by Sandra Brown
“I sense a ‘however’ coming.”
“However, wouldn’t it be a star in his crown if he discovered the next generation’s defining novelists?”
“In other words, he’s an opportunistic old bastard.”
Parker laughed. “Everyone is opportunistic, Mike. Everyone. Without exception. Only the degree of one’s opportunism separates him from others. How far is one willing to go to get what he wants?
“Some fall by the wayside early. They give up, or take another course, or simply decide that what they’re after isn’t worth the risks or the costs involved in getting it. But others…”
He paused and focused on a spot in near space. “To get what they want, others are willing to go to any lengths. Any lengths. They’ll go beyond what’s lawful, or decent, or moral so long as they come out ahead.”
Mike seemed about to remark on that bit of philosophizing, when he changed his mind and asked a question that Parker guessed was less incendiary. “Do you want to assign that much importance to a secondary character?”
“Hadley, you mean? He’s important to the plot.”
“He is?”
“Integral. I have to set that up.”
Mike nodded, seemingly distracted by another thought. Half a minute passed. Finally Parker asked him what was on his mind. “The pacing? The dialogue? Too much narrative about the Key West apartment, or not enough?”
“The brunette stripper on the roof—”
“Mary Catherine.”
“Is the girl—”
“In the prologue who accompanies them on the boat. Remember, one of the boys removes her bikini top and waves it above his head before they’re even out of the harbor. So it’s important that I establish in the reader’s mind that she’s a friendly, playful sort. There’s more about her in an upcoming scene.”
“She’s a nice girl, Parker.”
“The stripper with the heart-shaped ass?”
Mike gave him a sour look.
Parker cursed beneath his breath. Mike was determined to talk about Maris, and when Mike got something into his head to talk about, he would continue dredging it up until it was talked about.
Parker returned his notes to the worktable, knowing that he might just as well get this conversation out of the way so he could get on with the rest of his afternoon. “First of all, Maris is a woman, not a girl. And whoever said she wasn’t nice? Not me. Did you ever hear me say she wasn’t nice? She says ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ keeps her napkin in her lap, and covers her mouth when she yawns.”
Mike fixed an admonishing glare on him. “Admit it. She’s not what you expected.”
“No. She’s taller by a couple inches.” He was on the receiving end of another baleful look. He spread his arms wide. “What do you want me to say? That she’s not the snob I thought she’d be? Okay, she’s not.”
“You expected a spoiled rich girl.”
“A total bitch.”
“An aggressive and abrasive—”
“Ball-buster.”
“Who would blow in here, disrupting the peace and trying to intimidate us with her New York sophistication and superiority. Instead, Maris was… well, you know better than I what she was like.” As an afterthought, the old man said, “All the same, she did make an impact, didn’t she?”
Yes, she had. Just a much softer, more feminine impact than Parker had expected. He glanced at the vase on the coffee table. Maris had gathered sprigs of honeysuckle during a morning stroll and had asked if he would object to her putting them in water. “Just to brighten the room up a bit,” she’d said.
Mike, infatuated with her to the point of idiocy, had turned the kitchen upside down until he found a suitable container. For days, the wild bouquet had filled the solarium with a heady fragrance. Now it was an eyesore. The blossoms were shriveled, the water swampy and smelly. But Parker hadn’t asked Mike to remove it, and Mike hadn’t taken it upon himself to empty the vase. It was a reminder of her they weren’t quite ready to relinquish.
The shells she had collected on the beach were still spread out on the end table where she’d proudly displayed them. When she carried them in, her feet had been bare and dusted with sand. They’d left footprints on the tile floor, which she had insisted on sweeping up herself.
His dying houseplant was rallying because she had moved it to a better spot and had watered it just enough, not too much.
Two fashion magazines that she’d browsed through while he worked on his novel were still lying in the chair she’d last occupied.
It was that throw pillow there, the one with the fringe around it, that she had hugged to her breasts while she listened to him reading a passage from his manuscript.
Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of her.
“She’s an intelligent woman,” Mike said. “She proved that. Smart but sensitive.”
Mike was speaking in a hushed voice, as though he felt her spirit in the room and didn’t want to frighten it away. Which annoyed Parker more than if he’d scraped his fingernails down a chalkboard. They were acting like saps. He as much as Mike. A pair of sentimental fools.
And anyway, who said his room had needed to be brightened up a bit? He had liked it just fine the way it was before Maris Matherly-Reed had ever darkened the door.
“Don’t get misty, Mike,” he said, a shade more harshly than he had intended. “She plays sensitive because she wants a book from me.”
“A book. Not income. I don’t think she cares if Envy makes her company a red cent. She loves your writing.”
Parker shrugged indifferently, but secretly he agreed. In spite of the haggling, Maris seemed much more interested in the storytelling aspects of his book than in its earning potential.
“She can also laugh at herself. I like that in a person.” Then, looking at Parker askance, Mike added, “I guess there’s no need mentioning that she’s beautiful.”
“Then why’d you mention it?”
“So you noticed?”
