Lauren sat up straighter in her chair. “Witchcraft is very popular.”
“The spooky side, yes.”
“I could give it an interesting new twist,” Lauren said. “Come up with a unique interdisciplinary perspective—”
He held up his hands. “We bought a book about witchcraft and the supernatural, and that’s the book we want—especially now that you’ve got the witches’ bible—that chronicle. You know how many feminist books there are by legit academics? How many books on social psychology?”
“That’s not the—”
“It’s exactly the point,” he interrupted, then paused for effect. “How many books do you think there are by established historians that posit the occult as the cause of a real historical event?”
Lauren played with her necklace and avoided Nat’s eyes. She was a good historian. She had a great memory and her mind easily grasped large historical concepts. She was a thorough researcher and a strong writer. But she wasn’t a particularly good businesswoman. She hadn’t thought a historian had to be.
“The supernatural would still be a part,” she argued. “Still a possible explanation.”
“Not enough!” Nat cried, swinging his legs off the desk and facing her. “Boylston’s excited about Rebeka Hibbens because the supernatural’s more than just a possibility. But,” he paused again, “now that we’ve lost our ‘established’ historian, we’ve got a problem.”
“A problem?” she repeated.
“We’ve now paid quite a bit of money for a book by an unknown.”
“Jackie can still be primary author,” Lauren said quickly. “That would be fine with me—more than fine. I’d really like to do that for her,” she added, thinking how annoyed Simon would be if he could hear this conversation.
“Nice sentiment, but not enough.” Nat shook his head sadly. “We plan to keep Jackie as primary author—but we need something else too. Something to make up for her lack of input.” His eyes sparkled and Lauren’s heart sank.
Lauren had known it was coming, but somehow it was still a blow to hear the words. “You want material from the chronicle to form the core of the book,” she said dully.
“Exactly.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and regarded her carefully. “Have you seen it?”
Lauren pressed her hands together and tried one more time. “You liked the original proposal,” she reminded him. “Isn’t there any chance we could go back to it?”
“No can do,” Nat said, shaking his head. “Everyone here’s too psyched about that bible—and remember, we’ve lost the input of our primary author.”
Silently apologizing to Jackie, Lauren said, “What if we made a new deal for a new book and I returned the difference between the advances?”
“Okay, let’s see how that might look.” Nat began scribbling on a pad and muttering encouraging phrases such as “unknown without a PhD” and “never go mass market.” He paused and tapped his pencil on the desk. “With luck, maybe I could convince them to give you a couple thousand dollar advance.”
Lauren was horrified. She thought of the balance she was carrying on her credit card, of the new pair of sneakers Drew needed, of the note she’d received from Mrs. Piccini, the landlady, complaining that Todd’s half of the November rent had not been paid. “That’s all?” Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper.
“That’s if I could sell them on the idea of yet another feminist reinterpretation of witchcraft—and for that I give you no guarantees.” Nat jumped up and went to a tall file cabinet shoved behind his door. He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a file. “Look, I know Jackie was the one who was into this occult shit,” he said, flipping through some papers, “but you don’t have to believe the stuff to write a good book about it. Just start with what she already did—all those meetings with mediums and fortunetellers and those new earth-mother witches—what do they call themselves?”
“The Wicca,” Lauren said dully.
“See? You know all about this already. And with her latest breakthrough …” Nat looked up at Lauren and his eyes clouded. “I talked to her about that chronicle a little over a week ago. Damned shame. Damned shame.”
To her amazement, Lauren was overcome by a powerful blast of anger. Anger at Jackie for dying and leaving her alone with this mess. Anger at Deborah for suddenly believing in the stupid curse. Anger at Dan for putting crazy ideas into her head. Lauren wished she could grab a manuscript from Nat’s desk and rip it to shreds the way Drew had ripped Kisha Liebhaber’s picture, stomping her foot and screaming out her fury at the unfairness of it all. But that would be ridiculous and futile. She slumped in the chair. As ridiculous and futile as her anger.
