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I added soap to the bowl of warm water, and a soft dishcloth. “I don’t understand. How did you know where I live?”
“I read a piece about you in the Sunday Los Angeles Times. They said you lived in Malibu, and then I ran into someone who knew you. He gave me your address.”
Warning bells went off. Lindy shows up after all these years—fifteen, to be exact, since high school—and tells me that someone who knows me gave her my address? Who would do that?
For that matter, what were the odds of her “running into someone” who even knew my address? I protect my personal information from almost everyone, as I don’t want agitated authors showing up at my door in the middle of the night. That had happened frequently when I had my office in front of the little adobe house in Hollywood. I didn’t want it to happen here.
“Who was this person?” I asked.
Lindy shook her head. “I can’t remember. I met him at a bar in Hollywood and we got to talking. I told him I’d been wanting to get in touch with you, especially after I read that piece in the paper. Just to tell you how happy I am for your success, you know.”
I’ll bet, I thought suspiciously. Lindy had obviously met with bad times. How much was she here to hit me up for?
I knelt down and began to wash her feet with the soapy water, then dried them carefully. “Leave the shoes off,” I said. “I’ll get a Band-Aid, and I’ve got a pair of socks and some tennies you can have.”
“Thank you, Mary Beth.” Lindy looked around and added with an edge in her voice, “You’re doing very well now, aren’t you?”
I looked up at her and she flushed. “I didn’t mean it to sound that way. It’s just that everything’s turned around for both of us. You were poor and now you’re not. I was…well, I guess you heard that I married Roger Van Court.”
I looked back at her feet and then stood, taking the bowl back to the kitchen. “Yes, I think I must have heard that,” I said vaguely. “It’s been a while. Ten years or so, right? Since you were married?”
“Since right after college,” she said, nodding. “I can’t believe I was that stupid.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. The last thing I wanted to talk about was Roger Van Court. In fact, my pulse was racing and my hands had begun to shake at the sound of his name. I took a Band-Aid out of a drawer and tried to bring my focus back to Lindy and her plight.
“What’s happened, Lindy Lou?” I asked softly. I applied the Band-Aid, then sat beside her on the couch, my legs crossed in tailor-fashion. It was the way we used to sit when we were teenagers, chatting till all hours of the night. A familiar scene—yet not familiar at all. Now that I could see Lindy more closely, I realized that though we were the same age, thirty-three, she looked closer to fifty. Her face was lined, and I could see now the gray in her dark roots.
My heart broke a little. In high school, Lindy’s long blond hair had always looked sexy and a bit out of control, as if she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon into a warm spring breeze. With her high cheekbones and perfectly proportioned body, she could have been a high-fashion model. I’m sure she would have been hugely successful.
Instead, she’d married Roger Van Court.
There was a time when I might have jealously wished Lindy would end up down and out, but that was only because I never believed, in my wildest dreams, that she would. Though I hadn’t seen her in many years, in my mind she had always been the same Lindy Lou—vivacious, laughing, flirting easily yet harmlessly with the boys—someone I longed to be like but never was.
Suddenly, a part of me evaporated as the real Lindy Lou sat beside me. I had wanted to be like her, but even Lindy wasn’t Lindy anymore. A strange thought flew through my mind. Where did that leave me?
Lindy covered her eyes and began to sob. “Roger threw me out,” she said between loud hiccupping sounds. “Three weeks ago. He changed…he changed the locks…and I couldn’t get back in. To get my things, you know? He closed my bank accounts, too, Mary Beth, and cut off all my credit cards. I didn’t have a thing, and I couldn’t bear to tell any of our friends or ask to borrow money. We live in Pacific Heights now, and people there can be so damn hoitytoity.”
I almost smiled at her use of the old-fashioned phrase. Instead, I just shook my head and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Well, it’s one of the priciest areas in San Francisco, and none of our neighbors would understand in a million years. They’d have it all over town that I was out on the street.”
“Lindy, I don’t get it. What on earth possessed Roger? I thought the two of you must be happy.”
Which wasn’t at all the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that now.
