“Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” He shook his head. “But I’ve got to go.”
“She’s moving, Evan. In case if you wanted to know.”
“No, I don’t want to know.”
“Her old phone number is no good anymore.”
“I’m not calling her.”
“And she’s living out of a suitcase at a friend’s house.”
“Jada, I’m hanging up.”
“She is looking for a job, too.”
“Jada.”
“I think she is hurting, Evan. She gave me the new number...”
“Bye, Jada!”
For a few minutes, Evan continued to gaze at the phone on the wall. Today, for the first time since Meg had walked out of his life, he’d thought he was getting better. He had actually been able to tolerate a couple of hours of staring at the computer. Not that he’d done much, but it was a start. Now, though, his insides again felt like a school of barracudas had used him for a buffet.
Why the hell did Jada have to tell him that Meg looked thin? And why was she hurting? It had been her choice to walk out of his life.
Evan banged his palms on the counter and stared with unseeing eyes at the fading streaks of orange in the western sky.
He couldn’t count the number of times that he’d gone over all that she’d said. Robert! Why the hell even bring up Robert? A dead man!
Well, if she thought she could just shift the blame to a long dead husband--a guy that Evan truly respected--she could just forget it! If she thought for a minute that he would forgive her for what she’d said and done because Robert was still supposedly hanging around, then she was totally full of shit. Evan had been around her long enough to know that she had her head on straight. She was no more crazy than he was.
No. What she’d done was a planned break. A denial of his love. A flat rejection.
***
“How the hell could you do that? I know people who would kill for an opportunity like that! We’re talking Morgan Publishing here!” Rebekah stared at her across an open box of mortally wounded pizza. “Do you know who they publish? Meg, I’d murder my own cat to get an interview at Morgan Publishing!”
Meg threw her half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and patted her lap. Rebekah’s little, white dustmop of a dog jumped up happily.
“You don’t have a cat. You have a Dudley.”
“Doesn’t make a difference. Morgan Publishing, Meg! One of the biggest publishing houses in New York, and certainly one of the best paying...”
“I couldn’t do it.” Meg shrugged indifferently. “First of all, I never sent them a resume. They just came after me. Which tells me that Robert...”
“No, Meg,” Rebekah snapped. “Robert is dead! Dead! Gone! Expired!”
The dog rolled onto his back, his little paws in the air, as Meg continued to pet his chest and belly. Since making the decision not to sleep in the apartment that she and Robert lived in for her entire married life, his death had become more real than it had ever been. No longer surrounded with daily remembrances of him, she had begun to feel more detached from those years...and from that relationship she had striven to keep alive.
“Despite what you think of yourself, Meg, and in spite of having worked your entire life for Elgin Publishing Company, that Goliath of the industry, you have somehow succeeded in making a name for yourself. Look at all the authors that you helped to get started. I can name a half dozen right off the bat who went on to make the lists after changing houses.” Rebekah slammed the box of pizza closed. Frowning at her friend, she stood up and carried it to the kitchen counter. “Can’t you understand that those people in New York would naturally want to talk to you? And I’m talking about wanting you because of your own reputation, not because they remember some guy who used to work there fifteen years ago.”
“Robert wasn’t just some guy, Rebekah.”
“Wake up, Meg. You know that there is no loyalty in this business. Nobody in New York is going to take you on out of pity.”
Meg petted Dudley absently and then shrugged her shoulders.
“I still couldn’t do it.”
“Why? Because of Drew King?”
Meg didn’t look up. Even knowing that her friend was going in this direction, she could not help the knot that was forming in her chest.
Rebekah knew almost everything that there was to know about Evan. Meg had told her who he was and how he’d been working undercover, sort of, as a cab driver when Meg had met him. But Meg had not been able to reveal to her friend the depth of feelings--the love--that had developed within her. Neither had she felt competent, even, to explain how he’d been duped into thinking he was attracted to her.
No. As far as Rebekah knew, Meg had simply had her first fling since Robert’s death--and that, by an odd twist of fate, it had happened to be with Rebekah’s idol, Drew King.
“Meg, people move on after little encounters like that. It’s suicidal to jeopardize your future, or even throw away an opportunity for a good job, just because of the one day a year when he might step into the same building. I mean, following that line of reasoning, you can’t even work in a Dairy Queen for fear of him stopping at your window for a cone.”
“I know. You’ve already told me. And in a week he probably won’t even remember my face. But still, I just couldn’t bring myself to jump in like that.” She put the dog on the floor and got up to put on the kettle for tea. “Maybe my problem is that I just feel like I have to ease into this change.”