“Anyway,” Nat was saying, “when I talked to Jackie she was tremendously excited. Told me all about the reincarnated women and their bible. Can you beat it?” He shook his head. “You’ve seen the book, haven’t you?” he asked again.
Lauren nodded, thinking of the last time she had seen the chronicle. How she had held the thick leather volume in her hands while Jackie happily jabbered. “It’s going to be great fun. I promise.”
“If you can do something with it,” Nat was saying, “if you can find any sliver of truth in their story—well, do that, and all your problems will be solved!” He chuckled. “That Jackie. You’ve got to hand it to her—finding nutsos who actually think they’re the reincarnation of your lost coven. What was she—some kind of a kook magnet?”
Lauren stared at him. “Kook magnet,” she repeated. And now she was being drawn in as well.
Nat touched her shoulder. “Look, Lauren, don’t take it so hard. Just go read it—” He paused, a worried frown crossing his face. “You do have the book, don’t you?”
Lauren wondered once again what the real story was. Who had taken the chronicle from Jackie’s house—and who had given the book back to the witches? There was something about the smile that had passed between Deborah and Cassandra that led Lauren to believe the two women knew more than they were saying.
“Lauren?” Nat interrupted her thoughts.
Lauren knew there was no way to keep from telling him the truth. She took a deep breath. “The witches have it—and they’ve changed their minds and won’t let me read it,” she said quickly. “Deborah told me they don’t want any part of Rebeka Hibbens.”
“So your job’s to get them to change their minds, kid,” Nat said, unperturbed by her news. “All you’ve got to do is convince them of your sincerity and the historical importance of their book. A little cajoling, a little flattery … You’ll be amazed at what you can do. And who knows—maybe you’ll get into it.”
Lauren stood up, trying to convince herself that this was what Jackie would have wanted, that this was the right thing to do. She reminded herself that Lieutenant Conway didn’t think there was anything suspicious about Jackie’s death. “Would you get into spending your time with a bunch of women who thought they were the reincarnations of three-hundred-year-old witches?” she asked.
Nat looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Not that I’m suggesting this or anything,” he finally said, “but you can always cancel the contract and give the advance back—that would get you off the hook.”
She shook her head. “Not when the money’s already been spent.”
He smiled and turned his palms to the ceiling. “Hey, look at the bright side. This’ll force you to write the book and maybe it’ll make us all rich. One more best-seller like Gabe’s and I could be sitting in Kathleen Turner’s editor’s office!” He draped his arm over her shoulder as he led her to the door. “Spending that money could be the best thing you ever did.”
Somehow, Lauren doubted it.
* * *
“Nat? Gabe Phipps,” Gabe said into the telephone. “How’s it going?”
Lauren sat silently in the chair opposite Gabe’s desk, listening to him attempt to charm Nat.
“You’ll have to deal with Nancy on this second serial rights bit,” Gabe w
as saying. “Have your contracts people talk with the agency’s people—I stay out of these financial finaglings.” He chuckled. “After what happened with the audio rights for A New Social History, Nancy ordered me never to speak to you again.” Gabe nodded and winked at Lauren as he listened to Nat.
Lauren wasn’t happy about being here. After her futile discussion with Nat on Friday, she had brooded all weekend about whether to take Gabe up on his offer to help her change Nat’s mind. Despite Dan’s advice to the contrary and a gnawing fear in her belly, Lauren had decided to try talking to Deborah before approaching Gabe. But when Gabe had grabbed her in the hallway first thing this morning and reiterated his offer, Lauren had agreed to let him give it a try. So here she sat, in “the inner sanctum of our great leader,” as Terri, the department secretary, always referred to Gabe’s office.
“Sure, sure,” Gabe was saying. “Of course I have no problem. Braille is fine. You think I want to gouge blind people for a few bucks?” He laughed. “What kind of a guy do you take me for?” He paused and then laughed even louder at Nat’s response. “Just don’t tell Nancy that.”
She looked around the large corner office, mid-morning sunlight flooding the comfortable clutter and the Oriental rug that had faded to muted perfection. Gabe had offered to call Nat, she reminded herself. Twice. She had never actually asked him to do it. It had been his idea. Nevertheless, she felt like a commoner groveling before the nobility—and hated it.
