Envy(43)

“I see.”

“This isn’t bad news, Parker.”

“It’s pretty bad.”

Turning his chair around, he rolled it closer to the wall of windows and watched the shallow waves break against the sand. St. Anne Island didn’t have much of a surf at any time, but especially not on a day like today, when the wind would barely qualify as such and there wasn’t an offshore low pressure system churning up the elements.

“I’m not in the least bit discouraged by what I’ve read so far,” Maris said. “Quite the contrary.”

Her voice was even quieter now than before and sounded timid in the uncomfortable silence. From the kitchen came the swishing gurgles of the dishwasher, but otherwise the house was hushed.

Parker’s shoulders began to shake. He covered his mouth to trap in the sound that issued up out of his chest.

Maris was instantly alarmed. “Oh, Parker, please don’t.”

Suddenly he spun his wheelchair around and looked at Mike, who joined in his laughter. “You win, you old son of a bitch. Fifty f*cking bucks.”

“I told you,” Mike said, chuckling. “I’ve got great gut instincts.”

“Along with a knack for alliteration.”

Mike executed a neat, quick bow.

Maris, who had come to her feet, divided an angry look between them. She planted her hands on her hips—which she really shouldn’t have done since the stance drew the damp cloth tighter across her chest, detailing lace beneath it.

“Obviously I’m the butt of an inside joke. Would you kindly let me in on it?”

“Not exactly a joke, Maris.” Mike curbed his laughter and even looked a little sheepish. “It was more like an experiment. A test.”

“Test?”

“A few months back we read the article about you in the publishing magazine. To me you came across as a knowledgeable editor and publisher. But Parker said that your daddy probably paid for the article—”

“I said bribed.”

“—then commissioned your publicity department to write the piece.”

“Which explained why it was so flattering.”

“He said that you were no doubt riding on the coattails of your daddy’s reputation, that you looked too young and… uh… inexperienced—”

“Actually, the word I used was ‘shallow.’ ”

“—to know good writing from bad. That your reading was probably limited to magazine articles.”

“On how to multiply your orgasms.”

“And that you probably wouldn’t know a good book from a good… uh…”

“Fill in the blank,” Parker concluded with a beatific smile.

She had listened without interrupting or altering her expression. Now she came around slowly to face Parker, and he could fully appreciate all the metaphors he’d read about sparks shooting from someone’s eyes.

Maris’s eyes were bluish gray, like the rain clouds that rolled in from the west on summer afternoons and benevolently blocked the hot sun. They were basically benign, their turbulence only temporary. But even if short-lived, the turbulence was occasionally fierce. Her eyes had darkened to the hue of a storm cloud about to spawn a lightning bolt.

“I’m sure you’re pissed.” He shrugged, an unrepentant gesture. “I did everything I could, said everything I could think of to say, to discourage you from coming down here. But you came anyway. Last night when I…” He glanced at Mike and immediately decided not to mention kissing her. “When I tried convincing you to leave, you chose to stay.”

His explanation fell short of earning her forgiveness. “You are an unmitigated son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” he said agreeably.

“You tried to trap me.”

“Guilty.”

“If I had gushed over how good your writing was, you would have known I was insincere.”

“Or a lousy editor.”

“But I knew better,” Mike interjected. “I’ve read books that you edited, Maris. I told Parker, made a fifty-dollar bet with him, that his low opinion of you was unfounded and just plain wrong.”

Maris heard all this, of course, but she hadn’t even glanced in Mike’s direction. Her anger was fixed on Parker. He smiled the sly grin of a gator that had just devoured a nest of ducklings, a grin that he knew would only make her more angry. “Sorry you came? Want to call the boat to take you back now?”

She tossed back her damp hair. “What caused Todd’s father’s death?”

Parker’s heart gave a little flutter of gladness and relief. His wicked grin had been a lying indicator of the anxiety he’d been harboring.

“Was his death sudden or did it follow a lingering illness?” she asked.

“Does this mean you’re still interested?”

“Did Todd take his death hard or was he glad to see the end of him? Was his father his idol? Or did the death release him from years of emotional abuse?”

She pushed an armchair close to him and snatched the pages from his hands as she sat down. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“The characters need to be fleshed out.”

“Precisely. Where do they come from? What were their families like? Rich, poor, middle class? Did they have similar upbringings or were their childhoods vastly different? We know they want to be writers, but you haven’t told us why. Simply for the love of books? Or is writing a catharsis for Roark, a way for him to vent his anger? Is it a panacea for Todd’s unhappiness?”