“Please don’t let one of them be you’re ready to give up on Derek Barker.”
“No. At least not yet anyway.”
Sally sighed on the other end. “You’ve hit a little rough patch with your writing, but you can get through this.”
“Meryl McClain knows about Zach England.” There. All out in the open now. Angie waited for Sally’s outburst. There was silence, which was worse than if Sally had started shouting at her.
“Could you please repeat that?”
“I said Meryl McClain knows that I’m Zach England.”
“Okay, I’m going to hang up,” Sally said, enunciating each word. “But I’ll call right back. Do… you… understand?”
“Do I have to answer the phone?”
The line went dead. Two seconds later, Angie’s cell rang. She tapped her foot until one more ring would send it to voicemail. She hit the talk button.
“How the fuck did she find out, Angie?”
“Well…” Angie felt her face warm. “She found an original Derek Barker manuscript in the cabin of my boat. The Banner got a tip that Zach England might reside in Key West. They sent her here to investigate.”
“You didn’t call me when she showed up? What were you fucking thinking? And wait a minute. How did she get on your fucking boat?”
Angie took a deep drink of her Corona and, this time, waited ten seconds before speaking.
“Sally, there’s something I didn’t tell you because I never thought I’d have to.”
“You mean there’s something worse than a New York Banner book editor knowing the true identity of Zach England?”
Angie ignored her comment. “Meryl McClain and I were lovers twelve years ago in college.”
There was another vintage Sally Copelman pause on the line. Angie decided to wait it out.
“You didn’t think this was something you should share with your agent?”
Angie caught the shaking in Sally’s voice.
“It was very personal to me. She was the love of my life. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, even though I always held out hope. Then, when I read an article about the Banner naming her the book review editor, I couldn’t believe it. The Banner review and the other article with her argument about Zach England being a woman? Those were cherries on the cake.”
“It’s either ‘cherry on the sundae’ or ‘icing on the cake.’ Pick one or the other. Christ! What is with some authors and mixed metaphors?”
Angie chuckled, but sobered when Sally shouted in her ear.
“Do you think this is fucking funny?”
“You’re right. It’s not funny at all.” Angie drank the last of her beer. She walked to the liquor cabinet, took down the bottle of Johnny Walker, and poured herself a tumbler. She sat back down on the couch.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the two of you. I could have insisted you leave Key West instead of merely suggesting it.” A string of expletives followed. “And why did you have to tell her? You could have lied and said you collected original manuscripts or something. People do that shit all the time now. Did you just blurt out in the heat of passion you wrote as Zach England?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Don’t you even talk to me about fair. Fair is letting your agent know you were lovers with a woman who just wrote an article speculating about England’s true identity. Goddammit, Angie!”
Angie had imagined the conversation going badly, but not this badly—which was scary. She tried to defend herself. “She’s had this information since last Saturday, and there hasn’t been anything in the Banner, has there?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. For all we know, she could be taking her time planning a three-part series on how one woman deceived the literary world for eight years.”
“I didn’t tell her right away. She didn’t find out until Saturday morning after being with me a week. I lied to her initially. I made up something about a Hal Morris possibly being England.”
Sally huffed on the far end of the line. “At least I have to give you that, I guess.”
“I should have told her, Sally.”
“Come again? This is your livelihood. This is my livelihood. And if you haven’t forgotten, you signed a confidentiality agreement and it’s written in your contract about keeping your identity secret.”
“Because of who she was in my life—who I hoped she might still be—she deserved to know. We could have then worked out if or how to release the information to the world.”
“I don’t even want to ask how your convoluted reasoning came to that conclusion, but it wouldn’t have worked. Especially since you’re under contract to Stanley & Schilling. Do I have to remind you that they have a lot of power? As in, we can get our fucking asses sued?”
“I can’t un-tell her.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“She won’t take my calls. I lied to her, Sally.” Angie thought about the other reason Meryl was so upset, but tried to shut it out from her mind. “We’re lovers.” Angie stopped herself. “Or were lovers, and I lied to her. If you were Meryl, would you be talking to me right now? Especially on something that involved your job as a reporter?”
“No, I guess not.” The phone rang again in the background. “I need to take this call. Do me a favor. Don’t do anything rash. Stay low. Continue to write. I’ll do a little investigating of my own and find out if there’s been any inkling of a major story about to hit the press.”
Angie gripped the phone tighter. She was so tired of deception.
“Angie?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay quiet.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.” Sally let out another stream of profanity that Angie probably wasn’t supposed to hear before the line went dead.
Angie set the phone down on the table and returned to the liquor cabinet to pour another glass of Johnny Walker. This time she added ice and sat down again, replaying the phone conversation in her head.
She swirled the ice in the glass. “This isn’t the answer to my problems.”
Angie went to the sink and threw the rest of the Scotch down the drain. She took out a coffee filter from the cabinet and began brewing a pot. While waiting for the coffee to drip, she went to her laptop, opened the cover, and reread her last couple of chapters. She was right. This was good.