“I thought we were happy at first,” she said, rubbing her eyes. I reached over to an end table for Kleenex and handed her a couple. She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, then turned her gaze on me. “Mary Beth, I’m so…damn…tired.” She broke down then, gulping back huge, loud sobs.
I took her in my arms and patted her on the back. There but for the grace of God go I? That was something my mother had always said when reminding herself of how blessed she was, just to have food on the table and a light to read by. My mother had worked long hours as a waitress to support herself after my father died, and there wasn’t much to go around. When she died shortly after Pop, her loss left a hole in my heart that no one else has ever been able to fill.
Taking the Kleenex, I dabbed at Lindy’s eyes and held her back from me a foot or so. “Why don’t you take a nice relaxing bath while I put some food on,” I said.
“You don’t have to go to that trouble.”
“Don’t be silly. I haven’t been shopping this week, but I’ll make us some grilled-cheese sandwiches. How’s that? Just like old times.”
Her eyes said it all: This is not like old times.
She came with me to my bedroom, though, and took off her clothes while I drew a warm bath, putting a scented bubble gel in it. When the water was ready, I went back into the bedroom, where I’d left a terry-cloth robe for her to change into.
Lindy was sound asleep sideways on my bed, the turquoise satin spread wrapped around her like a cocoon. The robe I’d left for her was on the floor. A light breeze lifted the sheer white curtains at the French doors leading out to the deck.
I sighed and drained the bathwater, then got a sheet and blanket from the hall closet and stretched out on the couch in the living room.
I didn’t sleep well. Scenes that I’d long ago stuffed back into the far recesses of my mind, hoping never to see them again, kept flitting across my closed eyes.
Roger Van Court.
The bastard.
But how much could I—or should I—tell Lindy?
Lindy had knocked on my door at about one-thirty, and it was just after three, according to the clock over my mantel, when I woke, thinking I’d heard a sound on the deck. I sat up carefully and walked to the double French doors, which were similar to the ones in the bedroom. There was no moon, and it was hard to see if anyone was out there. Even harder to hear, over the ocean’s roar.
I cussed myself out for having left everything but the front door unlocked. I’d turned off the lights in the living room, though, and I figured that was good. A long time ago, I’d learned in a self-defense class that it’s better to be in the dark in your house when an intruder is there. The intruder doesn’t know your house, but you do, which means you can navigate around it better than he.
On the other hand, flashlights can be useful.
Crouching close to the floor, I made it to the kitchen and was just reaching for my one flashlight in the utility drawer when I heard the doors leading from the deck to the bedroom slam open against the inside wall. Lindy screamed.
I grabbed the flashlight and ran to the bedroom, shouting, “Get out! Get out of my house!”—also a technique I’d learned in a class. Take the intruder by surprise and get him off balance. Stupidly, however, I hadn’t remembered to stand to the side of the doorway, in case whoever was in there had a gun.
That thought blew through my mind only an instant before bullets whistled by my ear. There was no loud pop, but more of a quiet thud, which told me the intruder must have a silencer on his gun. I dropped to the floor and set the flashlight as far away as my arm could reach. Then I flicked it on and pointed it in the direction of a large, dark figure by the bed. The figure was big enough to be a man, but he wore a ski mask and was dressed all in black. In the perimeter of the light, I saw that Lindy was leaning back against the headboard with my sheets pulled up to her neck, her eyes wide open and horrified.
As another bullet zinged into the floor next to my flashlight, I wiggled around about eighty degrees and reached for the baseball bat I kept by my closet. The intruder’s eyes must have adjusted to the dark by now, however, because he was on me before I had a chance to grab it. An arm came around my neck, cutting off my breath, while a knee in my back kept my lower body from moving. I couldn’t kick, couldn’t fight back in any way. I started to see pinpoints in my eyes, little flashes of light that told me I’d soon be left in eternal darkness.
Just when I thought I was checking out for good, though, the crushing weight of my attacker slumped on top of me. A few seconds later he hoisted himself to his feet. Cursing in guttural tones, he ran past me into the living room, kicking the flashlight aside.
“Mary Beth!” Lindy yelled. “Are you all right?”
I rose quickly and saw that she was holding the bat, and that was what had made the intruder fall. Little Lindy Lou had smacked the bastard with it.
