Fallen from Grace

by Laura Leone

  "Why?"

  "I didn't make them enough money, so they've cancelled my series and ended our relationship."

  "Oh." He thought that over. "I'm sorry."

  "I'm much sorrier," she assured him.

  "Can you sell your next one somewhere else?"

  "Not in that series. No one wants it. The way publishing works, the writer has to show a certain growth in sales figures as her career progresses or she's no longer an interesting investment to her publisher—and often not to any other publishers, either."

  He leaned back again and said thoughtfully, "I guess it's that way in a lot of lines of work, isn't it? The boss picks up newcomers cheap, tries them out for a while, eventually figures out who's bringing in the most money—and just gets rid of the rest. Cuts the losses and moves on."

  "What do you do for a living?" she asked.

  "Me? Oh. I'm a model."

  "Really?" Well, that made sense. Just look at the guy.

  "Nothing glamorous," he assured her. "Mostly I do clothing catalogues."

  "That's so cool!" She grinned. "So I could open a catalogue tomorrow and see your face?"

  "Well, no, not my face."

  "Huh?"

  "My face doesn't photograph so well."

  "You're kidding me." Since that sounded bald, she added, "I mean, you have a beautiful face, Ryan."

  "Thanks. But the camera doesn't really like it."

  That was hard to believe, but she assumed professional modeling had a whole set of criteria about which she knew nothing. "So they chop off your head when they take your picture?"

  "Pretty much. I mostly model below-the-neck stuff. Boxers, briefs, trousers, shoes."

  "Do you like the work?"

  "It's a living," he said. "Do you like writing?"

  She felt him again turning the conversation back to her. She let him. "I love it. I'm obsessed with it. When I first started writing, I knew I'd found my true work, the thing I was meant to spend the rest of my life doing."

  "Did you know your sales weren't going so well?" he asked.

  "No. In fact, I thought things were going fine. I won an Agatha, and I got nominated for an Edgar Award. I got good reviews and nice letters from readers. My editor loved my writing." She sighed. "But I made mistakes. I didn't pay enough attention to the business end of things or prepare in advance for something like this happening."

  "But if you didn't know—"

  "I should have known it was possible. It's not uncommon, Ryan. Writing is an incredibly competitive profession, and publishing has narrow profit margins. I know other writers to whom this has happened. I should have prepared better." She shook her head. "But, as Miriam always says, reality isn't my strong suit. So when my agent called to tell me the publisher wasn't going to buy my next book because they had decided to cancel the series, I was caught off guard. I was shocked. Devastated. And financially vulnerable." Sara shrugged. "For a few days, I was a total mess."

  "And then you made plans?"

  "Yes. Stupid, impractical, risky plans which everyone—particularly my father and my sister—condemns."

  "Oh. I see." After a moment, he asked, "Were they kind of hard on you at dinner tonight?"

  "Oh, no, not at all." She waved her hand dismissively. "My sister did her lecturing well before dinner. And my dad just repeated all of his earlier objections, in case I'd failed to take notes the first ten times he told me not to do this."

  "Do what?"

  "I sold my condo—which had turned out to be a really good investment—and have come here to write a new novel on spec."

  "Spec?"

  "Speculation. It means I don't have a contract. No one's paying me. There's no guarantee whatsoever that a publisher will buy it. I'm starting my career all over from scratch, in effect."

  "What are you writing?"

  "It's sort of a historical thriller. I've been thinking about it for a few years and have done a lot of research for it, but I've never had time to write it because... well, until now, I was always under contract and busy writing my mystery series."

  He tilted his head. "So, on the bright side, now you have time to write your blockbuster."

  She grinned at the word. "And when I'm done, I hope it'll be a book some publisher will want to buy for lots of money. If not..."

  "So you're really taking a big risk." He nodded. "A life gamble."

  "Yes."

  "And if it doesn't work, you'll lose everything, even the money you made on your condo?"

  She shivered. "Yes."