She poured a cup of fresh coffee and began pounding on the keys again.
Several hours later, she stopped, and went up on deck. Clouds had gathered. It smelled like rain. She inhaled and remembered how thunderstorms would roll into Youngstown. They always frightened Angie as a child, and her big sister knew it. Angie would tap on Jan’s door as a heavy rumble shook the house. Jan’s voice would call out for her to come in. She’d run into Jan’s room, jump on her bed, and Jan would hold Angie, telling her nothing could hurt her.
A thunderclap rang out overhead.
Jan had been wrong. Life’s circumstances and people could hurt her. And they had over the years. But this time, Angie had done the hurting.
Large raindrops fell from a thunderhead above her.
Angie needed to make it right with Meryl and thought she knew how.
She at least had to try.
* * *
Meryl doodled on her legal pad. She knew she should be paying attention to the conversation at the production meeting with the heads of the entertainment sections of the paper, but her earlier phone conversation still lingered with her. As she’d promised her mother, she phoned when she returned from Key West. She refused to inquire about her father’s health and only asked how her mother was holding up. For her part, her mother said nothing about herself, but she did tell Meryl that the doctors were amazed her father was still hanging on.
She scribbled some more on her notepad. Her mind drifted to her last session with Robert. She’d never stormed out of his office, not even when they’d delved into the nightmares and their meaning. Maybe she should start over with a new therapis
t. Better yet, maybe she should stop seeing one altogether.
“…which brings us to Meryl’s recent trip to Key West.”
Meryl looked at what she’d drawn. It was the sun rising over the water, like she’d seen it do in Key West.
“Meryl?”
“Pardon?”
Thom Pratters bunched his gray eyebrows together. “We’d like a report of your trip to Key West.”
Meryl glanced around the conference table. Expectant faces awaited.
“It was a dead end. As I reported to you when I was there, either Zach England doesn’t want anyone to find him, or he’s not even in Key West. The townspeople are very close-mouthed. It’s part of the nature of the Conch Republic.”
She’d decided before the meeting to keep Angie’s secret safe. Meryl was hurt and angry, but she could find no reason to betray Angie.
“Conch Republic?”
Meryl turned toward Zelda Landers, the head of the Movie and Arts Department.
“It’s what the locals call Key West. The history of the name dates back many, many years.”
“No luck, huh?” Zelda peered over her half-glasses with a smug expression.
“Right. No luck.”
“At least you gave it your best shot,” Pratters said. He glanced down at his notebook. “What’s next on our agenda?”
Their voices faded in the background. Meryl recalled Robert’s words in their session about her anger having more to do with the sexual abuse suffered at the hand of her grandmother and her father’s indifference than with Angie and her betrayal. Although she’d never been angry enough to storm out of his office, it didn’t mean he hadn’t ticked her off before. And it was normally when she knew deep down he was right.
He wasn’t right this time. She scribbled some more, pressing the pen a little harder with each stroke. She added a boat to her sketch. It bore a striking resemblance to The Pride of Youngstown.
Chapter 23
“Okay, I’m here in Miami,” Sally said. “What’s so important we couldn’t discuss it over the phone?”
Two weeks had passed since Angie had told Sally about Meryl. Angie still hadn’t had any luck reaching Meryl via cell phone. The rebuff from Meryl’s assistant had convinced her not to bother trying her office again. There’d been nothing on Zach England in the Banner, from Meryl or anyone else at the newspaper, but that didn’t mean the crisis had passed.
“Let me get you another margarita.” Angie motioned for the server.
“Plying me with alcohol won’t help.”
“Have you had a chance to get the buzz in New York?” Angie asked, ignoring the comment while the waiter set a jumbo margarita in front of Sally.
“Another vodka collins?” the server asked Angie.
“Yes, thank you.” He left the table. Angie pointed to Sally’s drink. “Why don’t you take a sip?”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Sally said before complying. “But to answer your question, as best I can tell, no one has said anything about you, Zach England, or that you’re one and the same person. Either Meryl McClain is being loyal to you, which plays in our favor, or she’s compiling a series of articles that’ll hit the paper on any given day and is keeping it quiet. I’d think she has enough to go on by now to blow the story wide open. I’m leaning toward the loyalty thing.” Sally saluted Angie with her drink. “Good for you.”
The waiter brought her drink. She waited until he was out of earshot. “I’m the one who’ll blow it wide open.”
Sally sputtered on her margarita. “What do you mean?”
“Me. I’m coming out.” Angie watched Sally’s reaction.
Sally leaned over the table. “What are you talking about? As a lesbian? Haven’t you done that already with your other novels?”
“I’m not talking about my sexuality. I’m talking about my identity as Zach England, world famous detective novelist. I want to let people know that I write the books.”
Sally leaned in even farther, getting very much in Angie’s personal space. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Obviously two jumbo margaritas hadn’t done the trick.
“I think I’ve finally found my mind. I do know with certainty that my muse has returned.” Angie reached into her leather briefcase and pulled out a memory stick. She slid it across the table in front of Sally.
