Meg brought her hands to her cheeks as she remembered the rest of her night. Finally falling asleep, she’d had the most erotic dreams imaginable. And in all of them, Evan Knight managed to have the starring role.
CHAPTER 13
Meg had done her darnedest to take her time getting ready. But, not too accustomed to the luxury of time, she was showered, dressed, and ready in twenty minutes. So trying to pass time, she called and checked her voice mail at work. She was relieved to find out that there was no doomsday message from her boss, Joe E..
The ninety-seven year old publishing house was closing its doors sometime this year. There were many pink slips handed out already. She was resigned to be out of a job some time soon, but she’d still not started looking at other places yet. She had a good degree and over ten years of experience--this all should count for something, she thought. And then, there had been calls from other publishers over the years. And the ongoing word of mouth that so and so was looking for someone with just her qualifications. But those other jobs, with their better pay and seemingly brighter futures, had mostly been in New York. Somehow, she had never quite envisioned herself leaving the place where she and Robert had lived so happily.
Meg moved about the room, tidying everything she could put her hands on. She was a creature of habit. One who despised big changes. She loathed surprises. This was all part of what had drawn her and Robert together. He’d been ten years older than she was, but that hadn’t mattered a bit. From the first moment they’d met, it had been magic. They were so much the same in their personalities and wants. Early in his career, Robert had given up the hustle and bustle of big publishing in New York to move to Boston and work with a small publisher. She remembered him always saying that he much preferred to be the big fish in the small pond than the reverse. And that was exactly what he had been. He’d started working for Joe E. while she’d still been at school. Later, by the time she started there as a junior editor, Robert had moved into the position of managing editor.
As much as she didn’t want to admit it to herself, Meg knew that was the real reason Joe E. hadn’t let her go yet. Out of his loyalty to Robert. The years her husband ran the small publishing company had been the most profitable ones that anyone could remember.
Meg picked up a manuscript and sat in the window. She looked out at a lobster boat working a line of traps in the harbor. Publishing was an entirely different business today than it had been ten or twenty years ago. Perhaps it was best for her to be where she was, at present. An exhausted senior editor whose job was hanging by a thread. Heck, she could always move into the janitorial business.
Meg looked down at her watch. Close enough to an hour. She could risk going upstairs. And for once in her life, she wasn’t going to think or worry about all the misgivings that always managed to hinder her enjoyment of life. They were going to Newport Hospital to take Jada and baby Ted home. That was it. Simple, with no complications.
Stealing a glance at her image in the wall mirror, she frowned. Simple, with lots of complications.
She climbed the flight of stairs to Evan’s apartment and quickly lifted a hand and knocked at the closed door. Getting no immediate response, she glanced down at her watch. She was still five minutes early.
From her vantage point on top of the stairs, she had a view of the entrance foyer four stories beneath her. Looking down at the Oriental rug and the small table beside the door, she couldn’t help but smile at her strange run-in with Phil Campbell last night. Considering what a fool she’d made out of herself, her landlord had been most gracious, even managing to ease her embarrassment over a drink and a few stories about his dog, Swift.
“Ah, you are out here. I was just getting out of the shower when I thought I heard a knock.”
Meg forced herself to look up from his muscled chest, still spattered with drops of water. His hair was still wet, as well, and lay in attractive disarray around his face.
“You’re wearing your glasses again. What happened, did I step on your contacts or something?”
She shook her head. “I wish I could blame you for that, too. But somehow this morning I couldn’t get my eyes open wide enough to pop them in.”
He gave her a dimpled half smile. “Late night partying?”
“Late night of something,” she offered non-committally, looking past him inside the bright apartment.
“Well, I guess I better let you in.” He stepped back and held the door open for her. “I still have to shave, but the coffee is ready. There’s some orange juice in the fridge.”
She just nodded and stepped past him, breathing in his clean smell. At least he was wearing his jeans, she thought, watching him head toward a door that she assumed must be the bathroom.
“I thought we could eat outside on the balcony. It’s a pretty nice day out.”
His voice was a mere muffle over the water running in the sink. Sliding her hands up and down her arms, she looked around at the large room she was standing in and smiled. Decorated in roughly the same style as her room, this one had the added charm of built-in bookcases covering one wall. Outside double French doors opened to a rooftop balcony and Meg could see the harbor and the sparkling Narragansett Bay beyond it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him sticking his foam-covered face out of the bathroom door.
“Very attractive look,” she quipped.
“Oh, thanks,” he replied, pointing a razor at the kitchen. “If you don’t like coffee, you can put water on for tea. But I don’t think I have any fancy, herbal tea stuff.”
“Coffee would be great.”
“Good. Then pour me a cup, too.”
She placed her tote bag on a nearby chair and followed the smell of the brewing coffee to the kitchenette, where a steaming pot sat waiting.