  "That's a brave gamble, Sara."

  "I hope so. After just panicking for the first couple of days when I got the bad news, I came up with this plan. I contacted a real estate agent right away, before I had time to talk myself out of it. The condo sold just a few days later to a buyer who wanted to take possession as soon as possible." She ran her fingers through her wind-tangled hair. "Suddenly I was apartment-hunting, and packing, and swamped with doing all the stuff you have to do when you move. And since my family thought I was crazy and weren't at all shy about telling me so, I took a very strong, confident stance about what I was doing... Until one night, I found myself sitting all alone in a strange room full of cardboard boxes, with nothing left to do now but write this fabulous novel that's going to resurrect my career and keep me from starving when the condo money runs out."

  "Oh, well, if that's all that's left to do..."

  She smiled. "Yeah, what am I whining about?"

  After a pause, he said, "You've got guts."

  "You're too polite to say I'm crazy and impractical."

  He ignored that. "I admire guts. I respect determination."

  "You should hang up a shingle," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "You're good at making people feel better about themselves."

  "That's not what I'm..." He shrugged. "I just mean, I think it's a good plan. It's what you should do. And I'm glad you're doing it here."

  "I guess I picked the right next door neighbor."

  "I guess you did."

  "It's very nice of you to be so supportive. Granted, it's probably because you have no idea what a big mistake I'm making—"

  "But I gather your father will explain it to me the next time he comes here to bond with my leather chair."

  "Oh, God." She put her hand over her eyes. "I'm so sorry about that."

  He chuckled. "It's okay. I liked him."

  "He shouldn't be let out of the house without supervision."

  "No, I did like him. Honest." After a pause, he added, "You have a nice family."

  "I do," she agreed. "They're like all families—a lot of times I want to kill them. But mostly they're good to have around."

  "They're not like all families," he said quietly.

  "Is your family—"

  "Where's your mom?" he asked.

  Okay, his family was evidently something else he'd rather not talk about. "She died," Sara replied. "Three years ago. Cancer."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I think it's still pretty hard on my dad. He misses her." A long silence followed this. Finally Sara said, "I'm keeping you up."

  "No." But he glanced at his watch. "Christ, I didn't realize how late it is."

  She pulled her robe across her throat as a breeze swept across the balcony. She hadn't noticed until now that she was chilly. Even in July, nights were cool in San Francisco. "I should try to get some sleep. Lots of unpacking to do tomorrow."

  He stood up and held out his hand, quite the gentleman, to help her rise from her chair. "Do you feel a little better?"

  "Oh, yeah." She nodded. "All the crying and babbling and blatant self-pity was very cathartic."

  "Well, you certainly sound better."

  She paused before entering her apartment. "Thank you, Ryan. You're a good listener."

  He shrugged. "I like listening to you."

  "The old man was right," she said. "You're a nice boy."

  "Good night, Sara."

  "Good
night."

  Chapter Three

  "What are you doing?" Sara exclaimed.

  "He doesn't like the stairs."

  Ryan was carrying Macy up the steep, sloping flights of stairs leading to their two apartments. Sara thought the dog must weight at least seventy pounds.

  "So this is how you keep in shape," she said, standing at the top of the stairs and watching Ryan ascending towards her with measured, trudging steps.

  "No, I keep in shape so I can do this," he corrected.

  "And here I thought you kept in shape so you could be photographed in your skivvies."

  "Well, that, too."

  He put the dog down when he reached the top step. Macy poked Sara in the leg by way of greeting, and then stood at the door and waited to be let into Ryan's apartment. Ryan remained standing on the top step, his hand on the fragile railing, and tried to catch his breath.

  "I've got to work out more," he said, glaring at Macy. "That dog is gaining weight."

  "Maybe he should work out more."

  "I think he's got a thyroid problem. I should ask the vet." He shifted his gaze from Macy to Sara. "I didn't think you'd be up so early."