“And this is?” Sally waved the stick in the air.
“It’s the ninth and last book in the Derek Barker crime series. It fulfills my final contract with Stanley & Schilling.”
“What?” Sally looked like she was about to leap across the table.
“You heard me. I’ve finished it. It’s my best work in years, and I’m giving it to you months before the deadline.”
“Do you realize how Stanley & Schilling will react to this? You expect me to march in their offices and say, ‘Hey, guys. Sorry. Angie slipped up with her lover, who happens to be the New York Banner book editor, and revealed she’s Zach England. Here’s the ninth Barker book and, oh, by the way, Angie doesn’t want to make you any more money.”
“I’ve got enough to pay them off if necessary. I quite frankly don’t give a damn how they react.”
“Well, frankly, Rhett, I do.” Sally spoke loudly enough to draw the attention of a few occupants of nearby tables. She lowered her voice. “You cannot legally do this.”
“Call them. If you need me to go with you to New York to meet with them, I’ll go. Call them, Sally, or I will.”
Sally looked out the large window beside them.
Angie followed her line of sight. The late afternoon sunlight sparkled off the Atlantic Ocean. Today, a day she was talking about ending Zach England’s career, was a stark contrast to the rainy, winter day in Chicago when they’d created him.
Sally sat mute for a long while. At length, she looked at Angie again.
“Okay, let me fly up to New York.”
“I can join—”
“No!” Sally almost shouted. “No. I don’t want you talking with them until we get this hammered out. This won’t be a one-day meeting, either. It could be several days or a week, however long it takes.” Sally stared off above Angie’s head and started nodding.
Uh-oh. Angie had seen that expression before.
Sally tapped her fingers on the tablecloth. “I’ll spin it as big publicity for their company. I’ll tell them we can boost the sales of your backlist. I can see it now: ‘Hot Crime Author, Zach England, Revealed as a Woman.’” She raised a hand and punched each word in the air like she was reading from an imaginary headline.
It reminded Angie of Perry White, Clark Kent’s editor. Whenever he did it, it was always something sensational.
Sally grinned. “Hot damn! It could work.”
Angie rapped her fist on the table to make a point. “Sally Copelman, I am not doing this for publicity or to make more money.”
Sally threw her hands up in the air. “Then why are you doing it now?”
“Because I’m tired of living a lie. Because I want to concentrate on writing as a lesbian. You talked me out of this once. Not again.”
Sally squinted at her through her trendy narrow-rimmed glasses. “And maybe you’re doing it to get a certain editor and reviewer back in your life?”
“No. It’s the right thing to do, and I want to give the story to Meryl.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Does it sound like I’m kidding? She sat on the story. I want to tell her it’s okay to go forward.”
“No no no. We’re doing this the right way after I talk to S & S. We’ll book you on the talk shows. Norah Hall will eat this shit up.”
“The hell we are, Sally!” Angie glanced around at the faces turned their way. She regained her composure. “Look, I know Norah’s the most popular host on talk television, but I can do without being the subject of one of her emotional, heartfelt grillings. We’re doing it my way. Period.”
“And this has nothing to do with trying to get Meryl
back?”
“It’s too late for that.”
Sally stared at her. “I’ll call New York and tell them I need a face-to-face. We’ll go from there.”
Angie motioned for the check. “Let me know when you’ve scheduled the meeting,” she said while handing her credit card to the server.
“Remember this won’t be a quick powwow. Not at all.” Sally stood and smiled at Angie.
“What’s that look for?” Angie asked.
“You amaze me sometimes.”
“How?”
“You’re my best client, yet you’re the least egotistical out of all of them. You wanted to make money. We’ve done that. But now you’re willing to let it all go. Because you have principle.”
“I sure as hell didn’t have principle the week Meryl was down in Key West.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Angie. Most authors in your position wouldn’t risk giving up what you have, no matter what the reason.”
“Please don’t make me out to be some sort of martyr, because I’m not.”
Sally drained the last of the margarita. She pointed at Angie. “I’ll call you.”
Angie waited on the server to bring her the receipt. She signed it and left the bar. She’d wait for Sally’s call. As soon as she got the go-ahead, she’d make an appointment with Meryl. Yeah, but how would Angie get a meeting with her if she wouldn’t even take her calls?
She stopped in mid-stride as inspiration struck. That might work.
* * *
Sally called the next week to tell Angie she’d meet with Stanley & Schilling on Tuesday. Tuesday came and went. Then Wednesday. Then Thursday. By Friday, Angie had turned into a nervous wreck. She went to the Cozy Conch in hopes of distracting herself. It was already after four. On the walk down Duval, ugly scenarios played themselves out in her mind.
She joined Sage at the bar.
“Hey, you haven’t been in here in quite a while,” Christi said with evident pleasure. “That’s a compliment for how well I do my job, but I still miss seeing you. Pam’s popped in asking for you a few times.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“Doing what? Waxing your boat?” Sage asked.
Come Back to Me Page 18