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Now the blue was faded and the white had grayed. The room looked not like a writer’s lair, an artist’s garret, but like a cheap, dark, and nasty place to have to begin or end a life in. Terry sat down on the Salvation Army sofa and tore open the envelope. The letter clipped in front of the manuscript was no surprise. There were never any surprises.

Dear Ms. O’Neal,

It is with real regret that I am forced to return your manuscript The Duplicity of Men. Despite some beautifully written passages and an interesting theme, the editorial board, upon consideration, has decided it is inappropriate for our list at this time.

I am therefore returning it to you with sincere regret. I would be most willing to look at any other novels you may be working on in the future.

Simon Small

Any other novels? In the future? For a moment, Terry almost laughed. She sat there, drained and empty. She was a big girl, and her heavy thighs sank into the sofa, her arms hanging between them. She didn’t move for a long time. Until she knew.

Enough is enough, she thought. Soundlessly, she pushed herself up and went to the battered file drawer where she kept the other letters, the rejections she had collected from Putnam and Simon & Schuster, from Little, Brown and Houghton Mifflin, from Viking, Davis & Dash, Random House, and Knopf. From all of them. There were dozens. Could she say that fairly? She was always exact with her words. To be sure, she counted them one last time. There were twenty-six, with Simon Small’s making the twenty-seventh. So, in fact, she could say there were dozens. And she’d done no better with the university presses than with the commercial houses. Well, what had she truly expected? She knew nobody and nobody cared to know her. She had poured all of her reading, all of her love of language, all of her experience of life into these carefully constructed, crystalline pages of prose and had been foolish enough to think that somebody would care enough to read them. Well, she was wrong. The whole folly was over.

Carefully, meticulously, she went to the fireplace and crumpled up some old newspapers and torn cardboard. She started a blaze. Then, slowly, a few pages at a time, she fed the manuscript to the flames. It felt surprisingly cleansing. It didn’t take long: less than a half hour perhaps. Certainly not long considering the thirty-three years it had taken her to learn to read, to learn to write, to imbibe the great works, to develop her own style, to have a story to tell, and to tell it. It had been a hard life, often full of pain and frustration. Now she had to add defeat. But, Terry knew, if she couldn’t live a writer’s life, she didn’t want to live at all.

Once her manuscript was burned she looked around, as if waking from a trance. She didn’t stay still long. It had felt too good to stop. Before the fire died, she fed an earlier draft into the flames, then her latest marked copy. Next she began to scour the apartment in earnest. She found every note, every draft, every partial photocopy, and fed all of it into the bonfire. After all, there was no point to saving it anymore. She had run out of publishers, time, money, and belief. And the anticipation—the waiting for the rejections—had been more painful than the rejections themselves because somehow she had always known that her vision was too dark, her world too sad, to be lauded by publishers or her professors. Terry had been the type of student who never found a mentor, who never shone in seminars, who never got to be the pet at workshops. She was too rawboned, too raw altogether, too unfeminine and clear-eyed. She was not likable, and her professors saved their compassion—if they had any—for others. She had lived in obscurity, and that’s just where she would die.

The fire was nearly burned out. Terry looked around the apartment. With all the papers burned there was very little else: a few nondescript skirts, a gray tweed dress, some reams of printer paper, her battered laptop, her good leather purse, a canvas book bag. Things that didn’t matter. She took the three back-up computer disks and placed them, last of all, into the dying embers. They stank as they melted and bubbled. The bitter smell in the air mingled with the fear at the back of her throat.

