Dr. Cardozo stared at her expectantly.
"She quoted me!" Lauren was finally able to blurt out. She frowned and wiped away a long string of saliva that was dangling freely from her chin.
The man rubbed his forehead, starting to suspect that Lauren's revelation didn't have anything to do with dentistry. "Huh?"
Lauren blinked in confusion, the laughing gas making her tongue feel thick, and her senses dull. "I'm the... the author." She ran a hand through wavy, shoulder-length, blonde hair. "Sweet Jesus," she drawled, the words taking on a slur at the end. "I didn't even vote for the Yankee!"
A glimpse of color caught her eye, and Lauren suddenly peered down at her paper bib, which was speckled with red dots and several good sized crimson smears. Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her face. "Is that blo... bloo?"
"Blood," Dr. Cardozo finished, looking down at Lauren's limp form which was lying peacefully in the dental chair. "Shit." Stepping around the unconscious woman's feet, he walked over to the doorway and motioned over the receptionist. "I need a phone number."
The receptionist peered inside the exam room. "Your lawyer?"
"My lawyer," he confirmed with a scowl.
*
*
*
Lauren pulled into her designated parking space outside her apartment complex, shutting down the engine with the voice command 'engine off' followed by '4213' which happened to be the last four digits of her social security number. In an effort to make her life simple, she used the same four numbers for every code she had, knowing full well that any thief with minimal brainstem activity could wipe her out financially in a heartbeat. Then again, she never got locked out of her apartment or accidentally routed her grocery bill to the phone company. Simple was good, she decided.
The fair-haired woman slipped off small, silver, wire-framed glasses and leaned over, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. After she had woken up at the dentist's office, it had taken nearly thirty minutes to convince the man that she wasn't going to sue him. She explained that passing out or throwing up was her typical reaction to the sight of her own blood.
Nothing like making a total and complete fool of myself to start the day off right.
Lauren groaned slightly, her jaw feeling like she'd been hit in the face with a two-by-four. She plucked a small bottle of prescription pain pills she'd picked up on the way home out of her jacket pocket. Squinting, she studied the label, then shook her head and relented, sliding her glasses back into place.
Three more hours until I can take another one. Just great.
Her head felt like it was going to explode this very minute.
Stuffing the bottle back in her pocket, she exited her car and slowly made her way up the outdoor staircase to her second floor apartment. With one hand, she closed the lapels of her suede jacket to ward off the chill. November in Nashville was always unpredictable. Most of the time it rained; sometimes there were even flurries. Last week it had been a balmy 65 degrees and she'd pounded away on her computer out on her balcony in the warm afternoon sun. In contrast, today it was in the low 40s, and rain clouds loomed above, the cold wind seeming to intensify the pain in her jaw.
She rounded a blind corner to her apartment, digging in her purse for the keys she'd already put away without thinking. When she glanced up, she stopped dead in her tracks. Three slightly shivering men, two dressed in suits and one in khakis and a sport coat, appeared to be waiting for her outside her apartment door.
The oldest of the trio, a heavy-set man in his late fifties with a slightly graying goatee, caught sight of Lauren and visibly relaxed. "Lauren! I'm glad we caught you. I tried to call you, but I kept getting your service."
Lauren scrunched up her face as she narrowed her eyes. "Wayne?"
My publishing agent? From New York City?
Here?
While they had seen each other a hundred times via satellite video feeds, they'd never, in the seven years they'd been business associates and, finally, dear friends, met face-to-face. He was shorter than she'd imagined, but his virtual image had accurately portrayed his chubby, bland face, deeply-creased cheeks and overall fatherly persona.
"Damn, I need to adjust the color on my machine. You're much more of a blonde than a redhead." His eyes twinkled happily. "Hiya, sweetheart. Oooo... how does the other guy look?" He grazed her slightly black and blue cheek with his fingertips.
Lauren didn't bother to answer his question. Instead, she grinned as much as her mouth packed with cotton swabs would allow. His rapid speech and nasal, New York accent seemed much more pronounced in person.
He smiled back in response and felt himself pulled into a tight, heartfelt hug, wishing, as he had many times over the years, that he were young enough to turn this pretty woman's head.
Lauren caught a whiff of peppermint, and a light crunching sound near her ear confirmed that he was chewing a piece of hard candy. "What are you doing here?" she asked curiously, her hands grasping his biceps so she could push back and look him over again. "I sent you those contract revisions three days ago. There was no need to come all the way out here for that." She smacked his arm lightly.
Remembering that there were two strangers standing only a few feet away, Lauren's gaze traveled to the other men who were both wearing navy blue, three-piece suits, and gray overcoats. She frowned and stopped talking, pressing her lips against Wayne's cold ear so she could whisper, "I told you I'm not doing a biography for Vinnie Lagulia! I don't care if he's sitting in a federal penitentiary with nothing but time on his hands. I don't do the mob!"
At the word 'mob' the two other men's ears seemed to perk up like a curious German Shepherd's.
"Kidding," Wayne exclaimed, looking back at the men. "She's kidding, of course!" He gently grabbed Lauren's elbow and somewhat nervously guided her the few remaining steps to the door. "If you let us all in I'll make the introductions. I've got wonderful news!"