It was matter of habit to pick up the phone on the first ring. But then, as soon as she did it, she looked at the receiver in her hand in embarrassment. Cursing herself, she glanced in the direction of the bathroom, but once again she could hear the water in the sink running. Well, the heck with it, she decided finally, bringing the phone to her ear.
“Hello!”
There was a short silence on the other side before a man’s voice boomed out. “Excuse me, but I must have the wrong number! This is not Evan Knight’s residence, is it?”
“Yes, it is!” she admitted, looking hopefully toward the bathroom.
There was a short laugh. “Sorry! I’m just trying to recover from having the phone answered on the first ring.” There was a pause. “Let me see, is this Jada?”
“No, it isn’t,” she said with a smile. “This is Meg Murphy. And you...you’re not Ted, are you?”
“No, this is Henry...”
“Hold on, please.”
She tore the phone away from her ear and pressed it to her chest. Evan was glaring at her from the bathroom door.
“Sorry. The phone rang and...” Meg decided it was not worth explaining and instead stretched the receiver in his direction. “Someone named Henry. I didn’t get the last name.”
With a hand towel thrown over one shoulder, she watched him close the distance between them and take the phone.
He looked genuinely aggravated, and Meg quickly decided that it would be best to give him as much privacy as possible--so she quietly moved out onto the rooftop balcony.
She would never in the world describe herself as a person driven by curiosity, but Meg was finding Evan Knight more and more interesting every day. She couldn’t remember ever knowing a cab driver before, but he just didn’t fit the mold of what she would have imagined.
From where she stood with her back to the balcony railing, she stared at full bookcases lining the wall. The books must be Phil’s, she reasoned. Like the furniture in the apartment, and the house itself.
What was Evan doing living here? This place was certainly not as expensive as the Inn, but it still wasn’t cheap, either. And an apartment like this--she turned and glanced at the view of
the harbor--had to cost some money. Well, maybe he was some kind of house sitter or something. A handy man, she thought. Phil had mentioned to her last night that he spent a lot of his time sailing and traveling to buy and sell boats. Maybe that was it. Evan Knight, in addition to being a cab driver, was a handy man.
He sure as heck didn’t look like one, though. She swallowed, watching as he balanced two cups of coffee and two glasses of orange juice, and tried to open the screen door, as well. He looked more like a cover model for GQ. She quickly moved forward and opened the door.
“Thanks,” he said, moving toward the porch furniture.
“Can I give you a hand?”
“Sure!” He turned as he headed past her. “Come in and fix your cereal.”
She did as she was told, following him into the kitchen. It wouldn’t have bothered her at all, she realized, if he hadn’t put on a shirt. She noticed that he was still barefoot.
After a couple more trips, Meg found herself seated on the balcony beneath a broad umbrella, with a spread of cold cereal, English muffins, coffee, and juice before her. Certainly a better spread than what she was used to back in Boston.
To Meg’s relief, Evan didn’t mix any mention of the previous evening with their cereal. Instead, like the merry maidens of Penzance, they talked about the weather, and then lapsed into a comfortable silence as they sat back with their coffee.
“I went back last night and read a couple of chapters of The Long Journey again.”
Meg winced openly. “Before you start, I have to apologize for the way I acted.”
“Oh?”
She looked up and met his piercing gaze.
“People...I mean fans...have a right to adore...to believe in...to follow their heroes to the end of the earth. I mean that’s true not just with writers. Just look at team sports. I mean I am a rabid Boston Red Sox fan.” She smiled hesitantly. “Well, the more I thought about our talk yesterday, the more I was convinced that it was wrong of me to be so snappish about the work of someone whom you obviously enjoy. Someone you respect.”
“So does that mean you’ve changed your mind about reading Drew King’s books again?”
“What are you, his agent?”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“Perhaps. Sometime. There are a lot more writers out there that I like to read first. But...” She paused. “I know I need to work on not being so opinionated. There’s no need for me to force my beliefs down anyone else’s throat.”
She watched him looking at her over the array of dirty dishes. She had no idea what he was thinking, and his silent scrutiny was a bit unnerving.
“So...” She reached forward and picked up her coffee cup again. “You mentioned that you picked up The Long Journey again. What do you think?”
He looked out across the harbor before shaking his head and looking back at her.
“It was lacking some things!”
“Yes!”
He scowled at her. “No gloating!”
“I never gloat!” She hid her grin in her cup. “But I am used to being always right.”
“You’re joking!” He arched one eyebrow as he leaned forward and plunked an elbow on the table. “Or are you?”
“Good coffee,” Meg said brightly. "Are you a big reader?"
“Reader and a writer."
She looked up and met his eyes. “Really? What kind of writing?”
“I do a little bit of everything. Right now, I’m working on a cab driver’s manual. But I’m thinking about a book on my life dealing with ornery but cute tourists.”
“You’re joking,” She leaned forward in her chair and leaned on one elbow, mimicking him. “Or are you?”
