Blind Submission (39 page)

“I've missed you, too,” I said. “I've been thinking about it, Elise. Looks like I'm going to need a job, actually, and probably a loan, too.” I looked down at the table, at my crumb-filled plate and my empty Blue Moon mug, and I could feel angry tears brimming in my eyes. I blinked hard and folded my hand into a fist. Elise reached out and gently covered my hand with her own.

“What's going on, Angel?” she asked. “Is it Malcolm? Is he okay?”

He would be, I thought, once he cleaned himself up and slept off his drunkenness. I'd taken him home right before I'd called Elise and driven over to her house. After several cups of coffee, he'd been sober enough to get himself into his apartment, but he was still wasted, ugly, and ranting about how I'd ruined his life. Out of some vestigial need to take care of him, I waited in my car until I saw him unlock his door and go inside. But as I watched him disappear, I found myself wondering how it was possible that I'd wanted to marry him, that I ever believed I loved him.

“We've broken up,” I told Elise.

“Oh, honey, I'm so sorry,” she said.

“Don't be,” I told her. “It's definitely for the best. He…God, Elise, I don't even know where to start.”

Elise got up and put more water in the kettle. “Why don't you start at the beginning, Angel? There's no hurry now, okay? We've got as long as you need.”

I opened my mouth then and the words came pouring out. I left nothing out, no detail about Lucy, Malcolm, or Damiano or anything that we'd done with or to one another. I told her about the books, the sales, and what went on in the office. I told her about Lucy's hellish contract with me, which I'd have to break because I couldn't possibly work for her anymore after what had happened. And I told her, chapter by chapter, about
Blind Submission.

I didn't stop talking until the daylight faded and the kitchen grew dark.

Elise turned on the light and I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the electric glare. The table was littered with cups and glasses from the unending rounds of tea, coffee, and water that Elise had prepared for both of us. She pushed them together in the center of the table and started to carry them to the sink.

“So you think
Anna's
the one who's been writing this mystery manuscript?” she asked.

“I'm not sure what I think anymore, Elise. I'm thinking now that it has to be the two of them. That's the only way it makes sense—the only way either one of them would have enough information.” I told Elise how, after two cups of Italian roast, Malcolm had been coherent enough to tell me that he and Anna had spoken on several occasions. Somewhere in there Anna took Malcolm's selfish attempts to extract information as some kind of romantic attention and made a play for him. Then he'd dumped her as quickly as Lucy had dumped him, which explained the tearful phone call Jackson had told me about.

“It's not even so much what Malcolm did,” I told Elise, “as how she sat there while I told her that whole story about Malcolm with that disapproving look on her face. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, Elise—it would freeze.”

“Let me say this first, Angel. I'm not upset that you're through with Malcolm. I'm sorry for your sake that it got so ugly, but I never liked him. Never thought he was right for you.”

“I wish you'd told me,” I said. “Why didn't you?”

“Some things you have to discover for yourself, Angel. You know that.” She paused, taking time to formulate her words. “I could have told you about Lucy, too. I've always known that she was a…difficult woman.”

“Putting it mildly,” I said.

“Well, I didn't really know the extent of it, that's for sure. There have always been rumors, but you know…But what good would it have done to discourage you, anyway, Angel? And I'm glad I didn't.”

“You are? Why?”

“You don't see it yet, do you?”

“See what?”

“How good you are at what you do. Look how far you've come in such a short time. You've found your true calling, Angel, even if it came at a certain cost. I mean, Karanuk! Would you ever have thought you'd have a…a literary relationship with one of our most famous authors?”

That stopped me short and I couldn't think of how to reply to her. Elise washed her hands and dried them with a bright lemon-colored dish towel. She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Damiano sounds like a good man,” she said. “Much better for you than Malcolm. I'm so glad you found him, Angel. And I can't wait to read his book.” She paused, considering something. “Maybe you can get him to consider appearing at my new store when it comes out.”

“But…you don't think…”

“That you've scared him off? That he really is Vaughn Blue?” Elise gave a breathy delivery to the character's name and grinned.

“Well, when you put it that way…I know it sounds ridiculous, Elise, but I've been trying to reach him….” I couldn't stop the quick sob that escaped from my throat. “What if…if…”

“He'll turn up, Angel,” Elise said. “And sooner than you think. I'm quite sure of it.”

“How do you know that? Have you also got some special information I'm not aware of?” I smiled at her as I said it to let her know that I was kidding, but her face had become very serious.

“What?” I said.

She took a deep breath. “Angel, do you remember I told you I had something to show you?”

“Oh, right,” I said as it came back to me. “Now I do. What is it?”

“Hold on,” she said. “Let me go get it.”

“Is it bigger than a breadbasket?” I joked as she left the kitchen. I waited, rubbing out the wet circles of condensation on the table, until she came back a minute later holding an old, beaten-up paperback book.

