by Lynn Harris
Lola smiled. “Naw, Mom, you can keep him on the payroll if it makes that much difference to you.”
“Really?”
“Kidding!” said Lola. “But I understand, Mommy. And, well, it makes me happy to know I make you happy.”
“You do, Lulu, you do. Indescribably. Of course, we’d be even happier if you lived closer to home—”
“My next 3.5 million, I’ll buy you a pied-à-terre in New York,” said Lola. “Want to talk to your gumshoe?”
Lola handed the phone to Reading Guy with a kind smile. “You’re fired.”
“You guys ready?”
Annabel sat in the TV room flipping channels as Lola peppered the popcorn in the giant wedding-present bowl they loved to hate. On the inside bottom, two smiling turtles in bride and groom gear held hands underneath a pink heart with Lola and Doug’s wedding date. Doug always threatened to sell it on eBay, date and all, but kept forgetting, mainly because it was perfect for popcorn, as long as one positioned any burned kernels over the offending reptiles.
“Almost!” Lola called.
Doug grabbed three Lundy Lagers. He and Lola joined Annabel on the couch. They clinked bottles. Lola settled in, her hand in Doug’s, her head on Annabel’s shoulder. Cheers, indeed.
The next morning, Doug brought Lola coffee in bed.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“I love it when you don’t get killed.”
“I don’t get killed pretty much every day,” said Lola, pulling him down next to her, wrapping the sheet around them both, and kissing her husband hard. “Tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I’ll also take a scone.”
Fifty-three
Lola watered her garden, giving a silent but impassioned “I still love you” speech to each and every plant. Even you, wisteria.
And after a long shower, in which she employed every scented shampoo, gel, scrub, and wash she’d ever been given by last-minute birthday present shoppers, Lola toasted a bagel, wrapped a towel around her head, and sat down at her computer. Time to buckle down and start that book proposal. Doug, already at his desk, turned around.
“You smell like a smoothie.”
Lola grinned, sniffed her arm, nodded in agreement, and—just quick, before she started writing—glanced down the subject lines of her e-mail. “Asbestos turncoat,” “wardrobe froth effluvium,” “minesweeper bluefish,” “Welcome, Quetzalcoatl!” Junk, junk, junk, ju—oops, wait.
“Quetzalcoatl Everett Bloom arrived yesterday, healthy and happy. Mom Oona and Dad Mick, when not e-mailing, are resting comfortably. Click here for Flickr album (154 photos).”
“Doug?” Lola asked without turning around.
“Mmm?”
“If—when—I’m pregnant, we cannot give the baby a working title. Not even if we think it’s something we’ll never, ever use in a million years, like Beowulf, or Ashlee. Okay?”
“Okay. What? Why?”
“I’m forwarding you something.”
“Not even Kal-El?” came Doug’s voice.
“No way.”
Lola then saw that her long-suffering friend Sylvie had responded, only to Lola, to Oona’s e-mail.
“Lo, listen, it’s way too early to get excited, but, well, I’m excited and I wanted to tell you: I’m a teeny bit pregnant,” she wrote. “So far it’s just a double pink line in its mother’s eyes, so all sorts of horrible stuff could still happen, etc., etc., but right now, I’m happy just to be nominated. Thanks for talking the other day. I’ll keep you posted. XO, Sylvie. P.S. For the moment, we’re calling it Kevin Federline.”
“Hey, Sylvie is pregnant,” Lola told Doug, still facing her computer.
“That’s great!” said Doug, still facing his. “Anything else you want to tell me? I know it’s only been like twenty minutes since we, you know, but hey, we live in a high-speed age.”
“No no,” Lola blushed, “just an e-mail baby boom.”
“All rooty, just keep me in the loop,” Doug called from his side.
“Roger,” said Lola.
“I prefer Rogue,” said Doug. “If we’re still talking names.”
“Fine, but Rogue’s a girl,” said Lola, smiling to herself.
“God, I lov—”
“A mutant, right? Absorbs other people’s superpowers through contact with their skin?”
“Seriously. Please have my baby,” said Doug.
