P.S. from Paris(5)

“No, good news, actually. Very good news.”

“Good news is why you’re crying?”

“Why don’t you come to bed?”

“Not until you tell me why you’re still up.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.”

Arthur stood squarely in front of Lauren, determined to extract a confession.

“It’s Paul,” she blurted out finally.

“What, is he sick?”

“No, he’s written a . . .”

“Written a what?”

“I really should ask his permission . . .”

“There are no secrets between Paul and me.”

“Apparently, there are. Don’t worry about it. Come to bed, it’s late.”

The next evening, Paul was at the agency when he received a call from Lauren.

“I have to talk to you. My shift ends in a half hour. Meet me at the coffee shop across from the hospital.”

Perplexed, Paul put on his jacket and left his office. He bumped into Arthur outside the elevator.

“Where are you headed?”

“To pick up my wife from work.”

“Can I ride over there with you?”

“Are you sick or something, Paul?”

“Let’s go, I’ll explain later.”

When Lauren appeared in the hospital parking lot, Paul rushed over and cornered her. Arthur stood watching for a moment before deciding to join them.

“I’ll catch up with you at home,” she told him. “Paul and I need to talk.”

And, leaving Arthur on his own, they entered the coffee shop.

“Did you finish it?” Paul asked after dismissing the waitress.

“Yes, last night.”

“And you liked it?”

“A lot. I noticed quite a few things in there about me, actually.”

“Yeah, I know. I should have maybe . . . asked your permission about that.”

“Wouldn’t have hurt, I have to be honest.”

“Anyway, nobody but you will ever read it, so . . .”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You have to send this to a publisher—I’m sure it would get published.”

Paul wouldn’t consider it. First of all, he didn’t believe for a minute that his novel might interest a publisher. And even if it did, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a stranger reading what he had written.

Lauren used every argument possible, but Paul wouldn’t budge. On her way out, Lauren asked if she could share their secret with Arthur. Paul pretended not to have heard her.

Back home, she handed the manuscript to Arthur.

“Here,” she said. “We’ll talk after you’ve read it.”

Then it was Lauren’s turn to listen to Arthur laughing repeatedly, to wait during the ensuing silence for the emotion that overcame him on reading certain passages. Several hours later, he joined her in the living room.

“Well . . . ?”

“Well, the story is basically inspired by you and me, but I really like it.”

“I told him he should send it to a publisher, but he won’t do it.”

“I can understand that.”

Getting Paul’s story published became an obsession for the young doctor. Whenever she saw him or talked to him on the phone, she would ask him the same question: Had he sent off the manuscript yet? Each time, Paul said no and urged her to stop asking him about it.

Then one Sunday, late in the afternoon, Paul’s phone rang. It wasn’t Lauren but an editor from one of the New York–based publishing houses.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Arthur,” Paul said, irritated.

Surprised, the caller said that he had just finished reading a novel that he’d enjoyed immensely, and that he wished to meet the author.

They continued talking at cross-purposes for a while, Paul making more and more jokes. Going from amused to exasperated, the editor suggested Paul pay him a visit at his office in San Francisco the following day; that way he’d see it wasn’t a joke.

Suddenly, doubt crept into Paul’s mind.

“Just how did you get hold of my manuscript?”

“A friend of yours sent it to me.”

And, after the editor gave Paul the address for their meeting, the call ended. Paul paced up and down his apartment until he could stand it no longer, then jumped into his Saab and drove across the city to San Francisco Memorial Hospital.

In the ER, he asked to see Lauren immediately. The nurse pointed out that he didn’t look especially sick. Paul glared at her and growled that not all emergencies were the medical kind. If she didn’t page Lauren in two seconds, he was going to make a scene. The nurse started motioning for the security guard. Disaster was narrowly averted when Lauren spotted Paul and came over.

“What are you doing here?”

“Do you have a friend who’s a publisher?”

“No,” she replied, shifting her gaze.

“Does Arthur?”

“Not at all,” she muttered.

“Is this another one of your pranks?”

“No. Not this time.”

“Just what did you do, Lauren?”

“I didn’t really do anything. The decision is still up to you.”