The Perfect Letter (4 page)

Don't wait. Move on with your life, Leigh,
he'd whispered to her.
Forget about me. I'm no good for you.

She hadn't meant to move on. She'd tried to wait. She'd tried to forgive him when he didn't write to her, because God knows he had reasons to be angry. But ten years was a long time to be on your own, in strange cities, far from home, and Leigh was only human, after all.

They would both have changed. He might not even recognize her now—they could pass each other on the street, maybe, and never even know it. She'd been foolish to think they could pick up where they left off after he got out, as if nothing had happened. Ten years did a lot of damage to a person. And what Jake had suffered in prison, Leigh couldn't imagine. Prison was nothing you could dismiss with a wave of your hand. Whatever Jake did or didn't feel toward her, whatever he blamed her for, he had every right to be angry.

The water turned lukewarm, then cool, then cold, but Leigh stayed under the tap until she started to shiver, sliding down the wall to the floor of the tub. She couldn't get up. She couldn't do it, not after everything. She wanted to go back to New York so badly she could taste it in
her mouth—the air full of exhaust and damp, the smell of Chinese food and hot-dog vendors. New York was her hideout, her haven, her fortress of solitude. And she couldn't get to it for a whole week. Maybe she'd made a terrible mistake not accepting Joseph's proposal. She should have said,
Yes, of course I'll marry you, Joseph, of course I love you, I want to make a life with you.
That's what any sane person would have done.

Maybe it wasn't too late.

It was the ringing phone that finally got her to her feet. Somewhere in her hotel room, her cell phone was ringing. She wrapped a towel around herself and sprinted from the shower soaking wet, but she couldn't find the damn thing. She looked in the bedside table, the closet, her purse, before she finally found it lying underneath the bed, buzzing angrily. She picked it up and looked at the caller. It was Joseph.

“There you are,” he said. “I was starting to think you'd run away with the circus.”

Leigh sat on the bed, her hair dripping onto the phone, onto the bedspread. “Not yet. You're not that lucky.”

She was making a puddle on the floor, but it was so good to hear his voice, so good to hear something safe and normal. Even across time zones, she could hear the murmur of voices in the background, the clink of scotch glasses, the voice of the little waiter at the old-fashioned steakhouse next door to Jenks & Hall Publishing. “Are you at Keens?” she asked.

“How could you know that over the phone?”

She smiled. “Tell Randall I said hello.”

Joseph relayed her message to his dinner companion. As if from underwater, Leigh could hear the voice of her boss answering back, could barely make out her friend and mentor saying, “Tell Leigh to hurry up and come home already. All your moping is making me bored, Joseph, honestly.”

Leigh smiled. “I miss you, too, Randy,” she said. She didn't tell him she
was
home. To Randall Jenks, one of the most brilliant minds in publishing, anything west of Manhattan might as well have been the moon. The thought of his protégée, Leigh, growing up on the Colorado, swimming naked in Lake Lyndon Johnson, riding horses on hot afternoons, would have filled him with horror. All he knew was that Leigh had graduated from Harvard, and that was enough for him.

It was business she turned to for comfort now. “Are you talking about the fall list?” she asked. Another voice at the table: deeper, a rich baritone with a musical Scottish lilt. “Is that Marty?” Martin Hall was Randall's partner. The two of them had forged the most prestigious boutique publishing house in New York once upon a time, but Marty had been in ill health recently. He rarely came to the office anymore, much less went out for lunch. She felt a sudden cold fear spread through her belly. Were they selling the business? Shutting everything down now because of Marty's cancer? There'd been some talk about it around the office, but nothing she'd taken seriously, not until now. “What's going on?” she asked, nearly breathless. “Joseph, I can hear Marty there. What's happening?”

“We were halfway into our salads when they sprang it on me.”

“Please tell me you're talking about a promotion.”

“Better. Leigh, they want to make me a full partner. Name above the door and everything.”

A partner. Well, there was probably no better person in New York than Joseph Middlebury to turn to if the old guard was looking to make a change. He had a terrific track record, even when the market was bad. Also he had his own money, family money, to invest in the company. It made sense that they'd make him a partner, a man who'd overseen the company's transition to e-books, who'd pioneered book-club chats all over the country, who'd seen what Internet sales had to offer before anyone else. Randall and Marty weren't going to shut
down the company, they were going to step back and let the next generation take over. “That's amazing. I'm so proud of you. Jenks, Hall, and Middlebury. I like the way that sounds.”

“That's not all, Leigh. We're talking about giving you your own imprint.”

“What?”

“Leigh Merrill Books. For real.”