I held two fingers to my mouth. “Shh. I think he’s still out there.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Do you know who it is? Is it Roger?”
I gave her a sharp glance in the dim light. “I didn’t see his face. Why do you think it was Roger?”
She didn’t answer. At the sound of a loud crash in the living room, I said, “Never mind!”
I grabbed her hand and the robe she’d never put on and pulled her, naked, out onto the deck and down the wooden steps to the beach.
“Mary Beth, wait! Where are we going? I need my clothes!”
I ignored her cries and pulled her along the sand—away from the usual floodlights that people who live here shine on the waves—and into the shadows.
“Put this on,” I said. “Hurry!”
While she shrugged into the dark blue robe, I kept tugging at her, wanting only to get as far away from the house as I could. I’ll admit I was panicked. Never in my life had I been shot at, nor had I ever had a break-in. I didn’t know where I was going, and was running on instinct, just trying to put distance between us and my house.
Then it hit me—Patrick. Patrick Llewellen, who used to be one of my authors, lived only five houses down from mine. I dragged the half-clothed Lindy up along the sand toward the modern three-story house. She kept stumbling, and I just hoped she could make it up the stairs.
Still pulling her, I raced up the stairs to Patrick’s deck, with its potted palms that were set off by colorful Malibu lights.
Damn. I’d forgotten that he kept these lights on all night, every night, without fail. We should have gone around to the front.
But I hadn’t had time to think clearly, and this would have to do. I began to pound on one of Patrick’s three sliding glass doors, then the other and the other, hoping I could rouse him from his sleep. He didn’t answer, though.
God, what if he’d stayed overnight somewhere? What if we couldn’t get in?
“Mary Beth, look!”
I looked back to where Lindy pointed, and saw a dark figure running toward us on the beach. It was less than three houses away. I ran over to another door and pounded on it. “Patrick!” I yelled. “If you’re there, let me in! It’s Mary Beth!”
The wait seemed endless, but finally a light came on inside. A drape was pulled back. “For God’s sake, Mary Beth, what are you doing here!” Patrick said as he slid open the door.
“Just let us in. Hurry!”
I didn’t waste time on the niceties, pushing by him with Lindy in tow. Once inside, I pulled the door closed and locked it, yanking the drapes shut.
“Someone broke into my house,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “They shot at us. He’s right out there, Patrick! I need to call the sheriff.”
Patrick wasn’t in pajamas, and didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping. He wore a forest-green silk robe over his trousers and an open-collared white shirt, looking for all the world like a screen idol—except for his nose, which was a bit on the large side. I liked that about him; it kept him from looking too pretty.
His jaw, however, had dropped in shock. “I can’t believe it! Who on earth would do that?”
He glanced at Lindy.
“She’s a friend,” I said, still gasping. “Could you—look, it’s too bright in here.” The light was coming from a Tiffany lamp next to a leather armchair. I leaned over and turned it off. There was only a dim glow left from the kitchen, on the other side of his dining room.
“Patrick, I’m truly sorry. I know this is an imposition. But I need to call the sheriff. While I’m doing that, could you fix Lindy some tea? Anything, really. I think she’s in shock.”
“I’ll put a shot of bourbon in it,” he said, nodding. “And the phone’s over here. Next to the light you just turned off.” He shook his head. “You always were the type to take over.”
“Sorry. But before you go, are your doors all locked?”
“Yes. And, Mary Beth, I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I was downstairs in the cave, working.”
Patrick’s “cave,” I’d learned years ago, was a dark enclosed room in the basement—the only place he could write in this house, as the magnificent views from every other room distracted him.
I picked up the phone and punched in 911. My breath had slowed a bit, but my side hurt, and Lindy sat huddled in a chair, her head down, twisting her hands. She was breathing heavily, and I remembered that she’d had a long walk earlier to get to my place. The poor thing must be totaled.
When the dispatcher answered, I told her what had happened, and asked that a car come around and check the house out before my friend and I went back there. She said they’d send someone right away, and we should wait where we were until the sheriff’s deputy came to tell us it was safe to go back.