“What, you think I’m blind as well as lame? Yeah, she’s good to look at.” He made a gesture that said, So what? “Her looks were no surprise. We saw her picture in that magazine article.”
“The photo didn’t do her justice.”
“I expected her to be attractive. Noah never dated an ugly girl,” Parker muttered. “Not that I knew about.”
When Mike declined to comment one way or another, Parker went on. “You know what? I’m glad she’s attractive. Real glad. It’ll make what I’m going to do all the more enjoyable.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You know I never talk over a plot until I’ve written at least some of it down. Guess you’ll have to use your imagination.”
“You’re going to use Maris.”
“Fuckin’-A. And if you don’t approve of my language, cover your ears.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The air conditioner was working, so why did it feel so damn hot in here? “Now, can we please end this discussion? I’ve got work to do.”
Mike calmly finished his glass of lemonade, then rifled through the manuscript pages again. At last he stood, crossed to Parker, and passed the sheets to him. “It’s coming along.”
“Don’t go overboard with the praise,” Parker said drolly. “I might get a swelled head.”
On his way out, Mike said, “You may want to rethink your motivation.”
“My characters’ motivation is perfectly clear.”
Mike didn’t even deign to turn around and address Parker face-to-face when he said, “I wasn’t referring to your characters.”
Chapter 19
“This is my favorite room.” Maris basked in the familiar comfort of her father’s home study, where they were having cocktails.
At the last minute Noah had needed to consult with the contracts manager over a disputed clause, so he had urged her to go to Daniel’s house ahead of him. She hadn’t minded his being detained. Since her return from Georgia, she hadn’t spent any tim
e alone with her father.
“I’m rather partial to this room myself,” Daniel said. “I spend a lot of time in here, but I like it even more when you’re sharing it with me.”
She laughed. “You didn’t always feel that way. I remember times when I’d come in here hoping to coax you away from the work that you’d brought home with you. I made a pest of myself.” They smiled at the shared recollections, but Daniel’s expression turned somber.
“I wish I had those times to relive, Maris. If I did, I’d spend more time skating in the park or playing Monopoly with you. I regret passing up those opportunities.”
“I wasn’t deprived much, Dad. In fact, I wasn’t deprived of anything. Most of all you.”
“You’re being far too generous, but I thank you for saying that.”
Maris sensed a melancholia in him tonight. He’d been very glad to see her, but his jocularity didn’t quite ring true. His comic bickering with Maxine seemed forced. His smiles were good counterfeits of the real thing, but they were noticeably strained.
“Dad, aren’t you feeling well? Is something wrong?”
He cited Howard Bancroft’s funeral. “It’s tomorrow morning.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Howard wasn’t just your corporate lawyer, he was a good and trusted friend.”
“I’m going to miss him. He’ll be missed all over this city. For the life of me, I can’t understand what drove him to do such a terrible thing.”
He was grieving his loss, naturally, but Maris wasn’t entirely sure that Bancroft’s suicide was the only thing weighing heavily on Daniel’s mind. She reasoned that his mood might be in response to her own. She wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs tonight, either. She could attribute her moodiness to two things. Well, actually two people. Noah and Parker.
Noah’s explanation for his meeting with WorldView had been plausible. Daniel had even verified it. Nevertheless, it rankled that they had kept her unaware of something so vitally important to the future of Matherly Press. She had never been that busy.
Had she been anyone else, her high ranking in the company would have demanded she be kept apprised. Their personal relationships should not have been a factor. As senior vice president of the corporation, she had deserved to be informed of Blume’s poaching. As a wife, she deserved her husband’s respect.
That’s what had really infuriated her—Noah’s nonchalant dismissal of her anger.
He’d treated her like a child who could be easily mollified with a candy stick, or a pet whose trust could be earned with a pat on the head. His peacemaking platitudes had been textbook standards. Marriage 101, lesson three: How to Fight Constructively.
The way in which he’d placated her had been more belittling than his original offense. Didn’t he know her any better than to think she could be so easily defused and dismissed?
“Maris?”
She raised her head and smiled at Daniel with chagrin. “Did I drift?”
“No farther than a million miles.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Would you freshen my drink, please?” When she hesitated, he waved his hand irritably. “I know, I know. You think I’m drinking too much. By the way, I saw through that man-to-man advice Noah gave me. It came straight from you.”
“I worry about you navigating the stairs after you’ve had a few, that’s all. You’re a little unsteady to start.”
“If I get drunk tonight, you can carry me up the stairs piggyback, how’s that?” Chastening him with a look, she crossed the room to get his glass and carried it with her to the bar. “While you’re at it, why don’t you have another?” he suggested. “I think you could use it.”
She poured him another scotch and refilled her wineglass with Chardonnay. “Why?”
“Why do I think you need alcoholic reinforcement this evening? Because you look like your puppy has run away from home.”
True. She was feeling a huge sense of loss. She’d been reluctant to pinpoint the source of it and assign it a name, but in her heart of hearts, she knew its name: Parker Evans.
She resettled in her chair, and as Daniel methodically refilled the bowl of his pipe, she let her gaze wander around the room. She took in her father’s extensive collection of coveted leather-bound first editions. They were meticulously lined up on the shelves of a massive cabinet with gleaming glass doors.
