“No. He poured himself a glass of wine as I was leaving, but he didn’t drink while we worked, and he was sober.” Alex felt sorry for him when Rose asked the question, and she could easily imagine him getting drunk after she left. “Does he have a problem?”
Rose sighed before she answered. She felt strangely close to this exceptional young woman she had taken under her wing. “He used to, for a while. I think he has it under control now. He had some tough things happen that he never got over. He was one of those confirmed bachelors who never wanted to marry. He was a great editor, and always did some teaching on the side. About twenty years ago, when he was forty, he fell madly in love with one of his students. She was a fantastic writer, a poet, and she wrote historical novels, not at all your kind of thing, but very elegantly done. She was a very talented young woman and they were very happy. But she had a dark side, some writers do. You could see it in her writing. I think there were some family problems, her sister died of cancer or something, and Faye committed suicide. She was twenty-six years old, and it was a terrible waste of a nice woman and a great talent. It always is. It almost killed Bert. I think he stayed drunk for a year. He went back to teaching eventually, but he’s never been the same. He’s still a fantastic editor, but part of him died with her. That was fifteen years ago. He retired a few years back. He’s pretty much been a recluse since she died. Faye was the only woman he ever loved. It’s a sad story, and even if he’s difficult at times, I love him dearly. I’m glad you two got along. He’ll be great to help you edit your books.”
Alex was bowled over by the story and didn’t know what to say at first. “How terrible for him,” she said softly, suddenly more compassionate about how he lived and looked, and how gruff he was. They talked for a few more minutes. Rose said she liked the new outline too, and then they hung up.
—
Alex did her “homework” for Bert again that week, remembering the story Rose had told her about him. And she forgave him easily now when he was cranky with her. He always looked hungover when they met, but he never drank more than a single glass of wine, if any, with her when they were working, although once or twice she saw him pour himself a straight scotch right before she left. And the work they did together was extraordinary with great results. He guided her in the writing of her second novel all through the fall. They had a strong professional relationship but never discussed their personal lives, only her books. He had become her mentor and teacher, and improved her writing immeasurably.
She put the finishing touches on Darkness, her second book, during the Christmas holidays, and on January 2, with Bert’s approval, she sent it to Rose Porter as a finished novel for her to sell to publishers. And she already had an idea for a third. She was becoming a book machine. He teased her about it, but he was proud of her, and so was Rose.
Although Bert didn’t agree with her and said it was a waste of time, she signed up for a creative writing class at school for second semester. She thought it would teach her something to try more varied fiction assignments, but it was a disappointment. There was an arrogant student in the class who criticized her work constantly, and had no talent himself. The teaching assistant was lazy, and the famous writer supposed to teach the class was never there.
She worked on her third book, Hear No Evil, as soon as she finished her second one, during sophomore year, with Bert’s help. Writing-wise, things were going well, although she felt like a loser socially.
She hadn’t joined any clubs or sports teams, and when she got lonely, she went home to the convent for a night or weekend. There was no room for anything but writing in her spare time, so she totally neglected her social life. She said as much to Mother MaryMeg when she’d asked if she was dating, and was surprised she wasn’t. Alex had grown even more beautiful than she had been as a child and young teenager.
“I haven’t met anyone I really like.”
“Do you give yourself a chance to meet anyone, or are you always writing the way you are here?” Alex smiled at her sheepishly, knowing it was true. She worked constantly and loved what she did. Her first two books hadn’t sold yet, but Rose was sure they would. She had only represented her since September. “Have you thought about what’s going to happen when you get successful?” Mother MaryMeg asked her, seeing that possibility not so far down the road.
“I can buy cuter clothes.” Alex laughed, sounding her age for a minute.
“Aside from that, people will be jealous of you. That may be why the pompous student in your writing class made nasty comments. I’m sure he was jealous of your talent. Envy is a very ugly thing and very dangerous. You have to protect yourself from it every day.”
“That’s why I’m going to publish under a pseudonym,” Alex said innocently. “Then no one will know it’s me. Except you, my editor, and my agent.”
“And what will you tell people you do for a living?” Mother MaryMeg was intrigued.
“I can say I’m an editor, or I write articles or something,” she said vaguely.
“You can’t hide your light under a bushel forever,” the mother superior warned her gently.
Bert said pretty much the same thing when she told him she was going to write under a pseudonym. “Don’t be afraid to be who you are. No one can take that away from you, and they shouldn’t,” he said firmly. He had grown very fond of her in their months of working together, and sometimes treated her more like a daughter than a pupil.
“Women aren’t supposed to write crime,” Alex said stubbornly, still adopting her father’s prejudice as her own. “If I write under my own name, men won’t want to read them.” She had heard it from her father and believed it. She trusted his word and judgment completely. He hadn’t liked female crime writers, and would only buy a thriller written by a man.
“It’s still a men’s club, but not entirely,” Bert conceded. “The problem is that your books are more ‘evil’ than most women write. What name are you going to publish under?” he asked her, curious.
“Alexander Green,” she said proudly. If they wouldn’t let her into the clubhouse as a woman, she could sneak in the window as a man.
“That sounds good,” he said, approvingly. “In some ways you do write like a man, Alex, but whatever you write is going to piss off some people because you’re so damn good at what you do. And male readers will want you to be a man. Maybe you’re right. It may just be easier for you to write under a man’s name.”