“There’s one more thing,” Gabe said after setting up a golf date with Nat. “Lauren Freeman stopped by to see me the other day.” He winked at her again. “Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re all taking it pretty hard.” He listened for a few minutes. “Yeah, Lauren told me.” He listened again and laughed. “Got to agree with you there.” He scribbled a note and handed it to Lauren.
She looked down at it. “He thinks you’re cute,” it said. Glancing up from the note, she saw that Gabe was grinning at her. When he smiled like that, he really was an incredibly attractive man.
“I understand,” Gabe was saying. “It’s all very intriguing. But you’ve got to remember we’re talking history here. Not fairy tales. We’re talking respected historians—” He listened for a minute before continuing. “I’ll give you a whole list of reasons. One: It’s all hogwash. Two: It’s all hogwash. Three: It’s all hog-wash. And four: If your name is associated with hogwash you’ll never get that promotion—or that corner office—you’re always pining after.”
Lauren leaned forward in her chair, as if that would enable her to hear Nat’s side of the conversation. Gabe had charmed all of America; he could certainly charm Nat Abraham. That grin could charm anyone.
“Nat,” Gabe said in his perfectly modulated, expert lecturer voice, “you’re missing a valuable point here.” He listened. “No, no, I completely appreciate your position, it’s just that—”
Lauren’s heart sank. Apparently, Nat Abraham was tougher than all of America. And, of course, he couldn’t see Gabe’s grin.
“Okay, okay, pal,” Gabe said. “Listen, I’ll probably run into Lauren sometime soon. Let me talk to her. Until then, let’s leave it that you’ll think about it.” He burst out laughing. “You know me, I always get what I want in the end.” He listened, then sobered. “I’m telling you, I know what I’m talking about, and you’re making a big mistake.”
Lauren stared at the intricate design of the Oriental rug. There were patterns within patterns within patterns. Each one caught inside the other, defined and confined by the one larger than itself. Lauren heard Gabe’s sharp intake of breath and looked up.
“I’m going to do you a favor and forget you ever told me that,” Gabe said softly. He listened for a moment then hung up the phone.
“What?” Lauren asked.
“Nat was just ‘making a business observation,’” Gabe said bitterly. “He was noting that authors who ‘die under unusual circumstances’ often sell extremely well.”
Dumbfounded, Lauren stared at him. “Nat said that?”
“Anyone who thinks publishing is a gentleman’s business shouldn’t be writing books.” Gabe swiveled his chair and stared out the window at the graceful quad crisscrossed with sidewalks and students rushing to class. Lauren could see the determination carving his features. “We’ve lost a battle,” he said, swinging back toward her, “but that doesn’t mean we’ll lose the war.”
Lauren was touched by his concern. She had never seen this side of Gabe; she had always assumed he was too caught up in his own ambition to care much about the problems of others. She had misjudged him. Apparently being rich, famous, and brilliant didn’t mean you couldn’t be a good friend.
“Thanks for the try,” she said, standing up and forcing herself to smile. She rapped on the desk with her knuckles. “I mean it, thanks a lot.”
He leaned forward. “What will you do now?”
“This really is what Jackie would’ve wanted,” Lauren said, striving to be upbeat. “Part of me is actually relieved to do it her way.”
“You mean you’ll do Jackie’s part? Hunt down witches and sorcerers? Badger those reincarnated crazies until they show you their chronicle?” He waved her back into the chair. “It doesn’t sound like you.”
Lauren sat down, once again surprised by Gabe’s interest. She raised her chin and reminded herself that she had done many things in her life that she hadn’t wanted to do: she had spent every Christmas vacation at Todd’s parents’ tiny apartment in Fort Lauderdale; had labored for thirty-seven hours to give birth to Drew; she had filed for divorce; and now she was living through the loneliness of having lost her best friend.
“May not sound like me,” she said, keeping her voice light, “but when you’ve spent the advance, you’ve got to write the book.”
