Roll with the Punches (40 page)

I turned. "Would you do that?"

"My dad would, and did. Look. Just relax. I'm not even in the program yet."

How depressing. I said, "Yeah. We're both footloose and job-free. But it's not that so much," I lied. "It's just—we're so new. And then there's Dad. Do we have to talk about this now?"

"Nope." He smiled. "But just for my education, don't women always have marriage on the brain?"

"Boy, are you behind the times. Let's just say you're a vampire and I'm a mermaid and people will talk.”

His face froze. "What does that mean? You don't want to be seen with me, the dumb Indian?"

"No, no. No! You're gorgeous. You're awesome. And you're great with Dad." I dug my fingers into my hair. "It's just—You spent the last ten years making a difference, actually helping people, and I spent it chasing paper around my desk, looking at shelves.”

That was good. No accusations or labels. So why couldn't I say:
And I don't trust gamblers
.

He put his arms around me and dragged me down beside him. "And?"

I sat up. "Well, I'm not sure I'm marriage material. I'm a whopping failure at taking care of things. I've lost Dad more times than I can count, and … and … and my first solution to everything is to punch it."

He nodded.

I went on, "I find myself skating for hours at a time just to control my anger about the book. And Dad. I mean, I can really relate to the roller girls, who enjoy beating each other up. One day, you'll win a Nobel Prize for Peace, and I'll beat up somebody who cuts us off in the parking lot after. So how can you and I possibly be anything but casual?"

"So we're just having fun here?" His thumb caressed my cheek.

"Yeah.”

"Good." He smiled. "Okay, fast, without thinking. What's your dream?"

I frowned. "Publish big, write for a living. Well, forget that."

"No, don't forget it. Why publish?"

"Because it's how you—" I sighed. "What's yours?"

"To forgive and forget."

"Forgive who?"

"Beside the point." He pulled my face close. "Why do you really want to publish, honey? Don't think, just talk."

"To be my own boss. But–"

"No, the real reason."

"To make people happy."

"Go deeper, Rhonda."

"To air my dirty laundry."

"Come on. You're just—"

I jumped up and faced him. "Watch it, buddy. I am
not
‘just Rhonda,’ like everyone says. And if my mother can't see that, I thought at least you could." I ran toward the door.

He got up and grabbed for me, but I was too fast. I ran to the shower, where thoughts of wedding rings and mothers and black hair and the
M
-word swirled around my head like a cloud of cigar smoke, sweet-smelling to some, nauseating to others. I couldn't tell about Dal, but I was pretty sure I was on the nauseated side. If I couldn't keep a hamster alive, what were my chances with a full-grown man?

*
      
*
      
*

Mom settled in the family room with Music Man hovering close by. Apparently, the hospital nurses had all gained five pounds from her chocolate offerings and had sent her home early in self-defense.

I got Music Man to his MRI appointment, then returned to an awkward lunch. Music Man fluttered around Mom, as much as a Frankenfather can flutter. Meanwhile, Dal and Mom sneaked doubtful glances at each other between Dal's pitiful looks at me. Hoping for forgiveness, no doubt. I ignored him.

Marian called during the salad and said Jackie was stable, but guarded. George was attending the RING-SCREW Conference, too, and would bring me all the materials to deliver her workshop on plotting the novel. The location in Ladrona Beach wasn't far from home, but Marian gave me her hotel reservation so I could take her place in the hospitality army for all three days.

The rest of lunch on Acorn Street was a 1970s sitcom translator’s dream:

Mom said, "Rhonda, are you sure you need to go to this conference? You've been to so many already." Translation:
I need fawning over
.

Rubbing my thigh under the table, Dal said, "I'll stay here and help your folks while you're gone." Translation:
Just
w
ait 'til you get back, baby.

Mom, always the hostess, said, "Oh, no, Ed. I already called an agency that James recommended. A caregiver's coming tomorrow morning so you can study." Translation:
You're free, but not to go off fornicating with my daughter.

"Thanks," he said. "I guess I'll wander down to Ladrona Beach on Saturday, then." Translation:
Whoo-hoo! Fantastic hotel sex with Rhonda on Saturday afternoon!

I smiled. Translation:
Get me out of here.

