Haunted (17 page)

"What about Georgie?"

"Ultimately, she'll do what her author wants." She smiled coyly. "If she won't go for it, David would have to make a choice--his beloved editor or his beloved agent." Melanie, you’re a drunken bitch! Still, she liked the idea of making him choose, although she knew that wouldn't mean he’d bring his business to her. "Harry," she continued, "you wouldn't be his editor, but you could get the glory by bringing David here."

"Well, that's almost as good, isn't it?" Harry beamed at her. "Melanie, I. like the way your mind works. How long have you been in business now?"

"Just four years."

"That's not long." He paused, studying her. "You've built up quite a list. You're going places. I might be able to throw a new author your way, a guy who sent a manuscript over the transom. I bought it. It's a political thriller and it's going to be big stuff. We're ready to buy another book, and he's looking for an agent. You interested?"

"You bet."

They discussed a little more business, then argued politely over the bill. Melanie was relieved when Harry finally snatched it away. Emerging from the Oyster Bar, they were suddenly drowned in the humid evening heat. Melanie's beige silk dress immediately started to stick to her skin and, as she tried to adjust it, she nearly collided with a group of luggage-wielding Frenchmen heading into Grand Central Station.

"I'm going to Gramercy Park." Harry said as he steered her away from the tourists. He began hailing. "Care to share a cab?"

"No, thanks. I live the other way, near Sixth and Fifty-Second I'll walk."

"You're sure?" he asked. A taxi pulled up and he opened the door. "We can go by your place first."

"Thanks, but no. I really want to walk."

"You're the boss." He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then slid into the cab. "I'll be in touch."

Still slightly thick-headed, she walked slowly through the oven-like heat to Sixth, then took the train to 48th. She walked from there, stopping at a little market at Fifty-First for a bottle of orange juice, mainly so she’d have an excuse to pet the big black and white store cat, Pretzel. She needed a cat of her own, she decided as she turned west on the next block. A moment later, she was in her building and riding the elevator up to the twelfth floor. She needed company; if not a cat, then a parrot or something. She hated living alone.

Unlocking her door, she was immediately assailed by stale hot air. If she had a pet, she told herself, she'd have an excuse to leave the air conditioner on while she was at work. She closed the drapes, turned on the air and stripped down to her slip, then took the bottle of orange juice and sat in her old easy chair directly in front of the refrigerated air. She held the chilled juice bottle between her breasts, rolling it back and forth, then moved it higher, over her shoulders and neck, across each cheek. Finally, she unscrewed the cap and drank greedily from the bottle. The wine had dehydrated her and she felt thick and a little drunk, and she had the beginnings of a headache.

"You behaved abominably tonight," she said aloud. "In fact, you were a complete ass." She looked around the dimly lit little room and wondered again what it would be like to have a cat come and greet her when she got home. Nice, she thought. The apartment was just too lonely.

She'd moved here when she'd left David last January, and the place still made her think about him. That bastard! A single, stupid, tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Maybe she should move.

No. That was foolish. But so was she.

When they'd met, just before he hit the big time, neither knew what the other did for a living. David claimed to be a school teacher, which was true, though he didn't bother telling her he'd been able to quit his full-time job, and only subbed now and then to make ends meet. When she asked him what he liked to do for fun, he said he got a kick out of writing, never mentioning he'd published several books. When he asked Melanie what she did for a living, she lied, afraid that he'd inundate her with horrid manuscripts if she said she was a literary agent. She told him she was a hair stylist. She smiled, remembering the night he'd suggested they play "naked barber." He never said a word about the bald patch she left on the back of his scalp, probably because of her lack of attire. He must have suspected something wasn't quite kosher, though.

A few months later, when the truth came out, David wasn't offended. In fact, he found it very nearly hysterical, and loved to tell the tale. He told Georgie, whom she had no right to dislike, and the overworked agent soon sent several promising writers her way. He told Joanna, who recommended Melanie to a few new writers, and soon her business had grown to where she could pick and choose.

Shortly after Dead Ernest made the bestseller list, she tried to pressure him into dropping Georgie Gordon in favor of her agency and was hurt when he refused, even though, on some level, she admired him for it. "I don't mix business and pleasure," he'd told her gently. She wished she'd listened and tried harder to understand, wished she hadn't been so oversensitive and arrogant. Most of all, she wished she hadn't told him that if he wouldn't switch, that meant he didn't love her enough to trust her. She knew now that it had been a stupid, juvenile thing to say.

But she had made the threat and she felt obligated to follow through on it. He softly said he was sorry she felt that way and that remark made her so furious that she'd responded by telling him to fuck off, in just those words. Then she'd called him names. She'd regretted it ever since and that was why she hated him: he'd had the audacity to remain reasonable in the face of her irrationality. It was humiliating.

Amber had told her he'd forgive her if she apologized. The girl had begged her to do so. But she couldn't. She didn't think she could ever even look him in the eye again.

It's amazing how much I've matured in six months. In that time, the self-protecting anger had receded--it still flared, as it had tonight, but not like before. Intellectually, she had understood his reasons all along, but emotionally, she was just beginning to get it. "David," she whispered. "Oh David, oh David, you fucker, I miss you."

Tears flowed freely and orange juice dribbled down her chin. What a sight I am. She had the career, the contacts, she would get her bestselling writers sooner or later, she knew that, but she didn't have David. When they were together, they'd called themselves Lord and Masters, and they thought they were the perfect couple.

"God," she sighed, and turned her thoughts back to this evening.

She'd done something not quite respectable in plotting with another editor to get Joanna Scanlon to move to Dorner. Or had she? Scanlon was a big girl. Maybe she'd done her a favor. Maybe she wanted to leave Randall, or maybe she'd use it to get a counteroffer and a nice raise from her current employer. That certainly wasn't bad.