“Ah,” he said, frowning.
“Unless you have any other ideas?” Her question was rhetorical—another attempt at lightness.
Unexpectedly, Gabe’s face filled with his famous grin. “You could have dinner with me tonight.”
Lauren was caught by surprise. “That’s, ah, not exactly the kind of idea I meant,” she finally stuttered.
“But is it a good idea?” His dark eyes gleamed mischievously, almost shrewdly.
Was he asking her out on a date? Lauren wondered. It had been well over a decade since anyone had asked her for a date; she didn’t know the rules anymore. No, this clearly wasn’t a date. He was just being nice, trying to cheer her up. “It’s not a bad idea—I mean it’s a good idea,” she said. “Just a bad time.”
“I understand.” He nodded, his grin gone, his face full of the serious empathy Lauren often saw when she told people she and Todd were getting divorced.
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s Drew—my son,” she said. “I don’t like to leave him more than I have to. The poor little guy’s having a tough time adjusting.”
Gabe turned his palms up. “I was spared that.” Department gossip had it that Gabe had been through a particularly messy divorce about ten years ago, and that he never spoke of his marriage—or of his ex-wife. “Although I often regret never having had a child,” he said softly.
“Maybe we could have dinner some other time?” Lauren surprised herself by asking.
“Does Drew like Chinese food?”
“As long as it’s Peking ravioli,” Lauren answered.
“How about I pick up some Chinese and bring it to your house?”
“Tonight?” Lauren asked, thinking of how excited Drew would be. Peking ravioli was his favorite, but money had been so tight lately that eating out or taking in had assumed “special treat” status.
“Isn’t that what we’re talking about?” Gabe’s irresistible grin flashed again. “We’ll strategize. Maybe come up with a new game plan that will avoid excessive contact with crazy witches and still keep Nat happy.”
Both relieved and surprisingly disappointed, Lauren smiled. This wasn’t a date. “Sevenish?”
“White wine or red?”
/> “Either is fine,” she said, walking to the door and giving him a foolish little wave before escaping into the hallway. Why had she said that? she wondered. Red wine gave her a headache.
Twelve
GABE ARRIVED PROMPTLY AT SEVEN, CARRYING TWO bottles of red wine and a large bag on which Chinese Food was written in tapering brush strokes intended to resemble Oriental characters. He looked handsome—and years younger—in his bright-colored rugby jersey and blue jeans. She was used to seeing him in tweed jackets and oxford shirts. Dressed like this, his daily workouts showed.
“Am I too early?” he asked almost shyly.
“No, no,” she said, taking the wine bottles from him. “It’s a fine time,” she added as she led him up the stairs. A fine time? she asked herself. What the hell did that mean?
“Great place,” Gabe said, running his hand over the thick mahogany banister. “Beautiful wood.”
As she pushed the door open with her elbow and waved him into the hall, Lauren decided she liked that he wore his hair unstylishly long. The way it curled around his collar was appealing, if perhaps too reminiscent of the sixties—a decade of which he must have much stronger memories than she.
“It actually reminds me a lot of your house,” Lauren said. Then, afraid that she might be insulting him by comparing his mansion to her small apartment, she added quickly, “Except, of course, that yours is the whole thing—the real thing. Mine’s only a small piece of what this place once was.”
He shrugged and inspected the cornice molding.
Lauren tried to keep herself from rocking back and forth on her feet. She knew she should lead him into the living room, but then they would have to pass the kitchen. And suddenly she didn’t want him to see the little table she had set for three. In some moronic way, it embarrassed her, made her feel exposed and silly, as if she were a little girl playing grown up.
Just as Gabe turned and looked at her expectantly, Drew came up behind her. Relieved to have an object of conversation, Lauren pulled him to her. Drew stood with half his body pressed into his mother’s leg and stared at Gabe. The genes had mixed strangely, for he was small for his age, while both she and Todd were quite tall. People either assumed he was exceptionally bright and articulate or guessed him to be one or two years younger than his current age. The latter did not sit well with Drew.
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