Come Back to Me

by Chris Paynter

  To my Little Phyllis Valentine. I love you.

  ALSO WRITTEN BY CHRIS PAYNTER AND

  AVAILABLE FROM BLUE FEATHER BOOKS:

  PLAYING FOR FIRST

  COMING SOON:

  TWO FOR THE SHOW

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, locales and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  COME BACK TO ME

  Copyright © 2010 by Chris Paynter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, save for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Ann Phillips

  A Blue Feather Book

  Published by Blue Feather Books, Ltd.

  www.bluefeatherbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9822858-5-5

  First edition: May, 2010

  Printed in the United States of America and in the United Kingdom.

  Acknowledgements

  I started this journey last year with two of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. Thank you to my publisher, Emily Reed, for taking a chance on me and making me a part of the Blue Feather family. You’re a tireless champion of lesbian literature and an inspiration to me and countless others. A great big Hoosier thank you to the most patient editor in the universe, Jane Vollbrecht. You’re my mentor and teacher. But above all, you’re my good friend. Please don’t ever stop helping me to improve my writing.

  Em and Jane, I look forward to many, many years of a wonderful partnership.

  I’ve been fortunate to be blessed with the best parents in the world, Nancy and Morris, and with the best brother a sister could ever hope for. Dave, you’re my hero for many reasons, but especially for what you do for this country. To my sister-in-law, Grace, and niece, Cassie, your love and support mean the world to me.

  A special thank-you to K.C. and Suzanne for their early readings of this manuscript. I appreciate your suggestions and your friendship. Thank you, Nann Dunne, for your meticulous line editing and your invaluable knowledge—especially in all things nautical.

  To William H. Cook—thank you for your thirty years of counseling and friendship. I know I wouldn’t be here today without you, Bill.

  And to Phyllis, the woman who changed my life forever, who is my Muse and my inspiration, who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself—thank you for all of the sacrifices you make in allowing me to pursue my dream. You are my safe place in this world—a refuge for my heart.

  Chapter 1

  Chicago, Winter 2002

  “Let’s give this a try. It sure as hell can’t hurt.”

  Angie glared at her agent from across the table. “I think it’s selling out, Sally.”

  Sally returned the scowl. “The major publishers shy away from lesbian authors who try to change genres. How many times do we have to go over this? And they don’t think a woman can write the hard-ass stuff and be taken seriously.”

  “What about Agatha Christie? She had male detectives who—”

  “Stop. Right. There. Did Agatha Christie ever write anything remotely like, ‘He knew from the moment he saw her that he wanted to get her between the sheets’? This detective of yours is a man’s man, and you’re obviously a woman.”

  Sally attempted to stop the waitress who breezed by, her arms loaded down with a tray full of glasses. “Crap, they’re too damn fast here.” She faced Angie again.

  “In addition to the lesbian genre writing thing, it’s rare for major publishers to accept a woman writing a down and dirty novel where the main character’s a fun-loving, heavy-drinking, hell-raising male detective. Especially a male detective who engages in sexual dalliances. That’s how you want to write him, and that’s fine. But trust me, they’ll see it as a gimmick. If Angelina Cantinnini appears under the title of your manuscripts, I’ll never get them past the acquisitions editors. These are damn good novels, Angie, and they’ll sell, but not with your name on them.”

  Angie peered through the large window next to their table. She felt like she was one of the passersby, trying to avoid stepping in some big mud puddle and ruining not only her new shoes, but her chance at the career she’d always dreamed of. What could it hurt? She’d published three moderately successful lesbian mysteries with a small publishing company, but she wanted to branch out and try new things. Expand her horizons. Test her imagination. She laughed at herself. Who are you trying to fool, Angie? You want to make money.

  Sally cut through her thoughts. “If you want to swim with the big boys, you’ll have to become one of them.”

  “Jesus, who are you, Sal? The devil? Because I feel like I’m making a deal that’ll cost me my soul.” Angie finished the last of her vodka collins. She raised her hand to catch the attention of their server and motioned to the two empty glasses.

  “Oh please. Don’t try that Catholic guilt on me now. You haven’t attended Mass in years.”

  Angie’s temper flared at the smug look that came over Sally’s face.

  “What?”

  The fake look of innocence on Sally’s face annoyed Angie all the more. “You can say anything you want, but don’t make fun of my faith.” She held up her hand before Sally could interrupt. “And don’t say ‘what faith?’ It’s been difficult enough with my family—”

  “I’m sorry. I was only joking. I know that’s a sore spot with you.”

  “When my mother tells me not to come home again until I’m cured of this sickness, yeah, it can be a bit of a sore spot.” Angie heard the catch in her voice, but hoped it went unnoticed. Seven years, and it still felt like yesterday.

  The waitress set their drinks down and winked at Angie before leaving their table.

  Sally glanced over her shoulder. The waitress walked to the bar, turned, and gave Angie a lopsided grin. “That Italian charm of yours is still there. I guess I’m not of the right persuasion to fetch us drinks.”