“I thought this was just funny when I found it,” Elise said, “and that's why I didn't make a big deal out of it. I thought you'd get a kick out of it. But it's taken on a whole new meaning now. You'll have to decide what you want to do with it. Here.” She handed me the book.

I looked at the cracked spine first and noticed that the book was so old its publisher no longer existed. I turned it around and saw that the cover, probably once a garish purple, had faded over time to a grayish puce. The title,
Flaming Heart,
was printed in large block type and surrounded by orange flames. Below that, in hot-pink script, were these words:

A novel by Lucy Fiamma.

I held it in my hands for what seemed like a very long time, staring at the letters until they blurred, and then I turned it over again and read the back cover.

 

She was born to a life on the streets but was destined to rise above them to the mansions she saw every day….

Eden Summer was no ordinary prostitute. With the face of a goddess and the sex appeal of a centerfold, she was desired and pursued by rich and powerful men from around the world. Using her wiles and wisdom, Eden played her men for money and position. She was poised to marry the wealthiest man in the world and live a life of power and influence, and then came the day when she was betrayed…by her flaming heart.

 

I opened the book and found a small black-and-white photo of a much younger but instantly recognizable Lucy on the inside cover. The title page had been torn or had fallen out, leaving the dedication as the book's first page.

 

For the Eden inside every woman.

 

I flipped through the brittle, faded pages and stopped at random.

 

Eden used her body like a knife to cut through the heart of a man's desire. She loved to hold them hostage, to withhold, then give of her sex until they were trembling and helpless with passion.

 

I closed the book and looked up at Elise, who had been standing statuelike over me. I pointed to the cover.

“Well, they certainly got the color right, didn't they?” I said. “Prose doesn't get any more purple than that. Where did you find this?”

“Buried in Blue Moon,” Elise said. “I found it when I cleaned out. Angel, I hope you know that if I'd known what was going on with you, I would have found a way to get this to you much sooner.”

“Of course you would have,” I said. I looked again at Lucy's name on the cover to make sure that it was still there. “Obviously pre-Karanuk,” I said.

“Obviously.
Way
pre-Karanuk. She has no idea I have this…this opus of hers. I'm quite sure she'd want it back if she did.”

“God
damn
her!” I spat. “I should have seen it, Elise. I should have been able to figure it out.”

“How?” Elise said. “How could you have put yourself in
that
mind?”

“And to think I was worried about getting fired,” I said. “Can I keep it?” I asked, holding the book up.

“Of course,” Elise said. I stood up and, very carefully, placed the book in my purse.

“You know, Angel,” Elise began, “
Blind Submission
really does have quite an intriguing concept behind it.” Her voice was sly and conspiratorial, as if she were sharing a particularly juicy secret.

“Well, she's certainly got a lot of interest in New York,” I said. “But Elise…”

“With the right pitch,” Elise went on, “and of course, with your editing…You could sell it, Angel.” I looked up at her and saw her nodding sagely. “You can make this work for you, Angel.”

“But I can't work for Lucy anymore. And if I quit, I have to pay—”

“Honey, you're not going to have to pay a thing. Think about it, Angel. I mean really think about it this time. I'd love to work with you again, but I don't think that's really what you want, is it?”

I looked up at her and smiled. “What an amazing piece of luck it is that you're in my life, Elise.”

“And I'll always be, honey. Now, you should go home, take a hot bath, and read that manuscript again. You'll be looking at it with fresh eyes. It's all going to come to you, Angel. You'll see.”

I stood and picked up my purse, holding it gingerly as if it contained a bomb. In a sense, it did. I leaned over and hugged Elise hard. “Thank you,” I whispered into her hair, “for everything.”

“You're okay, right?” she asked me. She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don't need to worry about you?”

“I'm fine,” I said, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “In fact, I'm better than I've been for a long time.”

But Elise still seemed unconvinced. “You sure about that? You seem a little too…calm.”

“Really, I'm okay, Elise,” I told her. “I'm going to go home. I'm going to call my mother. I'm going to take that hot bath. And then we'll see what happens after that.”

SEVENTEEN

BLIND SUBMISSION

Chapter 13

Alice sat down at Carol's desk and laid her tools in order. There wasn't much to contemplate: a bottle of fine, single-malt Scotch, an unopened package of razor blades, and a small sheaf of correspondence from one of the country's most prestigious publishers. Although Alice knew the contents of this file better than she cared to admit, she opened it one more time and leafed through. There was the original letter of interest in “her” novel. Alice read that again for the slight thrill it could still give her, despite her growing numbness.

“We are very excited about this book,” the letter read, “and feel that the author's voice is truly unique. This novel is certainly one of a kind.”