She thought about writing a note to Opal. But what was there to say? I was wrong? You were wrong? She’d written thousands of paragraphs, millions of words. It was enough for one lifetime. Yet she didn’t want her mother to feel her blame. So, when at the last, the very last, Terry picked up the carefully labeled file of rejection letters, she paused before consigning them to the guttering flames. She needed no other explanation, no other note. Almost gaily, she found some transparent tape and walked around the room, decorating the walls with the only visible reward of her eight years of endless, single-minded toil. The letters papered the room nicely. They proved she’d left no stone unturned. With all that done, she went to the window outside the kitchenette and cut down the clothes-line that, long ago, she had strung across to the fire escape of the next building. Terry dragged the kitchen chair to the center of the room and sat with the coil of rope upon her lap. Before she did anything else, she thought she’d simply sit back, staring at all the nos, all the negative votes, hanging on the wall and—in her own mordant way—enjoy the view.

2 (#ulink_504d3171-44d9-5c5c-b5ef-6491ee666390)

I think of a writer as a river: you reflect what passes before you.

—Natalia Ginsburg

Camilla Clapfish pushed the lock of brown hair behind her ear with her habitual little twist, wrote the last line, and then slowly looked up from the manuscript she had just completed. Outside, beyond the open window, the dull gray cobbled streets of San Gimignano were offset by the vibrant blue of the Italian sky. Camilla sighed and put down her pen. She had given herself a week here, undisturbed, to finish the book, a book she had been working on for almost a year, and she’d achieved her goal a day early. She smiled to herself. It felt like “the hols”—what upper-class British schoolchildren used to call vacation. She looked across the rooftops to the crazy stone towers of the ancient hill town. She’d go out and celebrate. She could spend the little she had left of her money on a good bottle of wine and a slap-up meal. She wouldn’t eat at the hotel tonight; she’d find a really good restaurant. But first she would walk in the tiny park, climb the steps of one of the towers, and look out over the Tuscan plain.

Oddly, Camilla felt as much sadness as triumph over finishing the book. Writing had come late to her—well, if at twenty-nine anything could be considered late. She’d found how she loved to record what her eyes took in, to create with words instead of paints. She was a failed artist, an unsuccessful art historian, and a quiet person—not a talker. But words on paper had become her companions this last year, and the characters she had drawn had become her friends. She’d written about a group of middle-aged ladies on a bus tour. She felt she’d come to know and like them all, even the troublesome Mrs. Florence Mallabar. She would miss them.

Camilla added the last page to the neat stack of manuscript, rose from the table, and went to the wardrobe, where her plain brown linen jacket hung. She was tall, and her light brown hair and her dark brown eyes set the tone for her wrennish dress. Camilla was not one for bright carmine or aquamarine. She wore no lipstick. Too much early exposure to nuns, she supposed. You wound up dressing like either a tart or a novice. She was certainly of the novitiate school. And although her English skin and regular features were enough to draw some attention from Italian men, she didn’t—as her mother had frequently reminded her—”make very much of herself.”

Now she carefully locked the door to the sparely furnished hotel room and walked down the stone stairs to the lobby. The clerk at the desk greeted her in Italian and asked if she was having a good day.

“Si. Buono. Grazie.” Yes, it was a very good day. The day I finished my first novel, Camilla thought, but she merely nodded. Her Italian was passable enough to discuss the practicalities of life but not good enough to describe this quiet joy. The clerk, an older man with a grizzled mustache, smiled. To him she was only another tourist. San Gimignano was a famous tourist town, a perfectly intact fourteenth-century wonder. There were those who called it “The Medieval Manhattan of Tuscany” because of the beautiful and bizarre stone towers that graced it. Once there had been sixty or seventy of them, but now only fourteen remained, making a strange and beautiful silhouette against the green Tuscan landscape. She would go out and enjoy looking about.

She walked out the stone portal of the hotel onto Via S’Porto, the secondary street that led to the main piazza. She paused, took a deep breath, and rubbed her eyelids with the very tips of her fingers. She was tired but elated, and more than a little surprised. I didn’t think I could do it, but I did, she thought. I’ve finished it. I’ve finished my first book. She smiled and—for the first time in months—felt a pang of loneliness. Camilla was quite used to being alone. But now, without the comfort of her book to work on and keep her company, she wished there was someone she could tell her news to.

