“We should probably go.”
“But I was—”
“Now.”
He took her by the arm and steered her out of the store. Emma emerged from the back room, a cup of coffee in her hand. She smiled at the two of them.
“Run,” Aaron whispered.
Laurie obeyed, and Aaron followed. He heard a splat behind him; it was hot coffee hitting the floor.
When they were safely back in the car, Laurie said, “What a wildcat.”
Aaron nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t think Emma would be there.”
“She seemed really smart.”
“Too smart for her own good.” He kissed her cheek and turned the key in the ignition.
“I should have bought that book, maybe. That Nick Windex.”
Windust, Aaron thought.
“Maybe I should read more stuff like that.”
“That’s an excellent novel. I’ll be glad to buy it for you. Just not here, obviously.”
Laurie laughed. “I agree. Too dangerous...Umm...Aaron?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t embarrass you, did I?”
“Of course not.”
Well, maybe a little. He could have done without her question about where to find the romance section. At least it didn’t come up that she wrote them or that she was a nail scholar, or rather, a failed nail scholar. He’d hate to think what Emma would have said about that.
“How long did you and Emma date?”
“Over five years.”
“I suppose she’s met your father?”
“She has.” Emma and Horace actually got along well. He admired her extensive literary knowledge.
“What does he do again?”
Aaron didn’t ever remember mentioning his father’s profession. Not that his prominence in the literary world would register with Laurie.
“My father’s an academic,” he said.
“A smarty-pants then. Like his son.” She smiled. “When am I going to get to meet him?”
Not anytime soon, Aaron thought. He simply couldn’t imagine Horace Flowers and Laurie conversing. His father had little patience for people who weren’t intellectuals. Their meeting would be a disaster.
“Right now we’re barely speaking. Someday, I suppose.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Laurie said. She seemed satisfied with his answer.
Ten
From: Ellen Sideman, Events coordinator of Yards of Books
To: Laurie Lee
Subject: Book Signing
Dear Ms. Lee,
I’m sorry but we can’t host a book signing for your novel Don’t Mess With Tex. It’s our policy to only host authors who have been traditionally published. Yards of Books has built a reputation on stocking and recommending quality titles, and we don’t have the time to evaluate every self-published title. Should you ever sign a book deal with a traditional publisher, please consider contacting us again.
Sincerely,
Ellen Sideman
“Phooey!” Laurie said. She was looking at her recent Amazon sales on the computer. Despite her near constant Facebooking, blogging and tweeting, her novel sales were flat. Had she gotten into the indie publishing boom too late?
The writing, however, was going well. In fact, a cute idea for a novel recently popped into her head, and she was already thirty thousand words in. She intended to participate in an upcoming Pitch Frenzy conference.
Laurie decided she wanted to be a hybrid author, meaning she’d like to publish some of her books with a traditional publisher and also continue to indie publish. Getting a traditional publishing contract would help her get name recognition.
She was envious of Aaron’s career. In a week he’d be flying to New York City to meet his publisher, and, of course, once his novel came out, he wouldn’t have to beg the local bookstore to carry it.
Laurie intended to push herself to get as much writing done as possible before Pitch Frenzy. She was able to sneak in some work during slow periods at her various jobs. Sometimes she woke up in the middle of night inspired and wrote a few pages. She found it much easier to write romance when she was in the throes of one.
Things were going so well between her and Aaron. Of course, they had a few tiny speed bumps. Aaron, for instance, never asked how her writing was going, and that hurt her feelings. She was always quizzing him about his work.
Also, the other day she caught him paging through The Romance Writer’s Phrase Book, which she’d accidentally left out. He was reading it with open-mouthed horror, almost as if he’d run across a magazine featuring chained naked men with ball gags in their mouths.
“Anything wrong?” she said.
He dropped the book. “Not at all.”
She tried not to worry too much about his reaction to the phrase book. Most men weren’t into mushy romance stuff. Also she only borrowed some of the phrases when she was in a real pinch.
“His eyes smoldered with fire.”
“She was wrapped in a silken cocoon of euphoria.”
“An ache was sparked by that one indelible kiss.”
The Romance Writer’s Phrase Book confirmed Aaron’s worst prejudices against the genre. It contained over three thousand descriptive phrases organized by categories which included physical characteristics (“his legs, brown and firm as tree trunks”), emotions (“icy fear twisted her heart”), and sexual phrases (“gusts of desire shook through her”).
Did writers actually lift these tired phrases and insert them into their manuscripts? If so, it was the antithesis of Craft.
Laurie caught him with the book. He immediately put it down and acted like nothing had happened. But it bothered him enough to prompt him to ask her about it that evening at happy hour.
“I’m curious,” he said, trying to affect a casual tone. “What’s the purpose of that book you have? The phrase book?”
“It’s just a tool. Like a dictionary or a thesaurus.”
“You don’t actually use those phrases in your writing, do you? Word for word?”