  It was the following morning, barely six hours after they'd said goodnight.

  "I didn't sleep well. Lots of new noises here that I'm not used to yet," she explained.

  "Oh, of course." He nodded at Macy and said, "He woke me when nature called."

  "I can't find my damn coffee maker," Sara said. "You might want to get out of my way now, because I'll kill you and trample your bloody corpse if you keep standing between me and caffeine."

  He laughed. "Okay, before it comes to that, maybe you should just come inside with me. I started a fresh pot before I took Macy out."

  Now Sara was embarrassed. "I wasn't angling for—"

  "I know."

  "And I've already intruded on you enou—"

  "It's okay." He brushed past her and opened his door, gesturing to invite her into his apartment. "I'd feel guilty about letting you loose on the neighborhood in your current state of mind."

  "Well, you have a point," she admitted, accepting the invitation.

  #

  "How's it going?" Miriam asked over the phone a few days later.

  "Good," Sara replied, unpacking books with one hand while she held the receiver in the other. "I found my toothbrush this morning. Why didn't I pack it where I could find it right away?"

  "Because you're disorganized and you plan badly."

  "Oh, yes. That would be the reason."

  "Are you almost done unpacking?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Oh, I'd bet a week's pay that you're now realizing I was right and you should have culled your possessions before moving from a two-bedroom condo with storage into a one-bedroom apartment without."

  "I think I'll have to get rid of some stuff."

  "Color me so surprised."

  "But maybe, if I arrange it all very cleverly—"

  "No, you'll have to get rid of some stuff," Miriam said.

  "God, to think I paid the movers to carry it all up here, and now... No, maybe I'll just try to squeeze it all in."

  "I won't even bother suggesting you get rid of some of your books."

  "Good."

  "I am curious, though, about the structural integrity of the building. Does your landlord think the second floor can hold the weight of all those tomes?"

  "We haven't really discussed that."

  "Figures. How's the neighborhood?"

  "Fine."

  "And the neighbor?"

  Sara started shelving some of her reference books. "I hit the neighbor jackpot."

  "So he's still a nice, quiet guy?"

  "Yeah. No Mr. Hyde side, no split personality. In fact, he's been really thoughtful. Above and beyond the call."

  "Oh?"

  "He's helped me move some furniture. Gave me breakfast two mornings in a row. He's been showing me around the neighborhood a little." She heaved another heavy pile of books into her arms and crossed to the bookcase. "He's made me feel at home here."

  "So you've been spending some time together?"

  "Uh-huh." She started alphabetizing, wishing she had thought to do that when packing all this stuff.

  "And?"

  "And what?"

  "And is he showing interest? Are you showing interest?"

  "Aw, drop it, will you, Miriam?"

  "Why? I saw the click between you two the day I was there. You can't tell me there was no click."

  "Shit!" Sara looked down at her filthy hands and arms, then sneezed twice. "Why didn't I dust these books before I packed them?"

  "If you'll recall, I told you—"

  "Yeah, yeah. I didn't have time then. I'll do it now."

  "Do you know where your cleaning supplies are packed?"

  "Oh." She looked around at the chaotic living room. "I probably should have been more methodical about this."

  "You're changing the subject."

  "What was the subject?"

  "Ryan."

  "Mir, he's twenty-six, okay?" She'd weaseled this information out of him yesterday over a shared pizza on her living room floor.

  "Nine years younger than you. Hmmm. Well, that's perfect for a fling, and it's not an impediment to a serious relationship."

  "Right, because gorgeous young men are always on the prowl for middle-aged women."

  "You're not middle-aged. If you're middle-aged, then I'm approaching middle-age, and I don't accept that."

  "Hah! Do you remember how old we thought Mom was when she was my age?"

  "You were nine and I was six then. One could reasonably suppose Ryan has a slightly more sophisticated view of these things."

  "One can also reasonably suppose that Ryan has his pick of beautiful, long-legged, sloe-eyed, accommodating women who are ten years younger than I am."