That Alice knew the truth behind the novel's creation mattered not a bit to her. She felt the same slow flush of triumph that had come the very first time she'd laid eyes on that letter. Below the letter were several handwritten notes describing the details of the sale. Alice read through those carefully as well. She marveled again at Carol Moore's ability to put together the perfect deal. A copy of the actual book contract lay beneath the notes. Carol had made sure that this contract had been drawn up and signed in record time. Alice couldn't bring herself to look at it again. What did it matter if she, as the author, had gotten everything Carol had asked for? It was all over now. The contract had been canceled, nullified. Not only was the publisher refusing to print the book, but they were taking legal action against Alice and Carol both. That was the final piece of paper in the file that Alice held in front of her.

“We are deeply shocked and disturbed,” the letter read. Alice scanned the page, which practically burned her fingers with the heat of its outrage. “Literary theft is egregious in itself,” the letter went on, “but to abuse the good faith of this publisher is beyond heinous.”

Alice felt no hint of remorse. Everything she had done had been justified in her mind. What really hurt, what tore at her soul, and why she was sitting at her desk with Scotch and razor blades, was that her book was not going to be published. Now she would never see her name on the spine of a book. She would never be able to walk into a bookstore and gaze at her own image on a dustcover. Not now, not ever. And worse still than that, she would never, ever be able to bask in the glow of legitimacy that came with being a bestselling author. And it would have been a bestseller, Alice knew. As had Carol.

Carol could have played this differently, Alice knew, but the bitch was caught up in her own damn ethics. Carol had been the one who discovered that the novel belonged to another writer. She'd been sly, as had Carol. She hadn't told Alice about her discovery until after she'd contacted the publisher.

Bitch!

Of course, Carol was a smart bitch. She didn't know, could never prove, that Alice had had anything to do with Vaughn's death, but she suspected something foul. Clever. Had Carol confronted Alice before this all became a publishing scandal, Alice would have seen to it, somehow, that Carol never opened her mouth.

“I'm deeply disappointed in you,” Carol had said. “I put such trust in you. To think I even made you an associate agent in this office. You had such a promising career, Alice, and now you've thrown it all away.”

Carol had been “kind,” allowing Alice to take her things and leave the office without making a scene. Well, Alice had plans for a much grander exit.

Alice closed the file and placed it neatly in Carol's in-box. It was time. She uncorked the Scotch and took a long slug from the bottle. The liquid flamed as it ran down her throat, but Alice kept it down. She needed the warm courage the booze would provide as soon as it hit her stomach. As Alice opened the razor blades and held one in her slightly trembling fingers, she was struck with a final inspiration. Rising unsteadily from Carol's chair, Alice plucked a sheet of paper from the fax machine. Using a fat, permanent marker, Alice wrote, “I did it for Vaughn. I loved him and he loved me. Now we'll be together in heaven.” Let the bitch find
that
when she stumbles on my body in the morning, Alice thought.

Alice took one more slug from the bottle and sat down heavily. The office was quiet and dark. Alice smiled to herself. Carol had had no idea that Alice had an extra key made. Nobody knew that she was here, in the middle of a Sunday night. Tomorrow morning would provide a real Monday surprise for the famous Carol Moore.

How strange it was, Alice thought as she dragged the razor blade up each wrist, it didn't even hurt. But there was more than enough blood to make a fabulous mess of Carol's office. Alice was surprised at how much. She held her arms up slightly and moved around in the chair, coloring Carol's carpet crimson. Soon, very soon, Alice was no longer able to move. Her eyes were closing and her thoughts floated, disconnected. She remembered something, dimly, as she began to slip away, and it made her want to laugh.

It was something someone had once said about writing…that it was so easy…all you had to do was sit down…and open a vein. That was it, open a vein. Alice's lips curved into a half-smile. Who was it who had said that? It was clever, Alice thought as the darkness closed in on her. So very, very clever.

 

IT WAS THE BRIGHTEST,
clearest Monday morning I'd ever seen. The sky held a deep range of blues, from cool sapphire in the west to golden azure where the sun was just rising. Heading north on the Golden Gate Bridge, I could see the greens, reds, and browns of the Marin Headlands ahead of me. The bridge stretched out, a perfect design of flame-colored lines and curves, so beautiful in the clean light of morning.

The traffic on the bridge was surprisingly light for a Monday morning and I was making good time. I considered this a positive sign of things to come. I planned to get to the office early enough to beat the rest of the staff, but it wouldn't make any difference when they showed up. I was going to have my time with Lucy regardless.

My fingers went to the hollow of my throat and I touched the small golden angel hanging there. I smiled as I felt the tiny points of its wings under my forefinger. “For protection,” Damiano had said when he'd fastened it around my neck. “An angel for an Angel.”