I got to Seaside Mansion Hotel in Ladrona early Friday afternoon in the midst of another downpour, quite uncharacteristic of Orange County in November. I made it to a couple of workshops on writing good dialogue and characters before I had to go serve punch for Marian. In the halls, I noticed agents and editors whispering and pointing. At me? I walked on, and realized that few folks were meeting my gaze. What the heck?

I had dinner alone in the cheapest hotel restaurant. George joined me in the middle of my soup and handed off Marian's lecture notes.

"George, can you do Marian's lecture?" I asked, "Everyone's avoiding me like the plague. I'm afraid no one will show if I speak.”

He whispered, "Sorry, I sweat under pressure. Like Nixon. We're talking floods. Last time I spoke in public, we had to evacuate to higher ground."

"You don't happen to know why they're avoiding me, do you?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Um." George blanched. "You know there are agents here, and they talk …"

Great. I was a pariah. I missed Dal.

George twisted his napkin and sighed. "Rhonda, I have something to confess."

"What? You sell Alice Fay? I know. I need some mascara.”

"Not exactly. I mean, I'll sell you some, but I also—"

"Have the hots for Yvette? I know that, too."

He reddened. "Rhonda, about that …"

"That whole thing was just a prank, George." I crossed my fingers in my pocket.

"Do you think I have a chance with her?"

Not a bacon strip's chance in Bing's presence
. I brightened. "Never say never. Anything else you want to spill?"

His eyes slid left. "Oh there's John Gade. Catch you later." And he was gone.

*
      
*
      
*

Saturday was another weird rainy day in October. After helping serve the buffet lunch, I sat in on a SCREW workshop about the markets for e-books versus the real hardbound copies published in New York. I decided maybe even I could survive as a writer and pay my bills in the e-book market, as long as I had plenty of smut to write about. Or vampires who liked mermaids. Paranormal was finally in. My work was salable. Under a good pseudonym. Maybe with the help of a few flying pigs.

At the fancy conference lunch, George never showed up. Since no one local would sit by me, I was free to eavesdrop on the snooty conversation across the table between some Northern Californians, a species I could tell by their Ghirardelli granola bags, hemp skirts and foggy auras. The giant centerpiece on the table was a spray of glittery book jackets on fake flower stems. So I could barely see the faces of these ultra-healthy writers who were basking in our Romance in Novels Gathering hospitality while pooh-poohing the romance genre and the Southland.

First Woman, gym-healthy, said, "Ick. All this elephant-tan skin here. And all the bleached fatties. They call Orange County a hotbed of romance? All I see is ice queens and dairy queens."

Indeed, the writers in attendance were about half extra-tan and thin and half white and chunky.

"Yeah, either everything's plastic, or it's all too real," snickered Second Woman. "I'm not usually for deforestation, but these chins. Good God. Do I smell Clairol, Trish?"

"Even the politicians use it here," laughed First Woman. "I hear the mayors' offices buy it in bulk."

Superior NorCal sniggers all around.

Third Woman said, "I heard that State Assemblyman Farley Hampton from Orange has made so many powerful people mad changing his vote on that wetlands bill that he's taken on the bleached punk look to recruit the younger vote."

"Well, at least he has a conscience." Fourth Woman spoke.

Second Woman said, "But darling, while guys like Farley Hampton may seem like heroes to you, unfortunately, the precedents they set protecting some fringe-sleeved lizard or mangy coyote have long-range consequences. Pretty soon every little bug and bird around here will be so precious that all development in the Southland will just grind to a halt. The only jobs left will be strawberry picking and dry cleaning. Then this giant white-collar population will all migrate north to the Bay Area for work."

Horrified shudders all around. No doubt, they were picturing lowly Los Angeles drivers clogging their precious Bay Area freeways. Thank God the chocolate course arrived.

First Woman swallowed. "So our group is planning a romantic suspense party to seduce Farley back to his former vote. Problem is, it's in two weeks, and our writer bailed out at the last minute. Now, we'll have to pay somebody premium prices to drop everything and crank out a story with scripts for fifty characters, including a dozen types of romance that people can act out in an hour and have fun with. You know, love triangle, love—um—"

Fourth Woman, an earth mama with a crystal pendant, piped up, "Love in the afternoon, love in the gazebo. Love on the roof with a transsexual …"

"Yes, Agnes. But more personal, more detailed."