  At least the flirtatious moment had lightened the mood. Angie rubbed her forehead with her thumb, forcing her thoughts back to their discussion.

  “Okay, let’s say we do this. How will it work?”

  Sally’s smile was hard to categorize—somewhere between delighted and demonic. With just a little effort, Angie could almost see tiny horns sprouting from Sally’s head and her swizzle stick turning into a pitchfork.

  “Leave it all up to me…”

  Chapter 2

  Key West, Florida, Spring 2010

  The Pride of Youngstown rocked gently in the shallow waters off the island of Key West. A warm breeze swept across the bow of the boat where Angie lay on a beach towel with her head propped up on a life preserver. She gripped the newspaper in her hands a little tighter to prevent a sudden gust from launching it into the blue-green water.

  The wind pushed Angie’s bangs into her eyes. Annoyed, she brushed them back. She usually kept her dark, almost black, hair short, but let it grow out a little in the winter months. It was March, and time for a cut.

  She pulled out the book review section of the Sunday New York Banner and noticed a familiar name in a small article announcing the recent hiring of the new book review editor.

  “Oh my God.” She sat up and almost knocked her life preserver into the water.

  It was a small black-and-white photo, but that didn’t hide Meryl McClain’s beauty. Her hair, which had been well past her shoulders when Angie last saw her eleven years ago, fell just below the collar of her blouse. She stared into the camera with confidence and self assurance. The black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to the mesmerizing, cyan blue eyes that Angie remembered so well.

  “You haven’t changed,” Angie whispered.

  She scanned Meryl’s short bio. The artic
le concluded by directing the reader to Meryl’s first book review on an inside page.

  Angie fumbled with the paper as she fought against the wind and her own nerves. She said a few curse words and opened to the review. Her stomach dropped when she read the headline, “Zach England’s Newest Installment in the Barker Series Lacks Imagination.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said under her breath, jumping down to the lead:

  “Zach England’s Dying to Meet You is a disappointment from his earlier work. Beginning with Murder So Dear, England’s writing has deteriorated into formulaic tripe that appears to be hammered out only to appease his adoring fans who clamor for each new release.”

  At first, Angie thought the swaying of the boat caused the print to jiggle, but then she noticed her shaking hands. The only encouraging words were compliments of England’s earlier work in the series. According to Meryl’s review, England’s writing began to suffer in the fifth installment of the Derek Barker detective series. Dying to Meet You was the eighth book.

  Angie folded the newspaper, walked along the leeward side of the boat to the stern, and carried the paper into the cabin below—away from the wind and away from the impulse to read the review again. After plunking the paper on the table, she returned to the wooden deck and gazed through her Ray-Bans at the water where the Gulf of Mexico merged into the Atlantic.

  She and Sally had given birth to “Zach England” that cold and rainy Chicago day eight years ago. Sally had vowed it would be temporary. But fate had other plans.

  At Sally’s suggestion, Angie rewrote the books, switching from third person narrative to first person and changing the name of the main character. Stanley & Schilling, the first major publisher that hadn’t seen her earlier detective manuscript submitted under her own name, scooped it up, and Sally had an offer within weeks of a reading.

  Once she’d had the verbal commitment from S & S, Sally sprung the news on them that Zach England was a pen name for a female author. The big bosses at Stanley & Schilling had been shocked, but they’d also been shrewd. They thought they had a runaway bestseller on their hands. But they also thought readers wouldn’t accept that a woman could write a character like Derek Barker. They not only wanted her to use a pseudonym, they insisted she do so.

  Seven number one best sellers later, Angie still wondered if she’d done the right thing. Her bank account screamed she had, but her conscience told her she’d lost herself along the way, drifting like a dinghy snapped free from its anchor. Sure, she was a famous author. Sure, she had the money and the ease to live wherever she wanted on the planet. But who did she share it all with? Sally?

  “Yeah, I share it all right,” she muttered, “fifteen percent with each publication. And I damn well paid for that penthouse of hers in Chicago.”

  And now—of all people—Meryl had reentered her life with a review of her latest work.

  She heard the familiar chirp of her cell phone in the cabin below and hurried down the stairs again. She flopped into one of the cushioned chairs after seeing the number on the display. This wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

  “Yeah, Sal, I read it.”

  “Who the fuck is this woman? It’s her first review, for fuck’s sake, and what does she do? She rakes your ass over the fucking coals.”

  Angie wished she had one of those handheld counters for occasions like this so she could click it each time Sally hurled a “fuck” at her. She’d often said Sally cussed like a sailor, except Angie didn’t know any sailors who could get quite as descriptive as Sally.

  “I mean, seriously, who the fuck is she? Have you ever fucking heard of her? And did her first review have to be of your novel? It’s the only poor review you’ve gotten on this one.”

  She noticed that Sally hadn’t mentioned all of the rave reviews she received, but that this was the only poor review and that it was pointedly “this one.” Her last two Barker novels received lukewarm reviews as well.