It seemed bad though, at least in motive. She had no business manipulating David--it certainly wouldn't make her feel better about herself. What should I do?

Her first thought was to call David, but if he even had a phone yet, she didn't know his new number. Maybe she'd ask Joanna to lunch and fill her in… Maybe she wouldn't.

"God, never mix business with pleasure," she moaned. "Masters, you were absolutely right about that." She rose and padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth and down some aspirin, then went back to the living-room and dragged the futon off its frame, unfolding it between the air conditioner and the chair. She stripped to the buff, snagged an afghan for later, and lay down, letting the chill air dry the sweat beneath her breasts, enjoying the feel of the breeze shrinking her nipples into hard buttons as she thought about David and how he knew exactly how to twist them between his thumb and forefinger to drive her absolutely . . .

The jangling phone brought her bolt upright, her heart beating too fast, her stomach in her throat. She turned on the lamp and squinted at her watch. It was nearly midnight. She sat up and grabbed the phone. "Yeah." Her voice cracked with sleep.

Ray Blaisdell's voice oozed into her ear. "Melanie, baby, you didn't call."

"Sorry. It was a long night, Ray."

"What did Rosenberg say?"

Not now, please, not now. "He had an idea. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you about it."

"Tell me now. Does he like my proposal?"

Oh, God. Never mix business with pleasure. You’re a slow learner, Melanie. "He says it's not right for Dorner, but he had another idea and I'll tell you about it tomorrow."

"That asshole. Tell me now, babe. I can't wait, it'll drive me crazy."

"No, Ray." Anger started to rise. "Tomorrow. I'm exhausted. I have a headache."

"How about if I come over and massage it away for you?"

"Not tonight." She felt lonely, but not for him. "Not tonight. I'll call you in the morning. I'll have to check my schedule. Maybe we can do lunch."

"I'd just like to do you. Meat misses you."

Ray, only twenty-six, had long dark blond curls, arrogant features, long fingers and an amazing penis. In fact, she thought dryly, he likes talking about his penis almost as much as he likes using it. And he adored its nickname, but what he lacked in savoir faire, he made up for in enthusiasm and in a pleasant obsession with giving her multiple orgasms whether she wanted them or not. All in all, except for the arrogance, which was actually not that bad, he was a great guy, she told herself. A catch.

But he’s not David. "Tomorrow night I'm all yours," she said with little enthusiasm. Why couldn't she get over that damned Masters?

"Okay, Mel. I'll be waiting to hear from you in the morning. Are you sure you won't tell me now?"

"No, Ray, not now. Goodnight."
She heard him start cajoling again as she dropped the phone in the cradle. Soon, she began to drowse, visions of David Masters cavorting in her head. The dreams to follow would put her in an excellent mood by morning.

Body House: 7:49 P.M.

"That wasn't too bad," Amber said as David handed her the last dish to dry. "For a casserole."

David had been thinking just the opposite and he suspected his daughter was just trying to look on the bright side. Minnie had left them something she'd brought from home that morning, "taco fiesta casserole," she called it, and it featured soggy tortilla chips, canned chili peppers, and ground beef that must have had a fifty percent fat content. It felt like a sack of cement in his stomach and he suspected that only a teenager could digest it.

"If she keeps cooking like that, I'll have to double my hypertensives within a month."

"Oh, yeah, cholesterol and all that junk. What are you going to do?" Amber asked mildly. "Fire her?"

"No, don't worry." He laughed. "I'll try to retrain her, instead. Everything I bought is low fat. I even got a low fat cookbook. She'll get the message."

"I hope so." She paused. "Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you really think Eric Swenson is retarded?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, he seemed kind of weird to me, but..."

"How do you mean?'' Eric had been on his mind ever since they'd met, and he was eager to get his daughter's take on the odd young man.

"He doesn't seem stupid," she began, then shrugged helplessly.

"Theo said he has the mind of a ten-to-twelve year old," David told her. "And there are plenty of twelve-year-olds who can out-think adults. They may not have the life experience..." It was David's turn to shrug.

"That's it, Dad. He seems like he's spent his whole life locked away by himself and they just let him out."

"Unsophisticated," David said as the phone began to shrill in the parlor.

"I'll get it," cried Amber, tossing the dish towel at David and running from the room. Closing the cupboard and hanging up the towel, he hoped they'd find the box containing the rest of the phones tomorrow.

"It's for you!" Amber called, her tone mildly disgusted.

As he entered the parlor, he became painfully aware of the inadequacy of his few pieces of furniture. After Dead Ernest hit the bestseller list and stayed there, he had moved Amber and Melanie from the rental and bought a modern condo that was made mostly of glass and chrome. Melanie had helped him with the furniture and, except for the rather timeless overstuffed gray suede couch and chairs, it was all too modern for the house, even he could see that. He wanted the parlor, at least, to be perfect by September, when it was likely that independent human interest programs like Eye on LA might contact him about filming ghost spots for Halloween programming.

Gaylord Price, his Hollywood agent, had promised to give it his best shot, especially since Remains to be Seen was still on the charts and his recently completed novel, Star Light, Star Bright, would hit the stands in early October. Maybe Theo can give me some guidance with new furniture. Then he focused on Amber as she tapped her foot impatiently and held the receiver out to him and decided to ask her to come up with some ideas first. For one thing, it would keep the peace; for another, it would give her a project to fill the summer, if she was interested. All he knew for sure was that he didn't want to get involved in anything creative except his new book. Though he'd begun Mephisto Palace before they'd moved, he was already behind schedule on the damned thing.