Envy

Chapter 13

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“In the morning,” Maris replied. Nervously her gaze moved around the solarium, never stopping directly on Parker. “Mike arranged for a boat to pick me up. I have a nine-thirty flight out of Savannah, connecting in Atlanta to La Guardia.”

“Have a nice trip.” His surly expression suggested he hoped she would have the trip from hell.

This was the first time she’d seen Parker today. This morning she had slipped into the kitchen for a quick breakfast of cold cereal, she’d skipped lunch altogether, and then had asked Mike to bring her a sandwich to the cottage for dinner. She used work as her excuse for the solitude. She wanted to reread the manuscript with total concentration and without distraction. Mike had accepted the explanation. At least he’d pretended to.

If Parker’s scowl was any indication, she’d been smart to keep her distance all day. He looked ill-tempered, spoiling for a fight. The sooner she said what she had to say and left, the better.

“Before I leave,” she began, “I thought we should have one last discussion about the manuscript. I spent most of the day reevaluating it.”

“Reevaluation. That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Calling what?”

“Your avoidance of me.”

Okay. He wanted a fight. Why disappoint him? “Yes, I was avoiding you, Parker. Can you blame me? After—”

She broke off when Mike appeared with a service tray. “Fresh peach cobbler,” he announced.

Parker’s scowl deepened. “How come there’s no ice cream?”

“Did you want it to melt before I could get it served? Jeez.” Mike deposited the tray on the table, then stamped back into the kitchen, muttering about how grouchy everybody had been today. He returned with a carton of vanilla ice cream, which he scooped over the steaming portions of cobbler.

“I’m having mine in my room,” he said, taking one of the bowls for himself. “There’s a Bette Davis film festival on TV tonight. If you need anything, you can fetch it yourself,” he said to Parker. “Maris, if you need something, just knock on my door. Upstairs. First door on your right.”

“Thank you, Mike. I can’t imagine that I’ll need to disturb you. The cobbler looks delicious.”

“Enjoy.”

After Mike left them, Parker attacked his helping of cobbler and ice cream as though he were angry at it. When he finished, he dropped the spoon into the empty bowl with a loud clatter, returned it to the tray, then rolled his chair over to the computer desk. “Do you want to read what I’ve been working on, or what?”

“Of course I want to read it.”

While the new pages were printing out, Maris ate her cobbler. Carrying the crockery bowl with her, she moved slowly along the crammed bookcase, surveying the titles in Parker’s extensive collection. “You like mysteries.”

His head came around. “If they’re well written.”

“You must think Mackensie Roone writes well.”

“He’s okay.”

“Just okay? You have the entire Deck Cayton series.”

“Ever read one?”

“A few, not all.” She pulled one of the books from the shelf and thumbed through it. “I wish we were publishing them. They sell like hotcakes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Why do you like them?”

He thought about it a moment. “They’re fluff, but they’re fun.”

She nodded. “Millions of readers worldwide think so, too. The character of Deck Cayton appeals to both men and women, and why not? He’s independently wealthy. Detective work is just his hobby. He lives on a fabulous houseboat, drives fast cars, flies his own jet. He’s as comfortable in a tuxedo as he is in blue jeans.”

“And even more comfortable out of them.”

“You must’ve read the one about the murder in the nudist colony.”

He grinned devilishly. “My personal favorite.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Getting back to the character…”

Absently, she licked some dripping ice cream off her spoon. “Deck Cayton is well drawn. He’s charming, witty, good-looking. He’s—”

“A jerk.”

“Sometimes he is. With a capital J. But he’s been so engagingly written that a reader forgives his flaws. The author allows him to be human, and the readers appreciate and identify with that. And even though he’s armed and dangerous and tough-talking, Deck has an underlying vulnerability.”

“Because of his wife’s death.”

“Right. It’s referred to, but I haven’t read that particular book.”

“First of the series,” he explained. “Skiing accident. He challenged her to a downhill race, and she crashed into a tree. Autopsy revealed she was several weeks pregnant. They hadn’t known. You should read it.”

“I definitely will.” She tapped the spoon against her front teeth. “Do you see how the author built in a reason for Deck’s vulnerability? Readers can empathize with him because of that tragic and fatal accident.”

“You’re sounding like an editor.”

She laughed. “Habit, I guess.”

