Authors: Heather Graham
“Susan…”
“Do whatever you want, David. Say anything, sign anything.”
“Why the hell do you sound like such a martyr?”
“Do I? Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” So David was holding the book, a book he knew she had written. And he was planning on doing all kinds of things with it, no matter what he felt toward her.
Why?
Because he’s capable of being more professional, she thought. No—because the book was his father’s life.
“Listen, Susan, can you get down here anytime soon? I promised the publicity department that I’d get you here.”
“New York?”
“No, Susan,” John said with waning patience, “we’ve moved the business hub of the country out to galaxy twelve in the Centurian region. Of course, New York!”
“Ha ha.”
“Susan, you do not sound well.”
“I’ve got to finish this book for Joan, David.”
“And it’s due next week. Finish it and bring it to me. Let me know when you’re going to come in. I’ll even get you at the airport and we’ll go swanky for dinner, on the agency, okay? Susan, this is a celebration, not a funeral. You’re getting me really worried. Are you coming?”
“I—”
“Susan! You’re worried about making waves over a few days on a due date, yet here you are with suddenly very wet feet about what could be the most important opportunity in your life! This thing is different! Think of the years you’ve been working away on cult books. You could sell more of this one book than you have of everything else you’ve ever written combined! Come on, pay attention here! You come into the city.”
New York. David Lane lived in New York. So did millions of other people. She wouldn’t go over to Lane; she’d make sure she got to meet whoever it was she had to meet somewhere else.
“I’ll be up at the end of next week, John. When I’ve made a flight reservation, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s better.” He laughed, apparently relieved, as he should have been. Poor John! He must have thought he had a client dangerously close to going over the edge.
“Get back to your sexy corners of the universe! I’ll talk to you soon.”
Susan knew he said good-bye and that she made some kind of appropriate reply. Then she sat there with the receiver still in her hand.
David Lane was holding her book. Peter had known it, but he hadn’t told her, and he hadn’t told David. She and David had finally really met—just like Peter had wanted—but the whole thing had been a ridiculous travesty. And now…
She gave herself a little shake. She’d been working with Joan for more than six years, and she didn’t know more than three people in that office of hundreds. She didn’t even know the names of the publisher or the art director or any of the others. There was no reason to assume that she would have anything to do with David Lane.
And if she really wanted to make sure she didn’t see him again, she’d move out of the beach house. No. She’d never do that. Not after the way he’d behaved. She couldn’t help it. He’d condemned her: her and Peter. She wanted to hurt him back, and the only way to hurt him was to hold on to her rights in the house. Her home. She had lived here for the past year. In all that time he hadn’t been near it.
Suddenly her eyes fell on Peter’s corncob pipe. She picked it up, then brushed away the moisture that formed in her eyes. “Oh, Peter! What were you thinking of? Why didn’t you set that son of yours straight a year ago? And why, in heaven’s name, did you tie this house up between us? Why didn’t you warn me about the book?”
She set the pipe down. “Well, you were right about one thing…. I think I would have liked him if I’d met him under different circumstances.”
But she hadn’t.
The phone started to ring again, causing her heart rate to rise. Would it be David? Calling to tell her that even if she was a blankety-blank, he would see that the book received fair treatment? In his father’s memory, of course.
“Yes?”
It was Jerry, calling from a break at the emergency station. “It’s good to hear your voice,” he told her, adding a little anxiously, “You are all right, aren’t you?”
“Fine, Jerry. Thanks for calling to ask.”
“Well, it sounded as if you’d be okay, but you should always take care with a head injury. You should get to a doctor and have a checkup, you know.”
“I’m okay, really, Jerry.”
“Where’s David?”
“David left early yesterday morning.”
“He left?” Jerry sounded surprised. “Doesn’t sound like David.”
“Why not?”
“Leaving you after an injury and all—”
“Jerry! Please listen carefully: I’m fine, I swear it.”
“How’d you wind up in the water like that, anyway? Thank God he was there! You might have—well, you know. Susan, with Peter gone now, you really shouldn’t stay there alone. Every time a storm whips up, the house is cut off. And it’s so lonely out there.”