Lola paused. “I’m getting there,” she said. She wheeled halfway round in her chair, kissed Doug’s head, and then completed the circle back to her keyboard.
Just a bit of research before I start that book proposal. Lola clicked over to Royalty.
Chick Lit Killer Happy Ending: Girl Gets Guy
Posted by Page Proof
Lola whooped and pointed to the screen. Doug rolled over to have a look.
After a dramatic confrontation on a bridge over Brooklyn’s Lundy Canal, police apprehended high-end interior landscape designer Leo Guinness, 34, who has confessed to the series of chick lit killings that have riveted the city and, at least temporarily, boosted book sales. Only through her own derring-do—and that of her adoring husband and best friend—did writer Lola Somerville, 32, who had been duped by the alleged killer into accepting a ride home, avoid the same fate, even though recent sales of her critically acclaimed Pink Slip had made her, technically, deserving of the killer’s wrath.
One tear, then another crept into Lola’s eyes. One for the joy of vindication, one for the sadness of how it had come to pass.
Mr. Guinness, apparently, had been acting out of deranged love for—
The phone rang.
Gotta be my mom or Annabel. Lola grabbed the receiver without checking the caller ID. “Hi.”
“Lola?”
Uh-oh.
“Yes, sorry. This is Lola. Who’s calling, please?
“Lola! Dixie Desmond here.”
Well! It had been a dog’s age since Lola had heard her agent’s voice. Clearly she was calling to tell Lola she had to get going, this morning, on her book about the murders.
“Saw your name on Royalty this morning—brava! Reminded me that I hadn’t called to offer kudos on making the bestseller list,” said Dixie.
Dixie was old-school, which Lola loved. Turned her nose up at e-mail, still called her secretary her secretary. She wore reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She was a person of middle age who actually ate lunch at lunch meetings; in other words, normal. Considering Dixie had probably never even held an iPod, it was a wonder she was able to nose out current trends.
“Thanks, Dixie,” said Lola. And now, here comes the book idea.
“And, of course, I’m just glad you’re okay, what with last night’s kerfuffle and all.”
“Thanks,” said Lola. “Me, too.”
Okay, pleasantries out of the way. Any second now.
“Anything else to report?” asked Dixie. “Not that your life hasn’t been a thrill a minute lately.”
“Uh—” Lola began. “Well, actually, it has been exciting. I’d actually been involved in the murders, I mean, not in a bad way, since the beginning.”
“Oh, I know,” said Dixie. “Very impressive.”
“So I was thinking,” said Lola. Looks like, once again, I’m going to have to do this my own damn self. “How about a book about that? You know, The Inside Story of the Chick Lit Killings, kind of thing. Sort of … an investigative memoir. Sebastian Junger meets V. I. Warshawski meets … Plum Sykes.”
“It’s a terrific idea, Lola,” said Dixie.
Oh, yay! Lola’s arms shot up in victory. At this point, Doug had turned to watch.
“So terrific, in fact, that it’s been done,” said Dixie. “I’m afraid your friend Wally Seaport sold that very book this morning.”
Fifty-four
Lola clonked her forehead down on her keyboard, making her browser twitter in irritation and causing her Ciao, Italiano! CD-ROM, unused for months, to start asking directions to the Ponte Vecchi
o. Doug rolled his chair over, flipped Lola’s hair over to the right side of her head, and hit a few buttons to shut Fabrizio up.
Goddamn it, thought Lola, still flopped forward.
God. Damn. It.
I mean, yes, I am so glad—seriously glad—that I helped catch the killer, to the degree that I did, before he hurt anyone else. I’m happy in principle to, you know, fight evil.
But will no one, no one give me a freaking break?
“… as soon as you have a moment,” Dixie Desmond had continued.
Lola flung her head back up. “I’m sorry, Dixie, my phone did something weird. What were you just saying?” She scribbled “Wally got the deal” on a corner of paper and passed it to Doug. He shook his head and grabbed her hand.
“Oh, just that I really would like to see a new proposal from you, Lola. Your voice is so authentic, attention’s back on you and Pink Slip—the iron is hot,” said Dixie. “Let’s strike.”
