by Lee Taylor
He turned to the waitress. "And bring me a beer, a Heineken."
He looked back at Jessie. "You want anything, hon?"
She shook her head. "I'll finish my champagne."
What was it about the word hon she disliked? She'd lived most of her life in Canada but the endearment always raised her English hackles.
Gary thumped his chest with his fist, belching loudly. "You're right about the bubbly. It's an acquired taste. I'll stick to beer."
He withdrew a file folder from a leather briefcase that he'd pulled onto his lap from the bench. "Here we are."
He opened it and cracked his knuckles.
Jessie cringed. She rummaged in her purse for her reading glasses, breathed on the lenses, and wiped them clean with the microfiber cloth she always carried. She put them on slowly, looking at him over the top of the frame. The conversation had to get back on a business-like footing.
Gary removed the large paperclip from a sheaf of papers, then turned the pages and set them in front of her, so he was reading upside down. Suddenly transformed into a consummate professional, he launched into the details of the publisher's offer. "This is a little different from the first contract because you'd already written that book. Paperbacks of His Willing Slave are in distribution now that you've approved the cover art and it's been proofed."
He explained page after page of legal clauses about public appearances, cover art, royalties, obligations, and advances. Jessie's mind boggled. She pointed to a figure with an unbelievable number of zeroes. "This is what they will pay as an advance for the second book?"
Gary looked up at her and smiled broadly. "Yup! You'll have it within the week."
Uncertainty swamped her brain. Was she doing the right thing handing over rights to a publisher? Maybe she should just continue as an independent author. Then at least she'd keep all the control. The pressure of so much money and facing deadlines imposed by a publisher might lead to writer's block. What if she couldn't produce a second book? "I'm not sure," she wavered.
The waitress arrived with Gary's beer. After taking a few gulps, he wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "I understand. But I've negotiated the changes I felt were in your best interest. It's a good contract."
He handed her a pen, clicking the ballpoint to life with his thumb. She accepted it, pausing a moment to still the trembling in her hand, then signed her name.
Gary indicated several places for her initials, accepting the pen back when she'd finished. He quickly witnessed with a signature that looked to Jessie like a straight line with a little curlicue at the end.
He slipped the pen back into his jacket pocket, then held out his hand. "Congratulations, Jessie Halliwell, or should I say, Dallas Lancaster? You're going to be a wealthy woman. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run. I'm flying out early tomorrow with my brother and I want to get these documents couriered before I go. Our sister is giving us a send off supper tonight."
Guess he's not married, then.
"Nice," she said. "Where are you off to?"
He drained his beer. "Panama."
Sounded exotic. "On vacation?"
"Yeah." He carefully pinched the corners of the pages into a perfect pile. She'd seen casino dealers do the same with decks of cards. He retrieved the paper clip, fastened the lot together, then put them back in the file. "Do you have the synopsis and first chapter ready for me to send in the package?"
She handed him the envelope on the bench beside her. "They have to understand I'm a pantser."
Gary looked at her curiously. "Pantser?"
"As opposed to a plotter. I write by the seat of my pants. What I've said in the synopsis might change as the characters develop and the story evolves. I've made that clear."
He nodded, but as he slid her future into the briefcase, he said, "Jessie, I hope you don't mind a suggestion about your second book."
"Of course not."
To her surprise, he seemed nervous. "Well, it's just that, maybe a bit more hands-on research is needed, as far as the Dom/Sub thing goes. I mean, your details were good, but there's nothing like actual experience. It can make the difference between a bestseller and a blockbuster. Maybe the club where you interviewed those people--"
Prickly heat swept up her spine. Had he read her mind? Or her journal? As her face flushed, the color drained from his.
"I've said too much. You're the writer. I have complete confidence in you. See you when I get back. I'll settle the bill on the way out."
She watched him leave, suddenly feeling lonely. She glanced at the couple who'd offered a mock toast earlier. They looked away quickly.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Pass the potatoes please, Michael," his sister, Charlene said as she emerged from the kitchen of her comfortable townhouse to take her place at the dining room table.
Michael passed the dish. "How's it going at the new job?"
Charlene helped herself to a dollop of mashed potatoes, narrowed her eyes at her husband sitting across from her, shrugged and said, "Good. I think I'm going to like it there. It's a lot more responsibility. There are always kinks to iron out in any new place."
An image of a scene he'd watched at Scallywags flashed across Michael's brain. What was with the look Charlene had given Harry? He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Kinks?"
Charlene shifted in her chair. "Gravy, please. Oh, you know. When you work with a bunch of people who are all experts in social work, with degrees up the yin yang, there are bound to be differences of opinion. But, it'll work out."
Up the yin yang? Again his mind drifted to Scallywags.
"You argued with someone?"
Michael's sister wasn't one to keep her opinions to herself. She'd always believed it her God-given right to give him a piece of her mind, especially about Linda--all of which had turned out to be correct, he had to admit. And don't get her started on their brother Gary and his lifestyle. He'd called to say he couldn't make it for dinner--too much packing to finish. Thanks, bro.
"Let's not talk about that," Charlene said. "How's it going with you? Any girlfriends, since the last bimbo?"