*
*
*
"No."
Wayne's jaw sagged. "No?" he repeated incredulously.
Dammit, what is wrong with her? It doesn't get any bigger than this!
"What do you mean 'no'?"
Arching a pale, slender eyebrow, Lauren crossed her arms over her chest. "It's a simple word, Wayne. Don't make me get out the dictionary." Before Wayne could argue his case further, she turned, picked up the other men's coats and passed them over. Lauren extended her right hand once they had taken the hint and shrugged on the garments she was sure they wore to bed... along with their wing tips.
"Please let President-elect Marlowe know that I'm flattered beyond words that she wants me to do her biography. But that I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline. I'm sorry you had to come all the way to Nashville for nothing. I would have told you that over the phone."
Michael Oaks, one of Devlyn's most trusted aides, and soon-to-be Social Secretary for the new administration, reluctantly shook Lauren's hand, more than a little pissed off that he'd flown from Ohio to New York and then Tennessee, only to have the young woman shoot down his offer in five minutes flat. As far as he was concerned Devlyn could just find herself another writer... they had to be a dime a dozen. And shouldn't they be falling all over themselves to do this for Dev? For the country?
But Michael knew his boss would expect him to give Strayer the full court press, no matter how he personally felt about the task. His dark eyes went serious. "Why, Ms. Strayer? Why won't you consider President-elect Marlowe's request? This is an unparalleled honor. Surely you don't have a better offer pending?" He looked over at Wayne, who wildly shook his head 'no'.
The writer smiled sweetly and did her best to hold her tongue.
Honor, my ass. This is one of those jobs where they tell you what to write, and then you slap your name on the book cover. No, thanks... she can find herself another propaganda puppet.
"I'm simply not interested." Her tone was polite but cooling quickly.
"The compensation offer is more than generous, but still negotiable. We consulted several major publishing companies who indicated what we are offering is well above what their highest paid historians and biographers command."
"I'm sure it is. But the answer is still 'no'," she insisted.
I don't respond well to overly aggressive, buddy. And you've already crossed that line.
The young black man tried again. "But-"
Lauren lifted her hands in forestallment. "First of all, I don't specialize in politicians."
"If I'm not mistaken, your last biography was of Cardinal James O'Roarke. Are you going to stand here and tell me that the Catholic Church isn't a political institution?" His voice was rising in volume and had taken on a slightly sarcastic edge.
Lauren felt her temper beginning to rise. Who did he think he was? The man next to him, who might as well have had 'Secret Service' tattooed on his forehead, stepped closer to her, invading her private space and looking at her with disapproving eyes. But she refused to back down.
Am I supposed to be intimidated by 'no neck'? I think not. I can see how you operate, Devlyn Marlowe!
"I've only been home for a few months after spending nearly two years in Ireland and the Vatican, writing Cardinal O'Roarke's story. I'm simply not ready to commit myself to a job that will last for a minimum of four years."
"It's important to the nation that..." Mr. Oaks continued, not stopping when Lauren tried to get a word in edgewise several times.
Wayne noticed the woman's face turning pink, then, finally, a bright red. He crunched down a new mint nervously.
Oh, no. Here it comes.
The IRS is going to audit Starlight Publishing, and me personally, every single year from now until the end of time!
"Lauren, please. I know you had your heart set on Maya Angelou. But this is the President of the United States for God's sake!"
"No means no," Lauren ground out forcefully, her temper snapping. She marched over to the front door and flung it open with a loud bang. She automatically bent over and used one arm to keep her rambunctious Pug, Gremlin, from escaping. "This conversation is over."
Sunday, November 8
th
The sedan slowed. Actually, several sedans slowed. To the casual observer, they could've been mistaken for a procession carrying a family mourning the loss of someone it loved. And if it weren't for the identity of one of the people in the third car, that might have been true. Before her car had even come to a complete stop, men in dark suits surrounded it; the men who protected the life of the President-elect. With a quick but thorough check, the area was deemed secure, and two long legs appeared from behind an automobile door as Devlyn Marlowe began to climb out of the car.
She leaned over, spoke to the other occupants, and retrieved a bouquet of roses before slowly walking to the stone that sat some thirty feet way. The men assigned to guard her were dutiful, but extremely respectful of her privacy at this moment, keeping as far away as safety permitted. She adjusted her scarf and tugged on the collar of her coat, raising it over the back of her neck. Dev gripped the roses and brought them to her nose, but most of their sweet, spicy fragrance was swept away by the cold autumn air.
She settled down in front of the gravestone, the damp, leaf-strewn grass soaking the knees of her slacks. Devlyn placed the flowers in a ceramic vase attached to the stone and brushed away a few twigs and leaves that had clustered around the base of the headstone. "Hiya, beautiful. I had to come today because things are going to get very nuts for me very shortly." Dev gave a slight chuckle as she intently studied a bright orange leaf with gloved hands. "Look who I'm trying to kid. Things are already nuts for me."
Dev let go of the leaf and watched the wind carry it away. She leaned forward so her fingers could trace the outline of the letters carved in stone. "I miss you. Sometimes at night, I still wake up and reach for you." She smiled and her hand dropped away. "I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I wouldn't be where I am if it hadn't been for you. I wish we could be together now."