This, at least, was good to hear.
“Just no chick lit,” said Dixie.
“Why, you think it’s played out?” asked Lola.
“Oh, hardly,” said Dixie. “But I just lured that lovely Blanca Palette away from her old agency, and I’ve just also signed someone else with a truly fresh, gritty voice. Name’s Destiny. Runs a car service. A real hot ticket. So, I’m afraid, my own women’s commercial fiction plate is full.”
“I understand,” said Lola.
Gah.
“Oh! And! Small world. Looks like I’ll also be working with your detective friend and his wife. The Bobbseys. Soon as they’re back from leave. A memoir about New York’s finest overcoming infertility. Working title: The Thin Pink Line.”
“Sounds great,” Lola said.
“Right-o,” said Dixie. “No one wants to read those fertility-guilt books anymore. That Rotten Eggs book, don’t know if you’ve heard of it—apparently they keep scaling down the first print run. It’ll be dead in the water.”
Lola took a moment from her umbrage to give Sylvie a mental high five. “Okay, Dixie, I’ll definitely put on my thinking cap.” Again, she added sourly to herself.
“Capital,” said Dixie. “By the way, how’s that marvelous husband of yours?”
“Marvelous,” smiled Lola, turning just far enough to kick Doug’s foot.
“Good. I still remember him from your book party,” said Dixie. “You two have such a nice rapport. Very Stiller and Meara.”
Lola laughed. “Though I think I’m the Stiller.”
“Probably so,” said Dixie. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to your next brilliant idea.”
“So am I,” said Lola.
Just as she hung up with Dixie, the phone rang again. Detective Bobbsey.
“Detective! Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Ms. Somerville. Everyone’s doing fine. We got ourselves a great little Bradley, Jr., here,” he said. “Sleeping now, but soon’s he wakes up we’ll be prepping him for the Academy.”
“That’s just great, Detective. I’m so happy for you both. And you get to write about your … fertility … journey! I just heard.”
“Yes, ma’am. So thank you for that. And for nabbing the killer while we were busy creating life,” he said. “Deep.”
“Well, you’re welcome. But why thank me for the book?”
“You’re an inspiration. So were your late friends. Your book is terrific.”
“Let me guess. Beach bag?”
“Nope. Bought it myself. Wife tracked down your agent, you know the rest. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Hardly. I’m so glad it all worked out.”
“Oops, looks like we’ve got company—Junior’s uncle,” said Bobbsey. “Which reminds me: heard you met my twin brother.”
“Your twin brother,” Lola repeated, foggy. “I thought you said you didn’t have a twin brother.”
“Nope, I just said my twin wasn’t my partner. But my bro is also a detective, also a fan of the chick lit. And also very, very near-sighted.”
No way. “Reading Guy? Reading Guy is your twin brother?”
Doug spun back around in his chair.
“Yeah, Bailey said that’s what you call him. Fraternal,” said Bobbsey. “And here right now, bearing a large, misshapen gift that I fear will produce unwelcome noises.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Why can’t people just buy from the registry?”
“Well,” said Lola. “Give Read—er, Bailey, my best.”
“Will do. And Ms. Somerville, may we call you if we hit any, what do they call it, writers’ blocks?”
“Of course, Detective,” Lola said. “Of course.”
Her other line beeped as she said good-bye.
Quentin. Who was, no doubt, going to be the one who’d really help the detectives with their writers’ blocks.
“Lola, listen, I heard the whole deal, obviously, with Leo and all, and I just wanted to thank you again for everything,” he said. “You know, I never really liked that Euro-bozo in the first place,” he said.
“You are very, very welcome,” said Lola, fiddling with a pen. “Actually, Leo’s from Oxnard.”
“I know, but you know.”
“I know,” said Lola.
“Also, I decided I’m getting out of the business. The writing business. The crossword writing business,” said Quentin.
“Really?” said Lola.
“Yeah. It’s … a dirty job. Hard to believe, I know. But I just quit this morning.”
“Wow, Quentin, this is a big deal,” said Lola. “So what next?”