She sat unsteadily on the bed, feeling a strange floating sensation, as if she were being picked up and carried on a huge wave, higher and higher, cresting above her head, the dark blue water below. Her own imprint, at twenty-nine years old. It was more than she ever dared to imagine. “That's—I don't even know what to say. Thank you.”

“I told him you'd be thrilled. It shows a real commitment to you, Leigh. To keeping you at the company.” She could almost hear what he wasn't saying:
And to keep you near me.

“I am. I'm thrilled. I'm a bit flabbergasted, too. I mean, that's a lot of pressure. I was figuring in ten years, maybe . . .”

“It's a great opportunity, Leigh. Your own imprint. You can shape the whole literary discussion in this country.”

“I know.”

“Develop your own list, your own authors. It's every editor's dream.”

“Yes,” she said, switching the phone to her other hand, “I know. I'm very happy.”

“You don't sound happy.”

Breathe. Just breathe.

“I am,” she said, keeping her voice even. “It's just unexpected.” She was keeping a lid on her fear, but barely. “I am. I'm thrilled, like I said,” she told him, “but I just got out of the shower. A bunch of people from the conference are going out for a drink tonight, and I said I'd meet up with them—”

“Sure, okay,” he said. “I need to go, too. Lots to talk about.”

“But call me later, okay?” she said. “I want to hear everything Randall says.”

“Tell Chloe I said hi.”

“I will,” she said. “I know you're going to make a great publisher. He's had his eye on you for a long time.”

“I won't let him down.”

“I know you won't.”

“Don't have too much fun.”

“It's Texas,” she said. “They put fun in the water here. Like fluoride.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Don't worry,” she said, feeling a tic of irritation. “I know how to handle myself.”

She was about to hang up the phone when he said, “I miss you. New York isn't the same without you here.”

Her momentary irritation melted away—here he was again, the man who fit her like a pair of comfortable shoes, the one who seemed so sane, so safe. This was the man who'd taken her to hear her first symphony at Lincoln Center, who'd surprised her with a picnic in Central Park on her last birthday, who'd taken her to his family's house in the Hamptons every weekend in the summer, who rubbed her neck at the end of a long day, who knew how she took her coffee, who listened to her ideas and took them seriously. He was a partner, in every sense of the word. He was everything she'd always said she wanted.

For a minute she could picture herself marrying him—the gorgeous wedding they'd have, the long white dress she'd wear, the church full of their friends, the celebrity guests, the reception at the Waldorf, the honeymoon in the Seychelle Islands, the pied-à-terre they'd buy on the Upper West Side, the country house in Westchester. She could see them picking out china patterns, squabbling gently
over the furniture for the living room. For a minute she pictured herself saying her wedding vows to him:
I, Leigh, take you, Joseph, until death do us part.
How happy it would make him if she would say yes. It made her feel warm all over to think of herself giving so much happiness to someone she cared about so much.
Yes
didn't seem so difficult all of a sudden. Maybe she
could
marry him. Maybe it was exactly what she should do.

“I miss you, too,” she said. “I'm sorry about last night. I'll make it up to you when I get home, I promise.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I think I was scared. Maybe I needed to let go of some old ghosts. But we'll talk more later, okay?”

“I like the sound of that.”

A
t eight the next morning Leigh dragged herself out of bed to grab a quick shower, pour three cups of strong black coffee down her throat, and dress in her New York best to give the opening address to the conference. Chloe had kept her out in the city the night before, going from bar to bar to check out bands she wanted to see, bands made up of friends she had made in her years as a hot young nightclub singer in Austin's music scene. Leigh told her friend about her promotion, about getting her own imprint, and they'd gone out to celebrate, but at an after-party with some friends of Chloe's, Leigh had sat on the couch drinking shot after shot of tequila, trying to forget about Jake, to forget that Jake was out of prison and still had not called her, had not wanted to get in touch with her. The world had gone fuzzy and dim, the voices around her thick as syrup, and though Leigh knew it was stupid, it was reckless
to drink so much, she hadn't cared at all at the moment. She only wanted to forget.

In the middle of the swirl of color and noise and booze, there'd been something else, someone who caught her attention. At the last show of the night, in a red-leather half-moon booth listening to a rockabilly band, she'd noticed someone staring at her from the bar, a man in his late forties or fifties with a long graying ponytail and small, predatory eyes. She'd caught his glance for a minute, then looked away, quickly, but apparently not quickly enough. A minute later he'd come over with a couple of beers, holding one out to Leigh, who politely declined. “No, thanks,” she'd said. “I think I've had enough.”

“One more won't kill you,” he said. He was shorter than she'd imagined at first, broad-shouldered, covered with tattoos. She could see the edge of a snake's tail climbing up his neck.

“I don't take drinks from strangers, sorry.”

