Envy(7)

“I want to hear all about it, darling. But you really should shake a leg if we’re going to get there in time.”

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then tried to withdraw. But Maris reached for his hands and pulled them over her shoulders, holding them flattened against her chest. “Is tonight mandatory?”

“More or less.”

“We could miss one function, couldn’t we? Dad begged off tonight.”

“That’s why we should be there. Matherly Press bought a table. Two empty seats would be noticeable. One of our authors is receiving an award.”

“His agent and editor are attending with him. He won’t be without a cheering section.” She pulled his hands down onto her breasts. “Let’s call in sick. Go home and shut out the world. Open a bottle of wine, the cheaper the better. Get in the Jacuzzi and feed each other a pizza. Make love in some room other than the bedroom. Maybe even two rooms.”

Laughing, he squeezed her breasts affectionately. “What did you say this prologue was about?” He pulled his hands from beneath hers and headed for the door.

Maris groaned with disappointment. “I thought I was making you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”

“Tempting. Very. But if we’re not at this dinner, it’ll arouse suspicion.”

“You’re right. I’d hate for people to think that we’re still acting like newlyweds who crave evenings alone.”

“Which is true.”

“But…?”

“But we also have professional responsibilities, Maris. As you are well aware. It’s important for industry insiders to know that when they refer to Matherly Press, it damn well better be in either the present or future tense, not the past tense.”

“And that’s why we attend nearly every publishing event held in New York,” she said as though it were part of a memorized catechism.

“Precisely.”

Their calendars were filled with breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, receptions, and cocktail parties. Noah believed it was extremely important, virtually compulsory, that they be seen as active participants within literary circles, especially since her father could no longer be involved to the extent he once had been.

Recently Daniel Matherly had slowed down. He didn’t attend as many insider gatherings. He was no longer accepting speaking engagements, although the requests still poured in. The Four Seasons was calling daily now to inquire if Daniel would be using his reserved table for lunch or if they were free to seat another party there.

For almost five decades, Daniel had been a force to be reckoned with. Under his leadership, Matherly Press had set the industry standards, dictated trends, dominated the bestseller lists. His name had become synonymous with book publishing both domestically and in foreign markets. He had been a juggernaut who, over a period of months, had voluntarily been decreasing his momentum.

However, his semi-retirement did not spell the end, or even a weakening, of the publishing house’s viability. Noah thought it was vitally important that the book publishing community understand that. If that meant going to award dinners several times a month, that’s what they would do.

He checked his wristwatch. “How much time do you need? I should let the driver know when we’ll be downstairs.”

Maris sighed with resignation. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be generous. Take thirty.” He blew her a kiss before leaving.

But Maris didn’t plunge into her overhaul right away. Instead, she asked her assistant to place a call. She’d had another idea on how she might track down the author of Envy.

While waiting for the requested call to be placed, she gazed out her office windows. Extending nearly from floor to ceiling, they formed a corner of the room, providing her a southeastern exposure. Midtown Manhattan was experiencing a mild summer evening. The sun had slipped behind the skyscrapers, casting a premature twilight on the streets below. Already lights were coming on inside buildings, making the brick and granite structures appear to twinkle. Through the windows of neighboring buildings, Maris could see other professionals wrapping up for the day.

The avenues were jammed with competing after-work and pretheater traffic. Taxies vied for inches of space, nosing themselves into impossibly small channels between buses and delivery trucks. Couriers on bicycles, seemingly with death wishes, perilously played chicken with motor traffic. Revolving doors disgorged pedestrians onto the crowded sidewalks, where they jostled for space and wielded briefcases and shopping bags like weapons.

Across Avenue of the Americas, a queue was forming outside Radio City Music Hall, where Tony Bennett was performing this evening. She, Noah, and her father had been offered complimentary VIP tickets, but they’d had to decline them because of the literary award banquet.

Which she should be dressing for, she reminded herself, just as her telephone beeped. “He’s on line one,” her assistant informed her.

“Thanks. You don’t need to wait. See you tomorrow.” Maris depressed the blinking button. “Hello?”

“Yeah. Deputy Dwight Harris here.”

“Hello, Deputy Harris. Thank you for taking my call. My name is Maris Matherly-Reed.”

“Say again?”

She did.

“Uh-huh.”

Maris paused, giving him time to comment or ask a question, but he didn’t, so she went straight to the reason for the call. “I’m trying to reach someone, an individual who I believe lives on St. Anne Island.”