“No. Never. Ever.”
Did she protest too much?
“Because that would be cheating,” Aaron said.
“Absolutely.”
“Very good to hear,” Aaron said. He decided not to pursue the issue any further. After all, Laurie’s true vocation was to be a nail technician, not a writer. The other day he’d even let her give him a pedicure. It was quite enjoyable, particularly the pre-pedicure foot massage.
It was time for Aaron to leave for New York, and Laurie insisted on taking him to the airport. He tried to discourage her, citing traffic snarls, her busy schedule and the readily available long-term parking, but she said, “I love airports. All that emotion zipping around. My favorite terminal is the international terminal because people are usually going away for a long time so the goodbyes are so lovely to watch. Sometimes I go there for inspiration. Also, so many rom-coms have airport scenes.”
“Rom-coms?” Laurie had used the term before but Aaron didn’t remember what it meant.
“The movies I love to watch. The Wedding Singer, She’s Out of My League, Sleepless in Seattle, Garden State and Love Actually. All have memorable airport scenes.”
“Shall we make our own memorable scene at the airport?” Aaron said.
“Oh yes. Let’s do.”
When they arrived at the terminal, she jumped out of the car with him and stood on tiptoe and gave him a long drawn-out kiss. She smelled faintly of the sex they had that morning, and Aaron sensed fellow travelers watching them.
“Was that memorable enough?” he asked.
“Very,” she said.
Slowly Laurie let him go. A hair-tousled Aaron headed into the terminal.
People smiled. The sky caps gave him knowing looks. They could probably guess what he’d been up to all morning. Aaron had to leave behind the sublime and face harsh reality: security guards in too-tight trousers and the obligatory stocking-footed walk through the x-ray machine.
But then Laurie was at Aaron’s side again; she stole one quick yet passionate kiss and whispered, “When you love someone, you always take them to the airport.” Then she ran back to her idling car, white-gold hair flying behind her. It happened so fast Aaron was stunned. People around him were clapping. He couldn’t ever remember being this happy. New girlfriend, new novel and New York. He never imagined he’d be deserving of living a life like this. But how was he going to survive three days without Laurie?
Aaron had never been to New York before, but when the cab driver dropped him off at his hotel he didn’t feel like a tourist. He felt like someone who belonged. New York was the publishing capital of the country, and soon he’d be a published novelist. He wondered if people could sense his new status in the world, if it somehow showed in the way he walked or how he held his head.
He was staying at a hotel in Midtown. There was barely room for a luggage rack and the queen-sized bed took up almost all the space. The publishing company wasn’t picking up the tab for his trip, but his agent told him it was important for authors to have a face-to-face meeting with their editors, that publishing was all about establishing relationships.
Aaron meandered around Midtown for an hour. It was late October and the air had a nip, and he wished he’d worn a heavier jacket. Because of his limp he didn’t walk fast enough at crosswalks and imagined the swarming yellow cabs were gunning for him. On the sidewalk he was out of rhythm with the oncoming surge of pedestrians and was continually sidestepping to avoid being mowed down.
He sought refuge in the public library, which was close to his hotel. The atmosphere inside was hushed and calm. One day Chiaroscuro would be in this very building. Why not visit the shelf where it would be displayed? He ventured into the appropriate aisle and approved of his eventual close proximity to Norman Mailer. But who was this Fern Michaels with her flowery covers?
He decided to visit the W&W building where the Wilner imprint was located. He wouldn’t be meeting his editor until tomorrow, but it was wise to do a dry run from the hotel to time his walk for the next day.
He made it to the W&W building in under twelve minutes. It was an unexceptional-looking high-rise, not very different from those that house prosaic types of businesses like banks or insurance companies. How much nicer it would be to return to the days when publishers weren’t such big conglomerates and were located in quaint older buildings like the old Scribner headquarters on Fifth Avenue. (He read that the bottom floor was now a discount women’s clothing store. Tragic.) Not all publishers had gone the bigger-is-better route. Featherstone was located in a brownstone in the West Village.
“Aaron? Aaron Mite?”
Aaron squinted at the man addressing him. He was tall with a lantern jaw and vivid blue eyes that competed with the crisp autumn sky behind him. Sunlight glinted from his silver-gold watch, and his suit threw off a moneyed sheen.
“Ross Harris. We attended the same MFA program?”
“Of course. Good to see you.”
“You haven’t changed.” He laughed. “In fact, the last time I saw you, I think you were wearing that same jacket.”
Aaron fingered the lapels of his corduroy jacket. It was true he’d owned it since grad school, but it was still serviceable so he saw no reason to discard it.
“What are you doing in the city?” Ross said.
It took him a beat before he answered. His identity as a soon-to-be-published author was still new, and he had a hard time owning it. “I’m visiting with my editor at Wilner. My novel will be published next fall. “
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
Ross’s incredulity pleased him. Thousands of students graduated from Creative Writing programs each year, but how many published with a major press? Aaron imagined the number was small.