She couldn’t help but compare this neat and costly library to Parker’s haphazardly crammed bookshelves. She contrasted the expensive furnishings and appointments of this room to the wicker chairs and chintz cushions in Parker’s solarium. This room had an imported marble fireplace that had been salvaged from an Italian palace. The wood mantel in Parker’s house had been carved by a slave named Phineas.
And she realized that, as much as she loved this house, this room, and the fond memories of childhood they evoked, she was homesick for St. Anne Island, and Parker’s house with its creaky hardwood floors, and the cozy guest cottage with its claw-footed bathtub.
She was homesick for Mike’s clattering in the kitchen and the click of the keys as Parker typed in his rapid, two-fingered, hunt-and-peck method. She missed the oddly harmonious racket of the cicadas, and the distant swish of the surf breaking on the beach, and the scent of honeysuckle, and the feel of the salt air, so heavy it was like raiment against her skin, and… Parker.
She missed Parker.
“Are you thinking about him?” Daniel asked softly, interrupting her thoughts. “Is he what has made you sad?”
“Made me sad? Hardly,” she said, giving her head a firm shake. “Has he made me angry? Yes. Would I like to throttle him? Definitely. He’s provoking on every level, starting with how he approaches his profession. Only rarely does he take a suggestion or criticism without first putting up an argument, which invariably turns fierce.
“He stays hidden away in that house, on that island. Lovely as the house and island are, he uses them as a refuge. He should be out among people. A writer usually seizes every opportunity to promote his work. But not him. Oh, no. He adopts this lofty attitude and pretends to be above all that, but I know better. The reason he remains a recluse is because of his disability.
“Oh, have I told you that, Dad? He’s wheelchair-bound. I didn’t learn that until I got there. At first I was shocked because when talking to him over the telephone, I got no indication that he was in any way impaired, except when it came to manners. It took me totally by surprise. But after a while… I don’t know, Dad, it’s strange. When I look at him now, I don’t even see the wheelchair.”
She paused to reflect on that, realizing how profoundly true the statement was. She no longer saw Parker’s chair or his disability, and she wondered at what point that had happened.
“I suppose it’s the potency of his personality that makes his disability seem not just inconsequential, but invisible. He’s got an extraordinary command of the language. Even his bawdy—make that crude—vocabulary is impressive.
“He has a sly sense of humor. Wicked, sometimes. He can be awfully grouchy, too, but then I suppose he’s entitled to be. Anyone in his circumstances would be resentful. I mean, he’s young, in his prime, so his bitterness over being confined to a wheelchair is understandable and forgivable.
“He’s self-conscious of his scars, but he shouldn’t be. People, especially women, would find him attractive no matter what his legs look like. He’s not… not handsome, exactly, but… he’s got an… an animal magnetism, I guess you’d call it. You sense an energy radiating from him even when he’s sitting still.
“When he speaks to you, you’re drawn right into his eyes. The intensity with which he holds your attention makes up for his incapacity. But don’t get the impression that he’s feeble. He’s not. In fact he’s quite strong. His hands are…”
His hands. When they had kept her head in place for his kiss. When they had trapped her hips and held her still beside his chair. Those times they had felt incredibly strong and comm
anding. Yet at other times, like when he had plucked a leaf from her hair, his touch had been light and deft, even playful.
When she’d held a seashell in her palm for him to admire, he had traced the delicate whorls with his fingertip gingerly, as though afraid to apply too much pressure and risk crushing it. A woman would never have to flinch from his touch.
“He’s the most complex individual I’ve ever met,” she said huskily. “Extremely talented.” She conjured up Parker’s face and heard herself saying, “Also angry. Very angry. You can sense it in his writing. But even when he’s relaxed and joking with Mike, his anger is detectable.
“His smiles have a disturbing element. There’s a cruelty to them, and that’s unfortunate because I don’t believe he could be cruel at all if not for the anger. It’s always there, just beneath the surface.
“There’s a passage in his novel where he describes Roark’s anger toward Todd. He compares it to a serpent gliding through still, dark water, never surfacing, never revealing itself, but constantly there, silent, sinister, and deadly, waiting to poison them both.
“Probably he’s just angry over being trapped in a wheelchair. But I sense there’s something… something I don’t know, something I’ve missed, like there’s one more secret yet to come to light.”
She laughed softly. “I can’t imagine what it might be. He’s sprung so many surprises on me. Not all of them good.” She took a sip of wine and raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “That’s the best way I know to answer your question.”
Daniel studied her thoughtfully for a long moment as he continued to pack tobacco into his pipe. He rarely lighted it. He just liked the ritualistic activity. It gave him something to do while assembling his thoughts.
When he finally spoke, it was to quietly say, “Actually, Maris, my question referred to Noah.”
Embarrassed, she flushed hotly. For five solid minutes she had rattled on about Parker. “Oh… oh, well,” she stammered, “yes, he… I wouldn’t say Noah made me sad, but I was upset over his meeting with WorldView. I was even more upset that he chose not to tell me about it.”