Agnes added, "Okay. Love in the back seat of my Jaguar with the Hot Lava carwash attendant. Love with the Scoutmaster with all those sexy badges. Love under the soccer net with a sweaty referee in those adorable knee socks …"

What was Agnes drinking? I wanted some.

"But with some famous local personalities and landmarks," said First Woman.

Agnes was channeling Aphrodite. "Love in the rental boats at Newport Harbor with a guy in a captain's cap and some seriously big rigging. Love in the horse paddock at Nellie Gail. That was fun. Love with my ex, the state senator, and a couple of his male aides in the back of the Hummer limo on the way to San Clemente …"

"Agnes! Good Lord! You need to come back to Marin County," said Third Woman's sharp teacher voice.

Second Woman sighed. "Stop drooling, Agnes. Pity you're on deadline. Know anyone else who could do your ideas justice?"

Eager hands shot up at every table around theirs, including mine. Wow. These writers had really big ears. There was a hasty raffle at ten dollars per ticket for the right to write this romantic suspense party script. And I won. I got bombarded with great ideas from all sides and felt like a celebrity for a few minutes. Then one of my angry almost-agents came in, and with one mean plagiarism remark about me, she emptied the room of all my supporters in five minutes.

Demoralized, I went back to the car and put on my inline skates. It was drizzling, but I sliced angry strokes along the sidewalk lining the scenic cliffs of Besker Park, just south of the hotel. I ignored the gray ocean as I steamed all the way to Lagoon Street, passing dog walkers holding newspapers over their heads. I didn't notice that my cell phone was off until dinner time, when I got back to the room and Dal still wasn't there. Maybe he'd reconsidered coming after realizing how non-committal I'd been.

Oh, well. I left a message on his cell phone and a key at the desk for him, put on sunglasses and a scarf for a disguise, and went off to the keynote speech. I spotted George as I walked in, but by the time I made my way across the crowded room, he had disappeared.

The speaker, the focus of much conjecture, was Jeff Karrey. He was a big publishing house editor, the holy grail of writers. And also Nadja's ex-husband. Tall, pale, puffy, and thinning on top, his eyes were watery blue over half glasses, and one twitched every few seconds. He told us he was really most interested in science fiction or any story set in Africa. But he'd recently moved publishing houses and his new publisher, Haverton Masters, wanted him to broaden his areas of interest. So he was here from New York, feeling our organization out.

And probably up, too. Women would do anything to get an editor's attention. Manuscripts got slipped under restroom stall doors, into car trunks, on room service trays and through fast food service windows to agents, editors, and any relative once or twice removed. And some of those late-night rogue reading sessions could turn into wild, wild parties, or so I’d heard.

At the podium, Jeff shifted from one foot to the other as he spoke of checking the Internet for specific submission details for each publisher, blah, blah, blah. What a boring speaker. Then he asked for questions. Someone remarked that Reynard Jackson's book was published by his new company and asked him if he'd ever met the bestselling author.

Jeff said, "Sure.”

A low, frantic buzz swept the room. No one had
ever
met Reynard Jackson. No one. Audience questions bombarded him. My hand shot up, but others were first.

"Is Reynard really a man?" one woman asked. "We can't tell."

"Yes. I think so." The eye twitched. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Where does he live?" someone shouted.

"Well, he has several homes. Isn't one of them here?" Jeff said.

The buzz swelled to nervous hive level.

"How does he work so fast? He's gotten twelve books out in three years."

Jeff wiped his brow. "I'm not sure. Some authors are just prolific. Like Nora Roberts and Jayne Ann Krentz."

"Is he married? Is he tall? Is he handsome?"

Big laugh.

Jeff shrugged. "Look, I just met him briefly. He had a plane to catch."

"Who's his editor? His agent?" I yelled. "How can we contact him?"

Jeff peered out at me. "Agent? Sorry. Confidential part of his contract."

The room energy was chaotic, and the budding writers, their eyes glazed with visions of their own success, suddenly surged toward the podium. Jeff took his notes and fled out the back door with a swarm of eager authors hot on his tail.