“You’ve given it a lot of thought.”

“I analyze every bestseller. Especially the competition’s. I need to know why Deck Cayton strikes such a positive chord. Part of my job is trying to predict what the buying public wants to read.”

She polished off her cobbler. “But that doesn’t make me any less a fan. Character motivation notwithstanding, Deck is your basic larger-than-life action hero who never fails to solve the mystery, nab the bad guy, bed the babe.”

“And make her come.”

Maris closed the book with a decisive snap and replaced it on the shelf among the others. He’d only said that to provoke her, and it had worked. But damned if she would let it show. “As I said, he appeals to men and women alike.”

Her understatement made him grin, but he let it pass without comment. “Which was your favorite of the series?”

“Loose Change.”

He grimaced. “Seriously? In that book Deck came dangerously close to being a wimp.”

“Because he showed more sensitivity toward the female character?”

Scornfully, Parker placed his hands over his heart. “He got in touch with his feminine side.”

“But he soon reasserted himself as a real cad. By the end of the book, he was back to being the smooth operator that every man fantasizes being.”

“Did he live up to your fantasy?”

“Deck Cayton?”

“Your husband. His book acted like a spark plug to your fantasy life. Did his performance in bed—does it—live up to your expectations?”

She faced him squarely. “Parker, that is an inappropriate question.”

“That means it doesn’t.”

“That means it’s none of your business. Your curiosity over my personal life is out of line. Which is precisely why I avoided being alone with you last night and all day today. What happened in the gin made me uncomfortable. I’m married.”

“What happened in the gin? I don’t remember anything happening in the gin that would compromise you as a married woman.”

His feigned innocence infuriated her, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing it. She changed tactics and assumed an air of indifference as she returned her empty bowl to the tray on the table.

“You attached far too much significance to that kiss, Parker. You asked why I allowed it, and since you seem confused on that point, let me clarify. I allowed it because fighting you off would have been undignified and embarrassing for both of us. A glorified golf cart is no place to conduct a wrestling match to protect my virtue. And don’t for a moment delude yourself into thinking I was afraid of you.” She shot him an arch look. “I could’ve outrun you.”

“Ouch! That one hurt, Maris. Now you’re fighting dirty.”

“Which is the only kind of fighting I think you understand.”

“It’s the only kind of fighting, period.”

“In other words, what’s the point of fighting if you don’t fight to win?”

“Damn straight,” he said tightly. “Win at all costs. No matter what it takes, no matter what you have to do. I learned—or rather was taught—that lesson. If you want to come out on top, you must be willing to go the distance.”

Although his intensity on the topic intrigued her, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that warned her against probing any further.

“I wanted to work with you on Envy. If one meaningless kiss bought me that opportunity, it was a small enough price to pay. Can’t we put that childish episode behind us and concentrate on what brought me here in the first place? Your book and my desire to buy it.”

“For how much?”

The subject of money had never been broached, and she was caught off guard by the introduction of it now. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, do.”

“It’s premature.”

“Maybe for you, not for me.”

“I haven’t seen a complete manuscript, Parker. I won’t go to contract until I have.”

“And I won’t bust my balls finishing a book that you might ultimately reject.”

“I’m sorry, that’s the way the system works.”

“Not my system.”

The recently printed sheets were neatly stacked in his lap. She was itching to read them. But his jaw was squared, and he was just ornery enough to stick to his guns. “We could compromise.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I would be willing to offer you a moderate advance once I see a detailed outline.”

“No sale. I don’t want to do an outline.”

“Why?”

“Because I enjoy the spontaneity of writing without one.”

“You wouldn’t have to adhere to it. If along the way a better idea occurs to you, I won’t hold you to the outline. All I require is a general idea of where you’re taking the story, a synopsis of the plot.”

“That would spoil the surprises.”

“I’m your editor. I don’t need to be surprised.”

“Of course you do. You’re a reader first, an editor second. You’re the first barometer of whether the book is good or it’s crap. Plot twists are essential to its being good. Besides, I’d rather channel my energy into the story than to writing a stupid outline.”

“I urge you to take the time, Parker. For your benefit as well as mine.”

“I ain’t doing it.”

“You sound like Todd.”

“Todd?”