“What have you been doing since graduation?” Aaron asked. Ross’s attire suggested a lucrative profession. Investment banker? Or maybe a hedge fund manager?
“I’m a novelist too. I’ve just now finished a meeting with my editor at W&W.”
It’d been five years since the MFA program ended, and Aaron had a hard time recalling Ross’s work, which meant it was probably mediocre, but perhaps he’d made strides since then.
“My condo isn’t far from here,” Ross said. “Would you like to grab a drink and catch up? I have a car waiting for me.”
Aaron accepted Ross’s invitation; he had nothing to do until morning, and he was curious about Ross’s work.
The interior of the black Lincoln Town Car smelled of new leather and Ross’s cedar cologne. The thick glass windows and comfortable seats muffled the impact of the city. During the trip, Ross was occupied with a phone call. He sounded chummy with whoever was on the line, someone named Quip.
He ended the call and said, “Sorry about that. My agent wanted to tell me about some recent film negotiations, but then she went on about her blind date last night. Didn’t go well, apparently.”
Aaron couldn’t imagine talking to his own literary agent for such a long time and in such a familiar manner.
The car deposited the pair in front of a large impressive building on the Upper East Side. “Is Quip your agent’s first name or last?” Aaron said.
Ross laughed. “Neither. I call her Quip because she always has a witty comeback. Her name is Andrea Durban.”
“Andrea?”
“You know her?”
“She’s also my agent.”
“How about that? I guess you’re familiar with her quick wit. Did she tell you that story about her toy poodle, Kippy, and his run-in with a pigeon? What a scrappy pooch.”
“She didn’t.” Aaron didn’t know his agent owned a poodle, scrappy or otherwise.
The entrance to Ross’s building was arched and bordered with intricate scrollwork. Ross nodded at the doorman and related the Kippy story. Aaron was barely listening. The opulent surroundings distracted him. The lobby was vast and cathedral-like, reminiscent of a four-star hotel.
Light streamed in through a domed ceiling and fell majestically on marble floors. Touches of affluence were everywhere, from the gleaming wood paneling to the antique leather furnishings. Aaron couldn’t imagine a writer being able to afford such a place. Maybe Ross had family money.
They rode the elevator to Ross’s apartment. The inside was spacious, and sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His furnishings were stark and modern with sharp edges or odd shapes. Aaron was about to sit on a chair when Ross stopped him.
“Sorry. That’s a sculpture.”
He pointed to something that looked like a miniature trampoline. “That’s a chair.”
The so-called chair didn’t seem designed to accommodate the human posterior, but when Aaron sat on it, it cleverly transformed from trampoline to chair. A manservant attired in a white linen tunic top and matching trousers appeared and asked what they’d care to drink.
“I don’t suppose you have the makings for…Never mind,” Aaron said.
“Anything you want; Sam can mix it for you,” Ross said.
Ross sat on a white leather sofa, his arm was draped over the back, legs spread, taking up a considerable amount of square footage.
“Can you make a Pink Lady?” Aaron said.
“My pleasure,” Sam said. Ross requested a gin and tonic.
“A Pink Lady, huh?” Ross laughed, but not unkindly. Aaron explained that a Pink Lady was his girlfriend’s favorite drink, and he was already missing her a great deal.
“Is this Emma?”
“No.
I have a new girlfriend now.”
Ross asked several questions about Laurie as if he was genuinely interested, and Aaron was happy to provide answers. Laurie was his favorite topic, and he went on about her much more than he intended, even talking about her fervor for flamingos and romantic comedies. He showed Ross a photograph of her that he kept tucked in his wallet.
“Wow,” Ross said. “Quite a departure from Emma.”
“True.”
“What is she? A model? Actress? She’s pretty enough.”
“She’s still in school.”
“What field?”
“Medicine.” Nails were somewhat medical. Laurie was presently taking a course called Safety, Sterilization and Sanitation, although according to her she was failing it.
Ross winked. “With a face and body like that, who cares what she does? I’ve underestimated you, Aaron Mite.”
Aaron was uncomfortable with a conversation that suggested he chose Laurie for her good looks. He didn’t want to share the real story with Ross.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’m surprised. As I recall, you were always popular with the gentler sex.”
Ross’s good looks caused a stir among the female members of the MFA program, especially the poets, who dedicated more than one ode to him.
Ross smiled. “Those grad school days were heady. But now it’s a matter of not having enough time to go out and find someone. My work keeps me hopping.”
Aaron nodded. “Writing can be extremely time-consuming.”
“True, but there’s also everything that goes along with it. You’ll find out soon enough now that you’re going to be a published author.”
“What do you mean, ‘everything that goes along with it’?”
“Do you have a few hundred hours? I’ll let your editor clue you in. Lord knows they didn’t teach of any of the nuts and bolts of publishing in MFA school. So much of the program was a waste.”
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