Now Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He took a few sips of his merlot before responding. He didn't want to get into the fiasco of Tiffany again. All she ever wanted to do was go to the mall.
I suppose that's what a man gets when he dates a woman thirty years younger.
And he'd no intention of telling his sister about the clerk at the cinema concession who'd asked if he and his daughter needed anything else besides the popcorn they'd purchased before the movie.
"I've had some dates, but nothing to write home about."
Charlene topped up his wineglass. "What are you looking for? And where are you looking?"
He might have known his sister hadn't invited him for dinner solely for a send-off. He looked across the table at Harry, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his sleeve.
"Do we have to? Let's just enjoy this delicious meal you've prepared," Harry said, the hang dog look on his face telling Michael he knew she wouldn't let it go.
"The trouble is--"
Here it comes.
"--that you're looking for the wrong kind of woman, one that has a 24 inch waist and a flat belly."
And submissive.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "What's wrong--?"
"You want a woman who looks fabulous in an evening gown, or in jeans, or naked on the back of a motorcycle."
Or spread-eagled on my bed.
Harry reddened, casting exasperated glances at his wife. She carried on, undeterred. Michael decided he might as well let her talk.
"You want someone who'll always be full of energy, who'll be the one to initiate mad, passionate sex with you--"
"Charlene!" Harry interrupted. "Not at the dinner table."
She shot back an irritated look. "I'm serious--look at him squirm. He knows I'm telling the truth."
Charlene had peered into his soul. Ho
w did she know of his erotic dreams about beautiful (young) women making love to him on the sofa, in the back seat of his car, on his desk, or the kitchen counter, or sucking him off as they drove along the highway, obeying his every wish and command, or--
He suddenly realized Charlene was still talking. "You want her to be a good cook, rich, childless, without entanglements of any kind, and first and foremost, thin. Someone who'll say, wear and be whatever you desire."
Jesus Christ!
Harry banged his fist on the table. "Charlene, leave him alone, for God's sake. What's wrong with Michael wanting a woman like that? A man can dream, can't he?"
He should be grateful to his brother-in-law for redirecting his sister's ire as she glared at her husband with disdain and suspicion. That was the trouble with people who had degrees in social work--they were so expert at interpreting people's motives.
A disturbing image of his bossy sister as a whip-wielding, leather-clad Dominatrix flashed into his brain. Sweat broke out at his temples.
Charlene shook her head, pouting as she collected up the dishes. "Turn the heat down, Harry. Michael's sweating. You done?"
Michael wiped his napkin across his brow and passed his plate. "Yeah, thanks, delicious. Good to have a home cooked meal. Don't worry about the thermostat. I'm fine."
Charlene disappeared into the kitchen.
Harry leaned over. "It's only because she cares about you, you know."
Michael nodded with a crooked smile. "I know."
Charlene reappeared with dessert. "What's wrong is that it's a pretty picture, but if that's what you want, you may as well hang a painting over your bed."
Good idea. The way things were going, no one else was ever likely to see it anyway. "So, great expert, what should I be looking for?"
What had possessed him to ask that?
Charlene dished up the dessert. "Don't be so sarcastic. I was right about Linda, wasn't I?"
Harry and Michael rolled their eyes.
"Well, wasn't I? Now the bloody woman is off to Greece, a trip you've no doubt paid for. What about her precious dogs?"
Michael was relieved the subject had changed. "I've had them for a few days. They're still at the house, but she's taking them to a kennel before she leaves."
Charlene snorted. "You guys treat those dogs as if they're your children. Don't know what you see in the yappy things. Anyway, getting back to our previous discussion."
Shit!
"What you need is a partner who'll scratch your back, make great coffee, listen to your dreams, enjoy your music, pick out your tie, wrap all the Christmas gifts--"
"For goodness sake, woman," Harry exclaimed, shoving away his bowl. "I'm going to watch the game." He got up and headed for the living room.
Charlene softened her voice. "Seriously, Michael, what are you looking for? Be honest with yourself."
A deep yearning welled up inside, a yearning that came more and more these days. "I want to find a true, exciting, lasting love."
Charlene nodded. "You deserve it. You're a great guy, with lots to offer a woman. But you want passion and intimacy too. Right?"
His sister knew him well. After all, she was an expert in relationships.
"Yeah," he whispered huskily. "Maybe I'll find someone in Panama."
"Oh, please, Michael. Don't make it more complicated." She leaned towards him, her elbows resting on the table. "Trust me, you're never going to find the perfect woman. I work with lots of single men your age, widowers, divorcees, who tell me what they want. Their expectations can be summed up in a few words--big boobs, blonde, long hair, thin, feminine, sexy. I can almost see the Playboy bunny picture in their heads."
Michael blinked, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"It's not your fault," Charlene expounded. "Men are so bloody visual. But what you need is someone who thinks as young as you do. We offer courses in this kind of thing at the Center, you know."
Michael snorted. "Yeah, right."
"Think about it," Charlene said.
"I'd hoped to call in to see Mom before I left, but I doubt if I'll have time."