I suppose I never thought I’d complete it, she realized. After all, she had never been taught what was now called “creative writing.” Camilla had attended the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Birmingham, a dark, failed industrial city in the English Midlands, and her salvation had been that she was taken under the wing of Sister Agnus Dei, stern Sister Agnus, her sixth-form teacher, who had recognized her intelligence and championed her cause. It was Sister Agnus who had insisted that Camilla sit for A levels—the all-important testing that got British schoolchildren accepted to university.

No one in Camilla’s family had been to university. Well, in point of fact, all of them had left school at the earliest legal opportunity. Camilla’s father had been a lorry driver until an accident resulted in a bad back that ended his days behind the wheel. Her mother, not to put too fine a point on it, had been what once was referred to as a “char.”

Perhaps that was unfair. Camilla, walking over the cobblestones, reconsidered her words and edited her thoughts. Well, if Mum was not as little as a cleaning lady, she certainly was not as much as a housekeeper. She had been the “daily” whom the Beveridge family had called in as needed, and she had spent a good part of her life cleaning up the messes of those she still referred to as “her betters.” In fact, it seemed to Camilla that her mother had always been more interested and more willing to clean and cook and listen to the children of the Beveridge family than to her own. The Clapfish flat was messy, ill-managed, overcrowded, and damp. Mrs. Clapfish rarely bothered with housework at home—”Don’t get paid to do it, now, do I?” she’d ask. Thinking of their home even now, under the warm Italian autumn sun, made Camilla shiver. Her three younger brothers had been in a constant clamor, their noses always wet, as were their socks and vests. When they weren’t shouting at one another they were being shouted at by their mother, who was just as often being shouted at by their father. Camilla sighed, her loneliness deepening. No point in writing to them, telling them she had finished a novel, Camilla thought. Her mother would only ask, “Whatever for?”

As she continued walking toward the center of San Gimignano, she decided that she certainly wouldn’t tell Lady Ann Beveridge about her novel. But maybe she would write to Sister Agnus Dei tomorrow and give her the news. Sister Agnus, despite her name, wasn’t the least bit lamblike. She’d be fiercely glad. In the meantime, Camilla would enjoy this day, the Italian sun, and the beauty of the stonework, being responsible for no one but herself.

She did not have to guide anyone through either of the two main churches, or point out the Roman ruins, or wait while calculatedly naïf souvenirs were purchased. Camilla had spent the last year and a half in Firenze, first studying and then supporting herself there as a tour guide. All of her higher education in art history in New York—which her parents had neither understood nor approved of—had, in the end, come down to this: She was a tour guide. Because, only after Camilla had struggled through college and graduated, only after she’d finished her dissertation, did she realize that—without connections in either the art world or academia and without any particular personal charm—she would never get one of the few and highly coveted museum or teaching jobs. So, adrift, she had left New York and wound up in Florence, giving guided tours and, in her loneliness, writing fiction in her spare time.

She liked giving tours, but only to Americans. They were used to standing in groups and were eager to improve themselves. It seemed almost a religion with them. British tourists never would stand together—they were always wandering off or directing their gaze somewhere else, while the French were absolutely impossible—rude and arrogant, the lot of them. Camilla had never finished a tour without one of them walking but on her while she spoke. Yes, Americans were nicest, most grateful. And although she became frozen with a paralyzing shyness if they asked her to coffee or lunch after a tour, Camilla spoke with authority during her stint as docent. She could guide people more easily than be with them.

Camilla lived frugally, watching every penny, but she’d already had a lifetime of experience with that. She also had to put up with the occasional condescension of wealthy visitors who wanted their art predigested and their history reduced to four-hundred-year-old scandal. But she persevered. She was actually rather well-suited to the job. She had a surprisingly strong voice, physical stamina, and a good memory for details. If at first speaking to groups was difficult, she found, in time and with good notes, that it was easier than talking to people one-to-one. Although hers was by no means a glamorous or lucrative life, she had at least managed to live among the splendors of Italy and have her evenings free. Free for Gianfranco and, on nights he couldn’t see her, for her novel.