“Small and exotic animals.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Terrible what happened to that illegal kinkajou. She only bit out of fear, you know!” said Quentin. “First I’m starting an internship at the zoo—the toxicologist who saved Penny, who by the way I think I might be dating if I decide I’m ready, her brother works there, and he set me up. Meanwhile, I’m applying to veterinary school.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I realize it’s a bit of an about-face,” Quentin admitted. “But it’s something I have to do. And given that it’s not ‘artistic,’ my cardiologist mother will subsidize. Not people-doctoring, of course, but close enough.”
“Right, she always wanted you to go to medical school?”
“That, and at this point she’s seen how dangerous literature is,” said Quentin. “Oops, hang on.” Lola heard some banging around in the background. “I’m just on my way out to clear my head with a bike ride.”
A thought that had been leaning on the outer edge of Lola’s consciousness suddenly broke through. She gripped the pen hard.
“Quentin, you’re in your foyer?”
“Yeah.”
“Is your doorman there?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Why?”
“Can I speak to him for a second? I—I just wanted to thank him again for letting me in that night.”
“Sure, I guess—hang on.”
“Moe?” Lola heard Quentin say, extra-loud and clear. “My friend, my friend Lola Somerville, she came by the other night? She wants to talk to you for a sec.”
There was a pause and some shuffling.
“Hello, young lady.”
“Hi there, uh, Moe. I won’t take too much of your time. Can I just ask you a few quick questions?”
“Nice gal like you? Moe’s got all day.”
“Thanks. You can just answer yes or no, if—if you prefer. That is, if you know what I mean.”
“Aye, aye.”
If I’m wrong, he’ll think I’m a complete loon. Probably already does. But at this point, what have I got to lose?
Lola plunged forward with her hunch. “Remember that envelope you gave me that night?”
“Yes’m.”
“Did you give it to me on purpose?”
“Yes’m.”
“Because you wanted me to know what was inside?”
“Yes’m.”
Lola snapped her fingers. Bingo.
“So … why?”
Oops. Not yes or no. But this was the money question.
And Moe, discreet doorman to the core, was right there with the answer.
“Loved Pink Slip,” he replied. “Read it in one shift. Know the whole backstory, so on, so forth.”
“You did? You do? Thanks!” Lola gushed, forgetting her mission for a moment.
“Yes’m. Terrible what’s going on these days.”
Lola paused. Does he mean what I think he means? Could my wild intuition actually have been a hundred percent right?
“You mean … you know what kind of work Quentin does, who he works for—”
“I’m a doorman,” Moe said with some pride. Meaning: I know everything.
“And … you don’t like it.”
“No, ma’am.”
Turns out I am a genius after all, thought Lola. “So. Right. You recognized me, had the envelope, took the opportunity to give it to me, but not in a way that would ever look suspicious on the security camera, on the off chance that I’d somehow be inspired to snoop and start asking questions, maybe figure out what this Cover outfit really is,” she pronounced.
“I knew you were a smart young lady.”
“Well, Moe, you’ve been very helpful,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
Quentin got back on the phone. “Guess he’s a fan,” he said. “When you were in the news, and then when your book came out, I kinda showed off that I know you.”
“Dork,” Lola teased.
“Anyway, honestly, I owe you.”
Lola tapped the pen on her desk six, seven, eight times. “What’s an eight-letter word f—”
“Indebted,” said Quentin. “Beholden.”
“Damn, you’re good,” said Lola. “But just kidding. You’re really not. Indebted, I mean.”
“Okay, then. Grateful. Thankful.”
Lola smiled. “Quentin, have a great ride.”
“Doug, can you take a quick break? Come for a little walk with me?” asked Lola.
“Gimme five minutes?” he asked. “Just finishing this Wikipedia entry on CMYK/RGB conversions.”
“Oh, why don’t you let me do that?” Lola teased.
She put on a little sunscreen, brushed out her hair, pulled some dead leaves off a ficus, walked around the living room, ate some strawberries, glanced at the New York Times lying untouched on the kitchen table. According to the Styles section, which had recently gone daily, knitting was hot, the eighties were back, and more and more women were smoking cigars. What, Lola thought, did they just deliver the paper from 2001?