She moved to the table where she had left her copy of the Envy manuscript. “Let’s see… I think it’s in chapter six. No, seven. It’s a scene between him and Roark. He’s telling Roark that Professor Hadley had suggested changes in his character’s attitude toward his father, and Roark thinks the suggestion is a valid one.”

She scanned the pages of text. “Here. Page ninety-two. Todd says, ‘When our esteemed professor writes a book, he can do with his characters whatever he likes. You can do with yours what you want. But these are my characters. I created them. I know what makes them tick. I won’t change them to suit Hadley. No. No, sir. I ain’t doing it.’ ”

She looked over at him. He shrugged. “Okay. So I’ll let Todd speak for me.”

“God, you’re stubborn.”

They stared at one another until he finally asked, “Do you want to hear what I wrote today while you were busy avoiding me?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she said, “Of course I want to—Did you say hear it?”

“I thought I would read it to you because it’s very sloppy. I was writing fast. Didn’t bother with capital letters, punctuation, stuff like that. Have a seat.”

She sank into the deep cushions in one of the wicker armchairs, slipped off her sandals, and tucked her legs beneath her. He rolled his chair near hers, engaged the brake, and adjusted the shade of a floor lamp so that the light was directed down onto the pages. Except for that small pool of light, the room was dark.

“I took your advice, Maris, and enhanced the girl’s role. She’s interwoven into other scenes, but this one between her and Roark takes place on the night following his snafu with Hadley.

“The professor rescheduled their appointment for after the Thanksgiving holiday. Roark returns to the frat house, pulls Todd off his sleeping loft, and, as you suggested, commences to beat the hell out of him. Some frat brothers break up the fight. Roark inflicts no more damage than a busted lip and a bloody nose. Todd apologizes.”

“He does?”

“He does. He says he thought it would be a good practical joke, but didn’t think through the ramifications of screwing Roark with Hadley. Says he hadn’t counted on Hadley being so severe when Roark turned up late. He had figured Roark would get the equivalent of a slap on his hand, and then Hadley would proceed with his consultation.”

“Is Todd sincere?”

“We have no reason to believe otherwise, do we?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Okay, so Roark has accepted Todd’s explanation and apology, but he’s still mad as hell. Forlorn. In a crap mood. He calls up the girl and makes a date with her for that evening. He tells her that he really wants to see her, that he’s had a shitty day, stuff like that.”

“He’s in need of some TLC.”

“Exactly.” Scanning as he went, Parker flipped through the top several pages, letting them drift one by one to the floor at the side of his chair. “You can read this transition on your own. Oh, I’ve named the girl Leslie.”

“I like it.”

“To paraphrase, Roark takes her to a Sonic Drive-in. They have chili Tater Tots and cherry limeades.”

“Big spender.”

“Hey, give him a break, okay? He’s a kid on a budget. Besides, he happens to like chili Tater Tots and cherry limeades.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“After they eat, Roark drives them out to the lake. He parks. He leaves the radio off. Somehow the silence seems appropriate. Let’s see… yeah, here. ‘The silence that enfolded him was as calming and comforting as a mother’s breast. His day had been a chain of chaotic events, a jarring series of starts and stops. Between outbursts of anger, he’d suffered bone-crushing disappointment in his friend, in himself.’ ”

“Good.”

“Thanks,” he returned absently as he continued to scan the pages. “Throughout the evening Leslie has been unusually subdued, not her effervescent self. Roark figures that his dour mood must’ve been contagious, that it had rubbed off on her. Over the Tater Tots they’d carried on a desultory conversation about blah, blah, blah. You can read this for yourself.”

He ran his finger down the page until he located the passage he sought. “Okay, listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“ ‘A full moon hovered just above the horizon and was reflected in the water at such a severe angle that its wavering spotlight spanned the entire breadth of the lake. But it shed a chill light. On the far shore, towering pines and denuded hardwoods were unmoving in the windless night, stark and still, like India ink etchings against the sky that had turned wintry just that day.’ ”

“I like it.”

“To encapsulate, their conversation has been forced, stilted. Leslie hadn’t asked Roark where they were going when they left the Sonic. On the drive to the lake, she hadn’t uttered a peep.… Jesus, did I write that?” He took a red pencil from his shirt pocket and made a slash through that line. “But by now her silence is beginning to wear on Roark’s nerves. He wants to know what she’s thinking.”