Along with the writing, the fresh flowers she always kept in her room kept her loneliness at bay. A solitary life did not mean a lonely one, and it comforted her to recognize flowers in the Firenze markets, just the same as the ones she bought at The Angel tube stand and at the Korean greengrocers in New York—the delphiniums, tuberoses, and gladioli, all as familiar as old friends.

Now she walked into the flower-bedecked square that opened before her. The sun was just beginning its slanting descent. One side of the square was already in shadows, while the other was illuminated by a golden light. The old stone buildings, gilt by the sun, glowed as if lit from within. The air was so clear that each lintel, each doorstep, each window mullion showed a line as clean as a pen stroke. Geraniums, nasturtiums, and ivy exploded from window boxes, breaking the austerity of the stone with their riot of color. For once she wouldn’t have to stand against a building, her calves aching, the expense of a café out of reach. No. Tonight she’d splurge and enjoy the view in comfort. Boldly, Camilla walked toward a café table beside the well in the center of the square, ready to take a seat. She would have an aperitif here and, in doing so, pay for the rental of a comfortable chair. It would allow her to watch while the sun set and the square emptied, as it did each evening at this time.

Camilla had made her life—such as it was-—on such small pleasures. Snatched hours with Gianfranco, walks among the splendid architecture, hours spent in museums. It had always been so. While her classmates back at the Sacred Heart looked forward to Country-house weekends, Christmas gifts from Harrods, and, later, cordon bleu classes in Paris or a stint at what passed as the season in London, Camilla had comforted herself with small, sometimes even tiny, pleasures but ones that deeply satisfied: a good library book and a bag of boiled sweets; hot toast spread with Marmite eaten alone in her room; a long afternoon visit to the Birmingham Museum, or a special program on the telly that she could watch undisturbed while the boys were out playing football. Even a hot hath with a rare dollop of scented bath oil was a treat to be looked forward to.

Then later, when she was older, there was the wider world of art—the hours she could spend at the Tate staring at—no, devouring—the Turners—her favorite artist save for Canaletto. The Van Huysum at the National Gallery. Taking the Wallace Collection one lush room at a time. Whole days whiled away at the V & A. Then there was New York, mooning around the Frick, sitting in a quiet spot at the Cloisters. The Metropolitan Museum of Art gave particularly good value—for the investment of looking there was so very much to see. And now there was today, when she would enjoy her comfortable seat and the beauty and activity all around her in the square.

But as she approached the table, the chair at the other side was appropriated by a pale, ginger-haired man who helped an older woman into the seat. Camilla’s hand was already on the corner of her own chair, and as the stout woman slid her bottom onto the metal seat, Camilla’s hand brushed the man’s. She pulled back as if burned. He must have seen that it was her seat, her withdrawal, because he immediately began to apologize.

“I’m so sorry. Are you sitting here? I didn’t mean to …” He paused, and in the silence Camilla tried to bite back her disappointment and come up with a plan B. AH of the other tables were taken, so she would have to sit inside the café, away from the quiet beauty of the piazza. She shook her head and was about to leave, but he continued. % “Mother, we’ve taken this young lady’s table.”

The older woman looked up. “What?” she asked. “I don’t think so. I think this table was free.” The older woman glanced at Camilla. “Sit down, Frederick,” she told him. She was flushed, with a round, heavy face in late middle age. But despite her weight she had a good haircut and discreet but excellent makeup. “Were you sitting here?” she demanded.

Camilla shook her head wordlessly. “No, Mother, but she was about to,” the man explained. Then he smiled at Camilla. They were Americans. The ginger-haired man had a nice, crooked smile, and his irregular nose and tiny freckles gave his face a pleasant aspect. “We’ll take another place,” he said.

“Well, why don’t we just share the table?” the older woman asked, irritated. Clearly, she was not planning to move. Camilla stood motionless for a moment and looked again at the young man.