  "And one can just as reasonably suppose that he's not that shallow, and that he—"

  "Look, whether he just wants casual sex or is seriously looking for a lifelong partner to become the mother of his children, a twenty-something guy who's that good-looking and charming, and who makes good money—"

  "If he makes such good money, why does he live there?"

  "Now who's being shallow?"

  "I meant—"

  "He likes it here. So do I. Anyhow, I don't know what he makes, but he drives an Infiniti, he's got great clothes, an expensive wristwatch, nice furniture. He's obviously making better money than you or I were making at twenty-six."

  "I was in grad school then," Miriam reminded her.

  "My point is, he's a good catch. Hell, he's a great catch. And even a lot of men my age aren't interested in women my age, so a man his age—"

  "Might not be that shallow, I repeat."

  Sara sighed. "He and I are becoming friends, okay? I like him, and I live right next door to him. We're in each other's pockets on that balcony. So I'm not going to make things awkward by throwing myself at him."

  "You don't have to throw yourself at him. But you could let him know the door is open if he wants to walk through it."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because you're interested. Don't tell me you're not interested. I saw the click between you."

  "Will you stop with the clicking, already?"

  "Just listen to yourself, would you? He's gorgeous, he's charming, he's thoughtful, you like him."

  "Why are you harping on this?" Sara demanded. "Why are you suddenly desperate for me to date?"

  "Because you've been by yourself for too long. You haven't even had a date in over a year, am I right?"

  "Yes. And I so appreciate the reminder."

  "And you haven't been involved with anyone since Nathan. That was four years ago."

  "Eeek. Nathan. A synonym for self-absorbed."

  "Agreed. I'm not saying you should have kept him around."

  "I didn't think so. Because then I might be forced to say you should have kept David around."r />
  "No, you wouldn't. There is no provocation in the universe that could make you say that."

  "True. Your ex-husband was a schmuck."

  "Ever since you started writing full-time," Miriam persisted, "you've hardly dated."

  Sara went back to alphabetizing the books on the shelves. "Well, it's hard to meet men if you're always home alone all day with imaginary medieval people."

  "Which is why I think your yuppie next-door neighbor—"

  "He's not a yuppie. He's a model."

  "Yeah? Well, that figures. Just look at the guy."

  "Sometimes when you talk," Sara said, "it's like I'm hearing an echo."

  "You like him, he's nice, he likes you—"

  "For God's sake, Mir, do I have to be afraid you're going to send a marriage broker to speak to the poor guy about me?"

  A pause. "I'm being pushy, aren't I?"

  "Well, I didn't want to be the one to say it."

  "Sorry, I know, I know. I'm being pushy. I'm being—oy!—like Mom."

  "Just a little. What gives, anyhow?"

  Miriam laughed. "I don't know. I guess... Hey, love is wonderful—I mean wonderful—and you deserve it, too."

  "What about you?"

  Now Miriam's laugh was nervous. "I'm working on it."

  Sara paused in her task. "No!" She felt her jaw drop. "You're seeing someone?"

  There was a pause, and then Miriam admitted, in an undeniably happy voice, "Okay, yeah, I'm seeing someone."

  "Since when?"

  "Well, um... a while, actually."

  "What?"

  "We met in April."

  "So you've been seeing each other for three months?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And you haven't said a word to me!"

  Miriam laughed nervously again. "Well, at first I wasn't sure it was worth saying something."

  "What do you mean worth saying something?"

  "And then you had all that bad news about your career, and you've been dealing with that, and I didn't—"

  "God, Mir, am I really that self-absorbed? You thought I wouldn't—"

  "No, no," Miriam said. "I don't mean that. That's not what I meant at all."

  Sara frowned. "So what do you mean?"

  "Well, just... the timing didn't seem right."

  "Miriam, so I'm having some ups and downs. Big deal. You think I don't want to know what's going on with you?"