He gave her an amused smile and then frowned, raking one hand through his hair.
“I’m also trying my hand at a book. Fiction.”
“Really?” This Evan Knight was a surprise a minute. “That’s wonderful! How far along are you?”
A wince crossed his face, and Meg immediately backed up.
“I’m sorry.” She started again. “I didn’t mean to be pushy. It takes...I’m sure it takes a lot of work to finish a book. I was just wondering if...”
Evan’s look told her he was sorry he’d started this conversation. Well, no sense letting him off the hook.
“I was wondering, do you have an outline or do you just dive in?” She gazed encouragingly at him. “And how many chapters have you finished so far? But most important, what the heck are you doing chatting over breakfast with an ornery tourist when you should be writing the next blockbuster of a novel?”
He looked at her askance. “What did you say you do for a living?”
She blushed. “Sorry, that was my personal greediness talking. I’m just too desperate to find a good book to read.”
“And what makes you believe I’m capable of writing a good book.”
She paused and gave him a scrutinizing once over. “Let’s see. Well, you definitely have a warped sense of humor, and that helps. And as much as you like to act tough, you’re clearly thoughtful and well spoken. You’ve also admitted to me that you are a reader. Now, as far as actually writing the book--did you ever take any courses in creative writing?”
“Once...when I was in college,” he answered casually. “I didn’t get much out of it, though.”
“No?”
“Nah, they were mostly poets and capital “L” literary types.”
“And you didn’t fit in with them.”
“I never looked good in a beret.”
“Okay, so you have one style point we have to detract from your score.” She continued to study him. “Oh, I forgot to mention that you hate your present job!”
“How the hell do you figure that?”
“Easy! You never do it! If I were your boss, I’d have tossed your you know what out on the street long ago.”
“You mean my ass?”
She paused, and then waved a hand in the air. “Back to the writing. I still don’t know a thing about your ability as a story teller.”
He gave a snort. “What’s there to know?”
“Well, you tell me. Give me a plot. A twist. Some characters. A snapshot of what you’re writing about. And then I’ll tell you if it’s worth...”
“Shit?”
“There’s no need to be vulgar. But yes...I’ll tell you if it’s worth shit.”
“You know, this could just be a line I’m throwing you.”
“Could be. Guess that depends on what you say next, doesn’t it?”
“Well, wait a minute, now.” He pushed his chair back a bit from the table and stretched his legs out. “Before I start telling you any of this, what are your qualifications for recognizing shit from Shinola?” He grinned at her.
She picked up an English muffin, carefully spread some strawberry jam on it, and handed it to him. He took a bite out of it and gave it back to her.
“I’m waiting.”
Meg racked her brain to think of a good answer that wouldn’t give away her profession. The idea of not telling him what she did for a living had all started as a joke, but now--knowing that he was really an aspiring writer--the thought of throwing ‘expert’ cold water on a dream held her back.
Meg knew he would be a lot more comfortable talking about this if he never knew what she did for living. But on the other hand, no matter how excellent she thought his story was, she was in no position to buy any manuscripts for their soon to be closed publishing company. In fact, the only reason why she had taken it on herself to bring all those manuscripts with her was so she could write a personal rejection--and maybe some positive remarks--to the writers.
“I don’t know.” He leaned forward and brought her hand with the English muffin to his mouth and took another bite. “When you were trying to figure my qualifications, you were pretty quick to list the good and the bad. So what’s wrong? How come you’re tongue-tied when it comes to yourself?”
“Maybe I was hoping for you to figure me
out in that department?”
“Fine,” he smiled, reaching over again and taking the last of the muffin out of her hand. “I’m game.”
“Let’s see...you’re obviously an avid reader.”
“You’re cheating,” she responded, looking at him crossly. “You jumped to that conclusion based on what I have told you.”
“No. That conclusion was based on a first-hand, eyewitness experience.”
“What do you mean, eyewitness?”
He pointed to the ledge of the balcony, just beyond where they sat. “I can see you at night. The first night, I think you were too tired, so I just saw you go to bed. But last night...you had that midnight oil burning late.”
In her futile attempt to keep him out of her mind last night, she’d resorted to reading some of her manuscripts. But what did he mean about seeing her getting into bed? She looked down at the three windows.
“I’m pulling my shades down from now on!”
“Don’t do it on my account,” he replied, his dimple mischievously reappearing.
Meg thought back, trying to remember if she’d taken her shirt off before or after she’d turned off the light.
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’m a reader. Is there anything else about me that makes me qualified to hear your story?”
“You’re brutally honest,” he added, growing serious. “And you’re no wimp!”
“Thanks, but what does not being a wimp has to do with all of this?”
“In case if you don’t like my story and I have to beat you up.”
“Okay!” she nodded, satisfied. “Sounds to me like I’m qualified. Does that mean that I get to hear it now?”
He scowled at her. “Only after you promise to accept my conditions.”
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