“Yes. Would you let Us sit at your table?” he said, and his absolute good nature was easy to give in to. Yet, after months of taking tourists through the major sites of the quattrocento, Camilla didn’t relish another tourist conversation. She paused. She had so longed for this seat and this view and the beautiful light, fading even as she stood there. She took her seat.

A waiter—handsome, negligent, and self-absorbed—casually asked for their order. “A Martini,” Camilla said. The older woman’s eyebrows seemed to rise as her eyes narrowed.

“Shall we share a bottle of Montepulciano?” the man asked his mother.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

The waiter nodded briskly and left them to their silence. Camilla was relieved by it and stared across the slightly hilly cobblestone path to the archway that led to the road out of San Gimignano. Camilla knew it was likely that at any moment her thoughts would be broken into by the nervous, idle chatter of these two tourists: Where are you from? Oh, we’ve been there. How long are you staying? Where do you go next? She had better savour this silence for as long as it lasted.

But she was wrong. The older woman opened her purse and seemed to be ransacking it, while her son simply sat, one long freckled hand on the table, looking across the courtyard and occasionally up at the birds that were settling into the hundreds of niches in the walls. Surprisingly, the silence was not awkward, and after a few moments Camilla found herself relaxing, slowly but inexorably becoming a part of the scene. This was what she liked. The sensation—unusual for her—that she was a part of the pageant, rather than a mere observer. For just as surely as she was sitting there beside the freckled man and his mother, there were tourists across the way snapping pictures. Pictures that they would bring home to Cincinnati and Lyons and Munich, pictures in which she would appear, a stranger in the square beside two other strangers, her hands lying idly on the empty white table.

Camilla’s heart suddenly lifted in her chest. She didn’t have only the beauty of the scene in front of her, she was also a part of the scene, now and forever in those snapshots and her own memory, the woman dressed in brown at the table beside the well. She couldn’t repress a small sigh.

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” the man asked. She had to nod. “I tell myself that I won’t forget it and I tell myself that I know how beautiful it is. But each time I come back I am taken by surprise all over again.” She nodded again. She felt that way about so many of the beauties of Italy—about the Botticelli room in the Uffizi, the Medici Chapel, the Giotto frescoes in Assisi. About all of Venice, and, of course, about Canaletto.

The older woman looked up for the first time. “I think I’ve lost my sunglasses,” she said.

“Oh, Mother. You do this twice a day. They’re probably back at the hotel.”

“Well, they won’t do me any good there.”

“Shall I get them for you?” her son asked, rising from his seat.

“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “I’ll go.” She got up and without another word left the table. How unpleasant. Camilla watched her bustle across the square and wished the woman’s hotel was in Umbria. But she disappeared into a doorway right on the square. One of the better hotels in the town, Camilla noticed. And the one with an excellent restaurant.

“She’s tired,” the man explained to Camilla, although she hadn’t inquired. “She spent the day sitting in churches, and she finds it tedious after the first hour.”

“And you don’t?”

“Oh, not at all. But then, I’m an architect.”

There was a silence. To be polite, Camilla smiled and asked, “Then it’s not your first visit to San Gimignano?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I try to come back every year, although I haven’t been able to make it for the last two. We spent the day at Saint Peter’s, and then we climbed all three towers.” He paused. “How did you spend the day?” Somehow, it was irresistible not to tell him.

“I finished writing my novel,” Camilla said.

“Good for you! Do you write novels often?” he asked, and she saw the mischief in his grin.

“This is my first,” she admitted.

“Well, I am most impressed. How are you going to celebrate?”

Just then the waiter appeared with her drink and the bottle of wine. “This is my celebration,” Camilla told him.

His face crumpled in dismay. “But we spoiled it for you! Oh, I’m so sorry. Mother isn’t usually like that, but she was tired. She’s been under some pressure.” He stood up. “Excuse me,” he said again.