Hanging up, I walked to the sliding glass door and pulled back the heavy brocade drapes a crack, to see if anyone was out there. The outside lights would have revealed anyone on the deck, and a quick glance showed that it was empty. I couldn’t tell about the beach.
I carefully put the drape back in place and turned on the lamp again, looking now at Lindy. I’d just heard a teakettle whistle, and knew Patrick would be back with tea soon. Before he returned, I wanted to find out a few things from my old friend Lindy Lou.
“Why did you think that might be Roger?” I demanded, standing over her with my arms crossed, in no mood to be gentle about this.
“I don’t know,” she said, shivering, her teeth chattering. “I guess I’ve been so afraid of him for so long, that’s the first thing that came to my mind.”
“Why have you been afraid of Roger?” I asked.
“Mary Beth, I told you what he did! He threw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Why wouldn’t I be afraid of what he might do next?”
I didn’t say anything, but when she’d used the words afraid for so long, I’d gotten the distinct impression she might have been abused by Roger over the course of their marriage. I had good cause to wonder about that.
I reached for a faux-fur throw cover on Patrick’s sofa and put it over Lindy. “Here, this should warm you up.”
Patrick came in with our tea then, and there was no more time to talk confidentially. Besides the tea tray, he carried a cashmere sweater, and after setting the tray down he placed it around my shoulders, tying the sleeves under my neck.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling a bit awkwardly. It seemed so strange to be taken care of.
I watched as he took a cup of tea over to Lindy. She smiled, said, “Thank you,” in a small voice like a little girl’s, and sipped the tea. There was a large stone fireplace on one wall, and Patrick went over to it and clicked a switch. The gas fire blazed up around fake logs. I imagined I could already feel the heat from it.
Patrick brushed both hands together as if he’d just stirred the logs with a poker. Coming back, he sat in a chair across from me and sighed. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
He put his feet up on an ottoman, and I saw that he wasn’t wearing shoes, just argyle socks, which made me smile. I’d forgotten about Patrick’s love for argyle socks.
Glancing over at Lindy, I saw that she’d set her teacup on the table beside her and seemed fast asleep. Good. She must really need to rest.
Leaning back in the chair with my cup, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us in, Patrick. You know, I haven’t been sure you’d still want to talk to me.”
One essential facet of being a literary agent—at least, for me—is cheering on my authors, helping them to believe they can succeed. A lot of good writers go down the drain after one or two rejection letters, and never write again. They need to learn to let the rejections roll off their backs and just keep going.
In Patrick’s case, however, it was I who had rejected his latest book several months ago, not an editor. It was a dark book with serial rapes in it—too dark for me. I’d reached a financial point where I could turn down manuscripts that bothered me personally, and though I hated to let Patrick go, he had insisted on writing In Peril. We had clearly reached an impasse, and I finally had to let him go.
Patrick had been bitter at first, but then I’d heard that he was with another agent and his book was being picked up for almost seven figures. He’d been seen around town, dining in all the best restaurants with a smile on his face.
Now that I’d lost Tony and Craig, I almost wished I had gotten Patrick that deal. But oh well. Water under the bridge.
“Don’t be silly, Mary Beth,” he said now. “Of course I still want to talk to you. I’ll admit I was pretty upset at first, but that’s just because I felt set adrift without a canoe. And now things are going really great. Did you hear that I’m with Nolan-Frey?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. They’re quite a big agency, on a level now with CAA. And I heard that they got you a great deal.”
“Yes, well, it’s…Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s still in the negotiation phase, nothing certain. It’s going well, though.”
Agencies like Nolan-Frey took on someone on the basis of liking their work, then helped them to polish and even rewrite it if they thought that was necessary. Like a book doctor, except that they didn’t charge until after the book was sold, hopefully with a movie option. Usually they got significant options, with big money and stars attached, while the ordinary writer going through an agent who wasn’t as top-flight might get only two thousand five hundred for the option, and the movie would never be made. The paybacks are often better, then, with the big agencies like CAA and Nolan-Frey, but they’re harder for an author to get into. I was guessing they had taken on Patrick partly for his talent, and partly because I was his former agent.