“We don't have to be strangers,” he said. “I know you. I know all about you, Leigh Merrill.”

She squinted at him, about to offer a sarcastic retort, when Chloe, sensing danger, grabbed her by the arm and said she had something important to tell her in the bathroom, giving the ponytailed man an evil look as she pulled Leigh out the door and into her car. “What was that all about?” she asked.

Leigh said, “Oh, you know. Local stalker.” And they both had a laugh about it.

Leigh didn't remember exactly what time Chloe had dropped her off back at her room, but the sunrise had just begun to peek over the horizon when she fell into bed, the alarm going off long before she was ready for it. She dragged herself into the shower and woke up a little under the heat and pressure of the spray.

Now, looking at the bags under her eyes while she put on her mascara, while she smeared on her best lipstick, Leigh decided that she'd
been naive to think coming home would be so easy. This trip had already been an emotional whipsaw, and it was only her second day back.

The light dress she'd packed so carefully for this morning's talk was white silk, above the knee, very cool and light in the Texas heat, but standing in front of the mirror with her sunglasses on her head and her coffee in her hand, she decided it was too bridal, that it looked like she was having a quickie wedding at the courthouse, something furtive and embarrassing. Chloe would certainly have hated it, made fun of her for packing it. It was too late, though—there was nothing else she'd brought that was dressy enough for a formal speech. She decided she'd just have to suffer through.

Now, as Leigh wobbled down the hillside in her ridiculous white dress and impractical black stiletto heels, she was sure she was going to break an ankle. The path was gravel and a little bit steep, and her ankles wobbled with each step. How had she been so stupid? She was as bad as any city girl. First chance she got, she was going into town and buying a decent pair of cowboy boots. She'd thrown out her old pair years ago, when it started to look like she was never coming back. That, she decided now, was clearly a mistake.

She was late already. The conferencegoers had been assembled for hours, eating breakfast together, having coffee in the dining pavilion outside the main house, where there were picnic tables arranged around a firepit. In the front hall of the main house Leigh stopped a man with a badge to ask where she could find the ballroom. He pointed her to a tall set of curving staircases that led up to a large open room hung with tapestries and two enormous deer-antler chandeliers. A stone fireplace stood at one end, cold now in the May heat.

Maybe two or three hundred people were in the room already, lined up on either side of an aisle leading to a stage where a podium and
microphone were already set up, flanked by a couple of chairs. She could feel a general murmur make its way through the crowd, many of whom turned back to look at her—the star of the show, at least for this morning—and again she felt the white dress was a terrible mistake. Somewhere, she was sure, a hidden organist was about to start playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Or maybe she just had weddings on the brain after her conversation with Joseph yesterday. She hung back a little, wishing she could disappear.

Then there was someone at her elbow, greeting her with a friendly hello and asking if her trip was pleasant, if her room was nice, if all was in order. This was Saundra Craig, the director of the conference, a tiny woman with long gray hair pinned up in a loose bun and a floral skirt that brushed the floor like a feather duster. She had the fussy, motherly, businesslike manner of hippie women who'd come of age during the 1960s and 70s, the kind of manner Leigh imagined her mother might have had, if she'd lived to be as old as Saundra.

She handed Leigh a bottle of water. “We're so thrilled to have you here,” she said. “Don't you look nice, though? So smart to wear white in this weather.”

“Thank you,” said Leigh. She was about to say how glad she was to be invited when the screech of someone turning on the microphone hit her so hard she nearly passed out.

Saundra signaled for someone to turn down the mic, and the noise died. When Leigh could open her eyes again, the room settled back into a familiar shape—the deer-antler chandelier overhead, a table of coffee and tea service in the back, trays of danishes and bagels and cut fruit to fortify the early-morning crowd. The guests were already taking their seats, still looking behind them toward the place where the guest of honor was awaiting her turn onstage. Clearly it was a mistake to have gone out with Chloe last night—she should have stayed in and watched reality TV. She took another drink of coffee, willing the caffeine to her
brain. People from all over the country had come to hear her talk that morning. The least she could do was try to look awake.

“Can I get you anything else?” Saundra asked. “A couple of aspirin maybe?”

“I'll be all right, thanks,” said Leigh, taking a gulp of water. “I went out for Tex-Mex yesterday with a friend, and I'm feeling a little green. Must have had some bad beef.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Saundra said, patting Leigh's arm. “But let me get you a couple of aspirin anyway.” She came back in a minute with two pills and a Bloody Mary.

Leigh nearly hugged the woman. “You're a magician,” she said, tossing back the aspirin with a gulp of tomato juice and vodka. “I owe you my life.”