“No.” Camilla put her hand out. “Please don’t go.” Her voice had more feeling in it than she had intended, but it was too late now. Suddenly it seemed as if being alone would become unbearable. The man hesitated for a moment, his reddish-brown eyes not quite focusing on hers. He wasn’t at all handsome, not in any way, Camilla thought. But there was an attractiveness about him, a pleasantness that, though it could not make up for his total lack of beauty, still had a certain charm.

Hesitantly, he sat down again. “Well, what’s the name of the novel?”

“I’m not certain,” she told him.

“Then what is the name of the novelist?” he asked, and she had to smile again.

She extended her hand. He reached out but fumbled for a moment in the air before he took hers in his own cool, long, freckled one. “Camilla,” she said self-consciously. “Camilla Clapfish.”

“Well, Miss Clapfish, permit me, Frederick Sayles Ashton, to be the first to congratulate you on the completion of your as-yet untitled debut novel.” His formality was very un-American but quite endearing.

“Thank you,” she told him and took back her hand reluctantly. She picked up her drink, but he quickly stopped her by lifting his own glass. Some of the wine slopped over one side, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Before you sip, permit me.” He tilted his head and looked over the rim of his wineglass at her. “I think my mother thought you had ordered a mixed drink,” he confided. “It may have induced her departure. She doesn’t approve of cocktails.” He put his glass down, dipping his elbow in the puddle of wine on the tabletop. He didn’t seem to realize it.

Camilla looked at her own innocent aperitif. “Oh. She must have thought I was asking for a gin martini. No. Here it’s a brand name for vermouth.”

“Yes. Well, I know that, but I don’t think Mother does. Father was a drunk, you see.” Camilla nodded, silent. Having lived in New York, she was familiar with Americans and their candor, but it did often leave her speechless. Luckily, Frederick Sayles Ashton was not. “To the alliterative Camilla Clapfish and the future publication of her first book.”

And then, for the first time, dismay hit her. My God, she thought, the book had been hard enough to write. It had started so tentatively as an exercise, then became absorbing, a labor of creation and love and also a torture that had filled her empty evenings. But now that it was finished, she’d have to try and get it published. How in the world, Camilla thought, would she ever manage that?

3 (#ulink_be842e8c-9529-5684-8e82-3131119fb8f2)

I am not a snob, but rich people are often a lot of fun to write about.

—Noll Coward

Susann Baker Edmonds lay on the chaise-longue staring out toward the Mediterranean as if somewhere out there she would find chapter twenty-eight. There shouldn’t even be a chapter twenty-eight. The book was too damned long. The distant sea glinted, but Susann hadn’t a reflecting glint of an idea. She stood up and paced the north side of the marble-edged pool. She heard Edith, her secretary, recross her heavy legs and sigh.

“Could you be still for just a moment?” Susann snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Edith said, but she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded bored and impatient and eager to get away. As if something in Edith Fischer’s boring, middle-aged life was more important than a new novel by Susann Baker Edmonds. Susann knew she had to calm down. God, she hated to feel this way, so edgy, so nasty. She was not a nasty person. She put her hands up to either side of her lovely, lifted face and looked over at the dreary Edith. Physically Edith was everything Susann despised—dowdy, overweight, and drab. She was spunkless, and yet Edith was exactly the audience that devoured Susann’s books. That’s why bland Edith, sitting there knitting in the sun, was not simply an annoyance that could be terminated by the termination of her employment.

Because to Susann, Edith was a secret touchstone. When they were working together and she saw Edith’s eyes glowing, her mouth slightly open, and her breathing quickened with interest and excitement, Susann knew she had a story that worked. But how long had it been since Edith had been responsive like that? Certainly not while they worked on A Mother and a Daughter. And not while she struggled through The Lady of the House. Perhaps Edith was merely jaded. Both books had come out on Mother’s Day of the previous two years, and each had climbed to the top of the bestseller list, as all Susann Baker Edmonds’s books did. But even Susann had to admit that the past two had climbed a little more slowly and held the vaulted top slot for a far briefer period.