Charlene smirked. "Way to change the subject, baby brother. I'll miss a few days too. My Romeo is taking me to Seattle on the Victoria Clipper for our anniversary. Hopefully Mom'll have remembered a new aria by the time I return. I'm sick and tired of La Traviata."
Michael assumed a melodramatic pose, one hand held out before him, the other on his heart. He sang in falsetto, imitating Violetta's words. "Oh! Oh! Amore! Follie! Gioir!"
Charlene gathered up the dessert dishes. "Madness is right. She even lowers her voice when she sings Alfredo's part."
A lifelong love affair with the flugelhorn had earned Michael membership in several well known brass bands, where he was often featured as a soloist.
He had a decent voice that had secured him a place in the Police Choir. A female colleague had commented he sounded ‘just like Brian Adams'. He'd quipped back that he wished he had the pop star's money.
He missed singing in the choir. Music was in his soul.
He knew the opera well. Love, madness, joy--his mother sang his heart's desire.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jessie had looked forward to the weekly Happy Hour in Camden Manor's Entertainment Room. It was a chance to meet some of her neighbors. She'd bumped into one or two checking their mail in the foyer, but most people evidently took the elevator straight from the parking garage to their floor.
She'd been impressed with the tastefully furnished and decorated Entertainment Room during her first visit to the building.
Perhaps the weekly gathering might produce an interesting man. After being cooped up alone in her apartment she eagerly anticipated some social interaction. She'd made progress with her book, but after a long career in teaching, writing was a solitary endeavor.
Her first husband, a former priest, had known enough about ecclesiastical law to procure an annulment, allowing her to keep her teaching job. However, there was no going back to working for a Catholic school after her divorce; the Trustees had made that plain.
Her apartment was beginning to feel more like home, but it would take a while to get used to living in a building. At least this one didn't have endless dimly-lit narrow hallways. It was the main reason she'd chosen Camden Manor. Had she known months ago she'd be making huge amounts of money with her writing, she'd never have sold her house.
Afflicted with excruciating punctuality, she forced herself to be five minutes late for the 5 o'clock gathering, but was still the first tenant to arrive.
Eileen Shepherd, the Super's wife, greeted her, pointing to a table. "You can put your goodies over there."
Jessie smiled, removing the plastic wrap from the plate of store bought Nanaimo bars. She'd never been a baker. She set the squares next to the veggie dip tray Eileen had evidently provided. It was one of Thrifty Grocery's specials, which made her feel less guilty. "Shall I put the wine here too?" she asked.
Eileen pointed to a smaller table. "No, Jerry sets the bar up over there."
Belatedly, Jessie noticed the plastic wine glasses alongside two bottles of Private Stock wine.
She added her bottle of Frontera merlot. "I suppose Jerry has an opener?" she asked, feeling rather stupid as soon as the words were out of her mouth. It was a bar, of course he'd have an opener.
Eileen didn't reply.
Jessie grabbed a carrot stick from the veggie tray.
Should she lay claim to a seat in one of the well-upholstered couches, or remain standing to engage in conversation? If anyone else turned up.
"Is Happy Hour usually well attended?" she asked Jerry as he bustled in.
He gave her a half smile of recognition. "Oh, yes. Well, it depends, I suppose. At this time of year there's normally quite a crowd. And tonight is the first one of the month, so people will come to see who the new tenants are."
His turn of phrase was interesting. They didn't come to welcome new neigh
bors, but to size them up. She suddenly wished she'd worn something more formal than black corduroy pants and a red turtleneck.
A few more people wandered in, mostly elderly women. Some returned her smile, others headed straight for the food table. No one came to introduce themselves.
Jerry brought her a glass of red wine. She could have kissed him, until she took a sip. Not merlot, and definitely not Frontera. He hovered. "My private stock," he boasted. "I bottle it at the U-Brew. Good, eh?"
She nodded, smiling weakly.
The room filled up. People quickly grabbed what available seating there was. Little groups of conversation were forming. No one even looked her way.
She had an insane urge to jump up on a chair and shout, "I'm a bestselling author of erotic romance"--just to see what the reaction would be. But she wasn't brave enough to do such a thing. Drawing attention was something she avoided. She'd never acquired the knack of insinuating herself into a conversation with people she didn't know. May as well go back to her apartment.
Just then, the air in the room stirred, became electric. There was a collective intake of breath as if a celebrity had entered. She looked over at the door.
A strikingly good-looking man with brown hair stood there, one hand unbuttoning his jacket, then straightening his designer tie, the other in his pants pocket. His hair was thick and wavy, but it wasn't his most notable attribute. He looked feral, though his dark suit was immaculately tailored, his shoes highly polished. His predatory gaze swept the room and he acknowledged waves from several people with a barely discernible lift of the chin and an arched brow.
He wasn't tall, but exuded an air of power and wealth. His gaze fell on her. Black corduroy had definitely been the wrong choice, probably full of lint she hadn't noticed.
Why did it matter? He was at least ten years her junior. A pulse beat in her throat. He drew her eye, yet she wanted for some uncomfortable reason to resist his magnetism, tempted to flee when he nodded and strode towards her.
He offered his hand. "Phil Glazebrook. I see my neighbors are being their usual thoughtless selves."