“I like it, Jerry.”
He was a dear friend, but he was about to launch into a lecture, so she decided to tactfully cut him off at the pass. “I’ll think about moving out,” she promised. “I’ve got some work to get done this next week, though, and then I’ve got to run down to New York. Afterward I’ll start thinking about my future.”
“You really should,” Jerry cautioned her. He hesitated. “You’re a young woman, Susan, and you’ve spent so much time with age and death,” he said softly. “I understand how attached you got to Peter. He was a great guy—the greatest. I understand you having to care for your grandparents, and then your brother, but, Sue, you’ve got to live—”
“I know, Jerry. I intend to. Really. And I do appreciate your concern.”
He laughed. “But you’re busy! Okay, okay, I get the message. How about drinks with the crowd Friday night? Think you can squeeze us in?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She chuckled softly. “I honestly have to get back to this galaxy this week. But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Take care. Oh! I forgot to ask you. How did you get along with David?”
“Like fire and wind,” Susan replied sweetly.
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not. Why should I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I spent summers with David. Everyone liked David.” Jerry chuckled, and she could imagine his homely but oh so pleasant grin. “I did, too, except during my flights of jealousy. You know, he had the greatest parents—Mary was like the perfect Kool-Ade mom. All the kids were always welcome. And David just eased through everything—the best grades, basketball star, baseball, soccer, tennis, you name it. And then he was so damned good-looking, too! But he always shared—and smoothly. Managed to get one of his dates for his friends all the time. Of course, I haven’t seen a lot of him lately, but it didn’t seem like he’d changed any. I went to New York once and gave him a call and he treated me just like royalty. Peter was like that. No matter how big he got, how rich, how influential, he was just the same.”
“That’s nice,” Susan murmured, her fingers wound so tightly around the receiver, she thought she would snap it. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she just said that she had gotten along just fine with the great Mr. Lane? If there was anything she did not want at the moment, it was a glowing testimonial in his behalf!
“Jerry, I’ve really got to go. Say hi to Mindy for me, and I’ll probably see you all Friday night. Oh, and Jerry, I’ve got a broken window upstairs. It’s boarded, but I need new panes. Can you check into it for me?”
“Sure thing. Take care. And you should see a doctor, Susan. Bumps on the head—”
“Are nothing to fool with.” Susan laughed. At last she hung up and sat staring at the phone, daring it to ring again.
It didn’t. She retrieved her tea, stared at the phone several seconds longer, then convinced herself that she had to get back to Raoul and Lenora. The going was difficult at first. She stared at the page for at least five minutes, but then she forced herself to concentrate. And she was still so mad at herself that she managed to be coldly objective, drawing upon her own recent experience to give her characters a really wonderful night. At least she salvaged something out of that catastrophe!
It had started to grow dark outside by the time she finished with her pages, made herself another cup of tea, and carried the papers to the parlor, curling up on the sofa to reread, scratching in a correction here and there. She had done it! She had actually concentrated and was pleased and comfortable with the results. All she had to do was add in a word here—
It was then that the phone started ringing again, shrilling so fiercely into her absorption with her work that she spilled tea over her pages. Letting out a soft oath, she ran back into the library, not thinking until her hand was on the phone, then getting furious with herself when her heart started pounding again. Was it fear? Loathing? Anticipation? She didn’t know, but it was ridiculous. She wasn’t going through this every time the phone rang.
“Yes?” she said rather crisply.
“Miss Anderson?”
It was him. Her blood began to race through her system, hot and cold, hot and cold. She clutched the phone wire like a life-support system.
“What do you want, Mr. Lane?” she demanded coolly.
“I’ll give you two hundred thousand for your half of the house, Miss Anderson,” he replied smoothly. As smoothly and remotely cordial as if they had never met face-to-face. “It isn’t worth a quarter of that sum.”
She started to laugh. “Talked to the attorneys again, have you, Mr. Lane?”
“Yes, actually, I have. Well?”
“No, Mr. Lane.”
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was a husky drawl that seemed to touch her physically. “Miss Anderson, think about it. Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. An awful lot of selling, you know.”