Susann knew she was at a nerve-racking place: Realistically, she knew that being at the top so long simply meant it was sooner that she’d fall. But Susann liked the top. She wanted to stay there. She prided herself on being a number-one bestselling author. From out of nowhere to number one: She’d been one of the very few to make the leap.

And Edith had watched her climb. Back when both of them worked together as legal secretaries, Susann had brought in her stories, page by page, and Edith had devoured them, always asking the question sublime to any writer—“What happens next?” It was because of that enthusiasm that Susann—just plain Sue Ann then—had kept writing. If not for Edith, Susann would surely have quit. Because it had been hard, so hard, to work all day and spin stories at night.

It was still hard. Now a bestseller, a number one, was expected of her. Now, at last, she was paid an enormous advance for her stories.

Susann paced the length of the pool again and turned to look out at the horizon. “Any mail?” she asked.

Edith shook her head without even looking up from her knitting. “Nothing important.” Edith handled all the bills, forwarding them to Susann’s accountant to be paid, and all of the fan mail, sending customized responses. Actually, the only thing Edith didn’t handle for Susann was Kim and her begging letters. But Susann hadn’t heard from Kim lately. She would like to think that perhaps her adult daughter had finally begun to behave like an adult, but from long experience she doubted it.

Susann rubbed her hands as she paced. The sun on them felt good but freckled her skin. She looked around. It was still so hard. Her work had bought her this villa, the beautiful furniture in it, the Rolls parked in the garage, the services of Edith and the French couple who cooked and cleaned and drove for her. But it hadn’t bought her daughter’s love or happiness. And wasn’t Susann slipping? She pulled her arthritic fingers through her artfully streaked blond hair and walked back to the chaise. She crossed her legs and her arms and told Edith crossly that she was through for the day.

Edith gave her a look and shrugged her rounded shoulders. The woman would have a dowager’s hump in no time, Susann thought distastefully. “AH right,” Edith said, but Susann knew it wasn’t all right. She had a deadline, Edith knew she had the deadline, and Susann always delivered on time. Her books came out each Mother’s Day, as regular as jonquils in March. But this one would be different. It would be on the fall list. Her publisher demanded it. And she would not disappoint them.

Almost two decades ago she and Alf had been among the first to spot the hole in the marketplace between the heavily promoted spring list and the most important fall offerings. When her first successful book came out fourteen years ago, Alf had taken advantage of the women’s market just waiting there at Mother’s Day, and it had made her name.

It had also made her a rich woman. Well, not the first book. Of course she’d gotten screwed out of that deal. Each year since she had followed up the success of The Lady of the House with another Mother’s Day novel, and with Alf’s help, each one had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in hardcover and millions in paperback. She’d become a tradition among some women—daughters giving mothers a Susann Baker Edmonds, and now their own daughters gave them copies. Three generations reading her uplifting stories. Yes, she felt proud of what she’d accomplished. She’d become famous and wealthy, and Alf had become her full-time agent and taken over her affairs and fired the incompetent lawyer who’d given her first book away. They’d retained a PR firm. Her name popped up regularly in the columns. Four of her books had been made into television miniseries, and another three were optioned. She was the most profitable woman novelist at her publishing house, and they treated her appropriately.

But there was the rub. Susann put her hands over her eyes to shield her face from the sun. She was the most profitable women’s writer, but there were all those men out there, turning out their techno-thrillers, their legal-suspense stories, and those other testosterone-driven books, all of which were being made into feature films by those bastards in Hollywood who ignored middle-aged women. It was so unfair. Susann had never had a movie made of any of her books. Women would go to see Crichton movies and Grisham movies and Clancy movies, but men wouldn’t take their wives out to see a woman’s saga. Women’s books were only good enough for the pink ghetto of television. And without the extra heat that films generated, it was getting harder and harder nowadays to keep a bestseller up at the top of the list. So this new one would come out in the autumn. Would it help? There were one hundred and fifty romance titles released each month. As if that wasn’t enough, most tried to interest book buyers, stores, and readers with all kinds of giveaways and undignified trash. Joan Schulhafer of Avon Books had put it succinctly when she said, “We have a higher nicknack-per-author ratio than any other genre.”

