. If I don’t see any merit in it, I’ll tell you. Let me decide if it’s good or not. Please send me the entire manuscript.”
“You have it.”
“I have it?”
“Did I stutter?”
“You mean the prologue is all you’ve got?”
“It’s not all I’ve got. It’s all I’ve written. The rest of the story is in my head.”
“Oh.” That was disappointing. She had assumed that the remainder of the book was completed or nearly so. It hadn’t occurred to her that the manuscript consisted of only those first twelve pages. “I urge you to finish it. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, you’re running up my long-distance bill. If you don’t want to spend any money on return postage, then shred the damn thing. Good-bye. Oh, and don’t send any more deputy sheriffs to my door.”