When I'd left him less than an hour before, at the door of his North Beach apartment, he'd kissed my throat just above the charm. “I knew it would be perfect,” he said, touching the chain with his fingers. “It was made for you.”

“I'm going to need it today,” I said, kissing his lips, soft and warm from sleep.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?” he asked me then, concern creasing his forehead. “I can be ready in five minutes.
Dai,
Angel, let me come with you.”

“It's okay,” I told him. “It will be fine.”

“You will call me?” he asked.

“I will.”

“And I will see you?”

“Later,” I said. “You're going to meet me there, right?”

“Sì,”
he said. “I come early.”

“Okay.”

“I don't want to let you go again,” he said, holding fast to my hand.

“And I don't want you to,” I said. “But it's not going to be for long.”

“Okay,” he said, and pressed his cheek against mine in a gesture more intimate than a kiss. “Angel,” he whispered,
“ti vòglio bene.”

“What does that mean?” I asked him. “It sounds so lovely.”

“I'll tell you later,” he said, and then he let me go.

I touched my guardian angel again, drawing strength from its small weight. He'd given it to me late Saturday night as we sat in the bay window seat in his living room. We were drinking small glasses of dessert wine and eating almond biscotti that he'd baked himself. The sweet taste of the fruit was heavy in my mouth. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small red box. The angel was inside.

“I got it in New York,” he said. “After…I never should have left you there. It was a mistake.”

“You didn't know,” I told him. “You couldn't have known.”

Elise had been right about Damiano, although I'm sure she didn't expect him to reappear as soon as he did.

I'd come straight home after I left her house. I'd called my mother and the two of us had talked for the better part of an hour. Then, as Elise had suggested, I'd taken a long, hot, full bath. I put Damiano's CD of angel songs in my stereo, turned it up loud, and submerged myself in bubbles up to my neck, holding the pages of
Blind Submission
above the edge of the tub so as not to get them completely soaked. I couldn't remember when I'd last taken a bath. Since Lucy, I hadn't allowed myself time for anything as luxurious. Elise was right about
Blind Submission,
too. Now that I knew who was writing her, Alice finally made sense to me. And as I read the last few chapters, it became clear to me how I was going to change the ending, not just of the book, but of my own story.

Halfway through the third rotation of Damiano's CD, as if summoned, my phone rang and he was on the other end.

“Angel, it's Damiano. Please don't hang up.”

“Oh, Dami…” I could feel tears of relief stinging my eyes. “I tried to call you so many times. I didn't get an answer. I didn't know where you were.”

“I was in New York,” he said. “I just got back this afternoon. I was afraid to call you….”

“You stayed…in New York,” I said. I couldn't stand up anymore, my knees had gone liquid and weak, so I sat down on the edge of my bathtub, the phone pressed against my wet ear. “I'm so glad to hear your voice.”

“But Angel…
Non capisco.
I don't understand.”

“Lucy said you never showed up for your meeting with her,” I said, the words coming fast and high. “She said you never called her, that you just didn't show up. It was right after we…and I thought…but now I know…oh, Dami…” I sighed deeply.

“She said I didn't show up?” Damiano sounded confused. “I had a meeting with my editor in New York.
Porca misèria,
Angel, I wish you were there with me. I didn't know what I was doing.” He blew out a short puff of air in irritation. “I had to go by myself,” he said, “because Luciana wasn't there. She called me to tell me that she had to go home early. She said she had an emergency.” I pressed the phone to my ear as if I could push him through it. “I was worried about you,” he said finally.

“You were so upset….”

“I'm sorry,” I said to him. “I'm so sorry about that. I need to explain it to you.”

“Sì,”
he said. “Can I…Can I come to see you?”

I looked around at my unmade bed, stacks of manuscripts, and unwashed cups on the table. I hadn't even washed out the coffeepot from the last round I'd made for Malcolm.

“No,” I said. “Let me come to you this time. Tell me where you are.”

It was late by the time I arrived at his apartment, set amid a throng of restaurants. The air smelled like garlic, rain, and espresso and was bright with neon. The noise of diners, revelers, and car horns echoed off the street. Damiano waited for me outside his building, leaning against a wall, a cigarette in his hand.

“I didn't know you smoked,” I said by way of greeting. It was suddenly awkward to be seeing him in the flesh after what had happened between us. I didn't know where we were supposed to pick up or what level of intimacy we'd reached. And I suspected he didn't, either.

“Only sometimes,” he said, grinding the cigarette out under his shoe. “When I'm nervous.”

When we got upstairs, Damiano poured the wine and we talked, hesitantly at first, then comfortably, gradually moving into a conversation that was quiet and tender. I told him everything I could about the events of the past week and everything I should have told him in New York. Damiano spoke little while I told my story, saving his own thoughts and feelings until I stopped. He didn't touch me until he clasped the angel around my neck. We'd been talking for hours.