Edith was gathering up her steno pad, her bag of pencils and yellow Post-it notes and paper clips. She was taking off her reading glasses, putting them in her skirt pocket and putting her sunglasses on her sun-burned pink nose. In the last two decades, while she worked with Edith, Susann had married, divorced, become slimmer, younger-looking, better dressed, and blond. While Edith … Edith hadn’t changed at all, except to age. She looked like a drone. It actually frightened Susann, partly because—even though she looked at least a decade younger—Susann knew she was actually four years older than Edith. And Edith knew it, too, being one of the few insiders who knew Susann’s real age.

Hell, Edith didn’t just know her real age (fifty-eight), she knew her real name (Sue Ann Kowlofsky), the real number of marriages Susann had been through (three), the real number of face-lifts Susann had had (two), and even where she kept most of her money (the island of Jersey). Edith knew all the sordid details about Susann’s daughter, Kim—the drug rehabs, the DWIs, the bad men. Perhaps that was why Edith so exasperated her. Edith had neither improved herself, nor did she seem impressed with Susann’s improvements. There was no softening mystique “between them. And Susann didn’t like living without mystique. She had become dependent on her publicist-generated bio, Alf’s respect, the publisher’s kid-glove handling, and the aura that fame and wealth had given her.

“Alf ought to be back soon,” Susann remarked. “I have to get dressed. We have a dinner party tonight.” Edith didn’t much like Alf, and the feeling was mutual.

“The chapter’s more important than the party,” Edith said. “It needs work.”

Susann felt her temper rising, but she bit back the words she wanted to spit and, instead, gave Edith one of her best smiles. “Why don’t you see what you can do with it?” she asked.

Edith stood, finally, and shuffled off the terrace into the house. Susann got up and crossed to the balustrade, leaning against it and looking out toward the water. The autumn sun slipped behind a cloud, and Susann, clad only in a bathing suit and chiffon cover-up, shivered. The problem was that as tacky and annoying as she was, Edith was right. The new book was not only coming slowly, it was coming badly. And there was no room for shoddiness. At this point in her life Susann could not afford to slip out of the golden circle of bestsellers and back into obscurity, back to Cincinnati. The very thought made her shiver again.

The women’s fiction market was changing. Alf said it was moving forward and might leave her behind. But without her books, without her fame, without the money that she brought in, where would she be? Who would she be? What would Alf do if her business fell off ? Managing her had made him, but as he’d taken on other clients, hadn’t his interest in her waned a bit? Would even Edith stick with her if all of this ended?

Susann closed her eyes, shutting them tight despite the crow’s feet. Plastic surgery still couldn’t do anything about crow’s feet, though it had erased the bags and tightened the sags under and over her eyes. Still, good as she looked, young as she looked, slim as she looked, Susann clutched the railing with her arthritic hands and knew she was just a fifty-eight-year-old woman, frightened and alone.

4 (#ulink_9398cdd4-2de3-5c8a-b9e9-a46b274e19f0)

What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he’s staring out of the window.

—Burton Rascoe

Judith stared out the window, looking up from the typewriter on the card table she was using as a desk. She was alone, except for Flaubert, who snorted and whimpered in his sleep. Judith wondered if the dog was dreaming. She stretched in her chair. From her seat she could see King Street and a tiny corner of the state university campus. A girl was leaning up against the brick wall of the student center, and, as Judith watched, the dark, lanky young man who was standing beside her leaned in, encompassing her with his hands. Then he quickly kissed her on the mouth. The girl laughed and tossed her head. Even through the dirt of the windowpane Judith could see the white flash of her teeth.