  “And another thing—”

  “Maybe she’s right,” Angie said, propping her feet up on the worn leather ottoman in front of her. She glanced around the wooden cabin, contemplating what her wealth had bought her. This boat was an indulgence, but she’d wanted one ever since she’d attended an antique wooden boat show in Miami. Technically, the forty-footer was a yacht, but she couldn’t bring herself to call it that.

  The shrill voice on the other end of the line abruptly brought her back to the present.

  “What?”

  Angie held the phone away from her ear. “I said maybe she’s right.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means?” Angie went to the refrigerator for a Corona. She pulled out a lime and sliced it on the nearby counter while cradling the phone to her ear with her shoulder. She shoved a section into the lip of the bottle, leaned her back against the counter, and crossed her legs at the ankle before taking a long drink.

  “Hey, I know the last couple of books haven’t been your best stuff, but still.”

  “But still, hell. I deserved it even though I didn’t like reading it.” And I don’t like the memories that name brings to me, Angie silently added. “I’m thirty-two, and I feel like I have no life, Sally. I never go on any press junkets or readings of my novels, and God forbid I do a public appearance for book signings.”

  “We’ve been over all of this. Stanley & Schilling still insists that you keep the pseudonym. Your character is too macho for readers to believe a woman could create him. Remember, we’re locked into your third three-book contract with the stipulation that you maintain your anonymity. Besides, it works. You’re making money, right?”

  “You know the answer to that. And the operative words are we’re making money. I’m very aware I could go the rest of my life without selling one more book and still live comfortably off my royalties. And I’m just as aware the multimillion-dollar deal that you cut with NBC to produce the Derek Barker series doesn’t hurt, either.”

  “And the problem is…”

  “The problem is no one knows who I am. I feel like I’m suffocating down here, and it’s not from the heat. I get tired of having the title of ‘reclusive best-selling author.’ It’s affected my writing. I’m bored, and it shows.”

  “Listen to me, Angie. Yes, you may be in a bit of a rut. It doesn’t mean you’ve lost it. You only need to recharge your batteries.”

  “Where the hell else am I supposed to go to recharge my batteries? I live in the capital of laid-back living, for God’s sake.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Sally ranted on about Angie’s strengths as an author. Into Angie’s third beer, Sally wound down enough to say, “It’ll be okay. We have some other advance reviews we can slap on the back cover. Fuck the New York Banner.”

  Angie lay stretched out on her couch. She held the cold Corona bottle to her forehead. “Sally Copelman, I cannot believe you just said ‘fuck the New York Banner.’ It’s the goddamn New York Banner. We’re not talking about a newspaper in some Podunk town.”

  “Don’t you worry about this. Like I said, I’ll get those other advance reviews for your back cover.”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t let one of them be from some newspaper in Butte, Montana, okay?”

  Angie snapped her phone shut and tossed it to the foot of the couch. She took one more drink of her beer and set it on the table. Now that she’d gotten Sally off the phone, she could reflect on what was really messing with her self-esteem. Meryl’s reentrance into her life left her feeling unsettled. They’d met in a creative writing class her sophomore year at Lehigh University. Meryl’s first critique was of a short story Angie had written about a disastrous Thanksgiving dinner. The memory of the ill-fated holiday rushed back, mocking her attempt to forget the past.

  Chapter 3

  Youngstown, Ohio, Thanksgiving 1995

  Angie’s mother trailed behind her father as he brought the platter of turkey to the dining room table.

  “Angi
e, help your sister get the vegetables ready, will you?” her mother said. It wasn’t a request; it was an order.

  Angie went to the kitchen and stood beside Jan. She stared at the pattern of the countertop, ignoring what her sister was doing.

  “Mom said to help, not just stand there.” Jan swatted her head playfully.

  “Oh, right.” Angie took the bowls down from the cabinets above and set them on the counter. Jan was still at the stove, stirring the green beans.

  “Angie?” Jan held out her hand. “Hello? Bowl?”

  Angie brought a large bowl over to Jan, who poured the beans into it.

  Jan furrowed her brow. “Is everything all right with you? You act like you’re in a whole other world.”

  “I’m fine.” Angie was far from fine, but she couldn’t tell Jan why. She should’ve been able to talk to Jan about this. Jan was five years older and everything a big sister should be—annoying, loving, and overprotective. More than anything, she was Angie’s best friend. But Angie made the decision to tell the whole family at once. Today was the day. Thanksgiving. They couldn’t throw her out on Thanksgiving Day, could they?

  Jan let it drop. “Take this and the stuffing out to the table.”

  Angie carried the bowls into the dining room. Her father paused in the carving of the turkey and gave her an adoring look. She only hoped he’d see her in the same light after her announcement.

  They took their customary seats: her father to her left at one end of the table, her sister beside her, Lou, her older brother, across from her, and her mother at the opposite end, facing her father. Her father said grace. They gave the sign of the cross. Everyone but Angie reached for a bowl of food.

  “I have something I want to tell you.”

  Her family paused, each with an outstretched hand frozen in the air. It reminded Angie of a freeze-frame from her film appreciation course at Lehigh University. She felt the stares of her family, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

  “What?” Lou asked. “We’re hungry.”