She hesitated, desperately trying to create a bored and disinterested sound. “Mr. Lane, surely you’re aware that I have an income.”
“Ah, yes! S. C. de Chance.”
“And Susan Anderson, apparently at your insistence.”
“I do call a spade a spade, Miss Anderson.”
“Call it like you see it, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, Mr. Lane, I do believe you’re reaching the age for bifocals.”
“Meaning, Miss Anderson?”
“Not a thing, Mr. Lane.” She made a pretense of yawning. “Is there anything else? I’m not selling my interest in the house.”
“What if I chose to move into it, Miss Anderson?”
Susan laughed softly. “You’re not going to leave New York, Mr. Lane, and you know it. However, I am able to admit that the property is half yours. Anytime you wish to use it, you have only to let me know, and I will vacate the premises while you’re here.”
“Miss Anderson, I never know when I might get the time to get away. If you stay there, you do so at your own risk.”
“Risk of what?”
“Being disturbed.”
“Oh, you don’t disturb me, Mr. Lane. You only imagine that you do.”
“Perhaps that will put things to the test, Miss Anderson. You might wish to reconsider. Two hundred thousand dollars is a ridiculously high sum of money.”
“Is that a threat? You forget, Mr. Lane,” Susan said carefully, very slowly and sweetly, “that I considered you a charity case.”
“I don’t threaten things, I do them. And I haven’t forgotten a thing, Miss Anderson. Not a thing. Not even a moment. Think about it, will you? You might find it to your advantage to bend early.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I promise that I can be disturbing when I so choose.”
“I’ll just bet you can, Mr. Lane. But you—” She broke off, suddenly chilled. “Are you planning on destroying the book?”
“What?” He sounded puzzled, actually lost by her quick change of tone.
“The book.” She tried to breathe evenly, tried not to care, but a year of her life had gone into it, Peter’s last year had gone into it, and it was just too damn important.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Your book is going to get royal treatment. Surely you suspected as much. I’d hardly let anything go wrong with something that so obviously traces my father’s life.” He hesitated, and she wondered if he was testing her in some way. “If you had any worries about the book, why didn’t you voice them during the weekend?”
“I didn’t think the damn thing had anything to do with you during the weekend!” she snapped back, then bit her lip. He had been baiting her, and she had fallen right into his trap. “If I had suspected Puma was part of Lane, I promise you—”
“That I wouldn’t have it, Miss Anderson? That’s rather childish, isn’t it? Publishers don’t meet all their authors, usually only the best-selling ones. And even then the contact between them is minimal.” Except in our case, David added silently.
“I really don’t understand why you want—”
“It’s a good book,” he interrupted curtly.
“That’s big of you to say.”
“No, Miss Anderson. It isn’t really. I say it with bitterness. You really bled my father right to the end.”
“He wanted it written!” Susan exclaimed. “It was his idea, and when he found out I was a writer, he—” She stopped abruptly, wondering why she was defending herself, why she was so ridiculously close to tears. “I’m busy. Is there anything else?”
“That’s it, Miss Anderson. Take care.”
Susan heard the click of the phone, and still she gripped the receiver. “I’d like to bat him over the head with a brick!” she muttered. “I’d like to…” she paused, closing her eyes tightly, bracing herself. It was a pity that she couldn’t cast David Lane into the pit with the monsters in her latest book.
Her mouth curled in a grimace of sudden pain. Jerry’s words came home to her with a cutting resolve. She needed to piece her life back together. She had been living for others as they prepared for death. If she could go back, she wouldn’t change a moment of it; she had gained too much. But she had loved and lost, and even learned to deal with loss. She was going to get out and live again. Forget the past pains and the past mistakes, the great mistake—David Lane.
She dialed Jerry’s home number. Mindy answered, a little breathlessly, making Susan hope she hadn’t interrupted anything. Mindy assured Susan that she was thrilled to hear from her, that she had been worried all weekend.
“Except that you were with David. And you couldn’t have been in better hands. Unless Jerry had been there, of course,” Mindy added loyally.