“This is a writers' conference, honey,” she said. “You're not the first speaker to turn up with a hangover.”

In a minute she started to feel better. While Saundra went onstage to say her welcome remarks, Leigh sipped the Bloody Mary, trying to be careful of her white dress. Then she grabbed a bagel and nibbled on it a bit, looking out at the faces in the room. The attendees were all shapes and sizes: some were young college students on summer break; some were high-school teachers or advertising executives looking to reconnect with their passion; a good deal of them were obviously retired folks working on their memoirs or finally getting around to that first novel. There were a lot more Stetsons in the crowd than there would have been in New York, more blue jeans and boots, but no matter what people were wearing, they had all come to pursue a long-deferred dream of writing a book. She'd been to enough writers' conferences by now that the types were familiar even if the faces changed.

Leigh found herself searching the crowd, wondering which of them might have a truly great book in them, the talent it took to break out. There was always one, in her experience; sometimes, there might
be two. But always at least one. If she could find that one, she might have the next Richard Millikin on her hands—and the first title for Leigh Merrill Books. Her stomach did another flip.

In a minute Saundra started introducing Leigh: graduate of Harvard, youngest editor at the prestigious publishing company Jenks & Hall, editor of the hugely sought-after novel
The Perfect Letter,
a
New York Times
bestseller already being optioned for a Hollywood movie starring Meryl Streep and George Clooney. As Leigh stood to enthusiastic applause, she felt a surge of adrenaline clear her head.

She smiled out at the room, took a breath, and began.
You got this.

“So it sounds like a number of you have already read and, I hope, enjoyed
The Perfect Letter,
” she said. “Perhaps some of you have even read about the provenance of the novel, how Richard Millikin had worked on the manuscript in fits and starts for thirty years, how he started other things but came back to this story time and again. Something about the story touched him completely, he told me later. All those letters that Marian writes to her lost love, letters she never sent—Richard Millikin told me he'd stay up all night sometimes, writing them. The passion in them moved him so much. But he didn't know if he could publish the story, didn't know if he could let it go. He threw the manuscript away four times, he said, but each time his wife rescued it from the trash and threatened to send it to his agent herself if he wouldn't. When I heard that through the New York rumor mill, I knew it was the book for me, and even though it took me two years of phone calls and e-mails to his agent and trips to Maine to convince him to let me see it, he finally did. I thank God every day his wife had enough sense not to let him destroy what's probably the best book of a long and storied career.” More applause.

“But we've all had those moments, haven't we? Moments when we begin to doubt our gifts, when our dedication to our work starts to falter. No matter how successful, how famous, a writer always doubts his latest project. That's why the world needs editors, of course.” She
brought out the manila folder that held her morning's presentation and opened it: pages of neat type crisscrossed with her scrawled notes and edits. Even when it was her own writing, Leigh couldn't help editing and reediting it. She was always searching for the right word, the right phrase.

“That's why I'm here today, to talk to you about
The Perfect Letter,
about how to write a perfect letter of your own. Because that's what a book is: a letter from a writer to a reader. It's connection. Something that reaches across the divides of time and space and brings us closer together.”

“The perfect letter,” she began, “starts with truth. With nakedness.” A smattering of embarrassed laughter. “Now, I don't mean physical nakedness. I mean emotional nakedness. The kind of writing that bares the soul.” A sigh went up through the crowd. “How many of you used to regularly write letters, actual paper letters, to friends and family?” A number of hands went up around the room, mostly the older crowd. This is what Leigh had been counting on. “And how many of you have written or received a personal letter in the past year?” Across the room, only five or six hands went up—again the older crowd.

Leigh nodded in acknowledgment. “Letters used to be our main form of communication and connection. In the days before the telephone, a letter might be your only tie to a friend or loved one who lived far away, and most people devoted many hours of their days to letter writing. A day without a letter was very boring indeed. Today it would be like a day without Internet access. Horrors, right?” Another round of laughter. “But a good letter was a work of art. The best letters had the special tone and inflection of the person writing them. The unique way of speaking that belonged only to that special person, so that when you received that letter, it was like the loved one was there, in the room with you. The letter writer had to rely on the written word to convey affection, alarm, dismay, fear, love, and even anger. To take
black words on a white page and make them come alive. It was truly an art form—an art form we've lost.

“People used to share letters, pass the best ones around to friends and family to read and admire, like books. Jane Austen was said to have written three thousand letters in her lifetime, most to her sister. Three thousand. Now I'm lucky to get a letter summoning me to jury duty.” More polite laughter. “The art of the letter is the art of finding your voice, of revealing the most hidden parts of yourself to another person, of bridging distance and time and even death to tell something that's so important the person receiving it simply
has to read it
.