He began to read again from the text. “ ‘Roark withheld asking until his chest felt tight enough to crack. “What are you so quiet for?” His tone of voice should have pissed her off. It would have pissed him off if somebody who had been as glum as an undertaker all evening had implicitly accused him of being the source of some unacknowledged complication.

“ ‘But when Leslie turned toward him, he saw only kindness in her expression. Instead of rebuke, understanding. And Roark was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was.

“ ‘Oh, the first time he saw her he’d thought she was pretty. Eye candy. He and the guys he’d been carousing with that night had picked her out of a crowd of coeds. Among themselves they had appraised her, lewdly remarking on the physical attributes that men lewdly remark upon. She had scored high.

“ ‘But tonight she was beautiful to him in a way that had nothing to do with the pleasant arrangement of her features or the proportions of her figure. She exuded a beauty that was deeper than her flawless complexion and rarer even than her extraordinarily blue eyes.

“ ‘She radiated a beauty that wasn’t particularly appreciated. By contemporary society’s standards, it didn’t have much value. It wasn’t sophisticated and cool, but homespun and warm. It made you feel loved and accepted despite your shortcomings, despite everything. Tonight Leslie was beautiful like you hoped your life partner would be.’ ”

When Parker stopped reading and glanced up at her, Maris managed only a slight nod and a motion for him to continue.

“Leslie asks him what had happened that day to put him in such a funk. Words to that effect.” Parker sent that page sailing over the armrest of the wheelchair and found the spot on the following page where he wanted to resume reading.

“ ‘Roark talked for ten solid minutes. The words gushed out in an uninterrupted stream, as though all day his subconscious had been choosing them and arranging them into an order that would give them the most impact and would most eloquently express the level of his despair.

“ ‘But eventually his dejection turned to outrage. He articulated the fiery internal argument he’d been having with himself, the argument that justified his anger toward Todd. “Fuck his apology!” He closed his hand into a tight fist. “He can’t undo the damage he’s done that easily.”

“ ‘When he finished venting about Todd, he cursed the pompous professor for being such an unrelenting bastard, at the same time admitting to his fear of never reestablishing a rapport with Hadley and thereby guaranteeing a dismal grade on his capstone.

“ ‘The words finally ebbed, then stopped altogether. Roark fell silent again and hunkered down into his jacket, not for the warmth it provided but from shame for sounding like such a goddamn crybaby.’ ”

Again, Parker raised his head and looked at Maris. “Well? Should I trash it or continue?”

“Continue. Please.”

“I’ll pick up with Leslie’s response.”

Returning to the manuscript, he read, “ ‘She waited until the smoke of his wrath had cleared, when it became noticeable that the cold from outside was seeping into the car. Her breath formed plumes of vapor between them. She spoke quietly, as one would to a temperamental animal who was momentarily docile. “What happened today is a good thing, Roark.”

“ ‘He snorted, looked over at her. “Good? How in God’s name is it good? Not that I believe in God.”

“ ‘He knew she wouldn’t like the atheistic remark. She was a devout believer who took offense at jokes made over anything religious. Ordinarily she admonished him for making them and asked him to kindly keep his irreverent comments to himself. This time, she elected to overlook it.

“ ‘ “The reason you’re taking this so hard is because your writing means so much to you.”

“ ‘It was a good point. He wanted to hear more. “And because it means so much to you, you’ll succeed. If you were able to shrug off the misunderstanding with Professor Hadley or laugh about it, then I would advise you to rethink your choice of career. You could dismiss this incident only if you had no passion for writing.

“ ‘ “What happened illustrates the depth of your passion. Your despondency over this… what really amounts to a hiccup in the grand scheme of things… demonstrates the level of your desire to write and write well. It hit you where it hurts most, which affirms that you’re doing what you were born to do.” She smiled. “I didn’t need it affirmed. But perhaps you did. And if you did, then this experience was worth all the anxiety it’s caused.”

“ ‘She reached for his hand and pressed it between hers. “Think about it, Roark, and you’ll realize that I’m right.” ’ ”

When Parker paused, Maris said, “She’s a very intuitive young woman.”

“You think?”

She nodded. Noticing the sheets still lying in his lap, she asked, “How does Parker respond?”

“The way most men respond to any emotionally charged situation.”

“Which is?”

“Well, depending on if we’re stimulated to feel bad or good, we either want to strike something or fuck something.”