“So you buy a train ticket to New York and then leave it pinned to the wall?”
“Yeah! I guess I just want to feel like I’ll be ready when the time is right.”
Rebekah took two cups from the cupboard next to the sink and put tea bags in them. “You know it’s not because you’re staying here that I’m saying these things.”
“Of course I know.” Meg and Rebekah had been friends for years, and it was almost laughable that Bekah’s questions and advice could come from any source other than her concern for Meg. “Are you working tomorrow?”
Since getting laid off, Rebekah had increased her hours waiting tables. She’d picked up the second job at a classy French restaurant in Cambridge about two years ago as a way to supplement her income at Elgin Publishing. Actually, according to Rebekah, the restaurant job paid her rent and expenses, and the editing job provided play money.
“I’m doing a lunch shift tomorrow.” Rebekah’s eyes were fixed on Meg’s face. “So, what are you going to do short-term?”
The kettle came to the boil, and Meg filled both of their cups with hot water, sliding one along the counter to her friend.
“I’m looking for freelance work.” Rebekah’s response was immediate and her scowl a clear indication of her skepticism. Meg continued on, ignoring the look. “Not as a permanent thing, of course. I know that I have to get my face out there among living people. But I thought if I could line up a couple of clients just to carry me through a month or two, then I’d have a better chance of finding the perfect job.”
“Oh, there’s a perfect job out there?”
“Of course,” she said stubbornly, busily squeezing out the tea bag. Her mind flickered back to her time spent with Evan. How exciting--and how satisfying, too--to read his work. How productive it had been, focusing her complete attention on just one author. That was an indulgence that she’d never had at Elgin Publishing. But working with Evan had been the thing that had given her the idea of freelancing.
“So are you calling some of your old authors? Is that the way you’re going about it?”
“What?” Meg met Rebekah’s probing eyes. “No! I’d like to work with new names. You know as well as I do how many unpublished writers there are out there. I placed a couple of ads in different papers. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave your phone number as a back up.”
“Hey, whatever works. So long as you don’t quote prices to any of my male friends when they call here.” R
ebekah brightened. “On second thought, maybe we could get into that business. You know...you almost look miserable enough to pass as a pimp.”
“Oh, thanks! Then you can play the part of the slut!”
Rebekah let out a snort of laughter. “You know, Meg? I think Drew King somehow screwed the beginnings of a sense of humor into you. Remind me to send him a thank you note, will you?”
CHAPTER 26
Phil dropped the Sunday Book Review section of the New York Times on top of the round table. Looking around the room, he stared at the mess of dirty dishes and empty beer bottles, and picked up one of the open reference books lying on the floor by an overturned chair.
“Don’t eat anything more than a day old, you dope,” he told Swift, who was nosing through a bag of take-out from the Imperial Garden.
He glanced at the partially open bathroom door. The shower was running. At least he’s mobile this morning, he thought somewhat thankfully, picking up trash and straightening furniture.
Moving into the kitchen, Phil emptied the day-old coffee grounds out of the pot and washed the thing. For all the years they’d known each other, Phil had never seen his friend so affected by a relationship with a woman. He’d never gotten down in the dumps the way he did this past week.
He was really hooked on Meg--that was clear. She had affected him in a much deeper way than Phil could ever have imagined. But then, he himself was no expert when it came to loving a woman. For all the many relationships he’d gotten himself in and out of over the years, not once had he become as disoriented as Evan was right now.
But then, he’d never been in love.
Phil measured the water and poured it into the coffee maker. That was exactly what Evan’s problem was. He was indeed in love.
As the smell of coffee began to waft through the kitchen, Phil opened the dishwasher and started piling the dirty dishes onto the racks. Wiping off the counter, Phil took two cups out of the cabinet and set them by the brewing coffee. There had to be something that he could do. There had to be a way that he could help Evan get over this.
The sound of Evan’s curses brought a smile to Phil’s lips. Knowing his dog Swift’s predilection for licking wet bodies fresh out of the shower gave him a clear picture of the scene in the bathroom.
“Phil! You call this pervert she-devil of a dog of yours right now, or I’ll swear to reupholster my sofa with her!”
“Come here, girl!” Phil poured the two cups of coffee. “Come on, good girl. He is mean old man, and he really means it.”
The Irish wolfhound poked her head out of Evan’s bedroom, gave Phil a disbelieving smirk, and trotted back into the bathroom through the bedroom. But a couple of minutes later, as Phil was gathering dirty dishes and bringing them back into the kitchen, he saw Evan emerge alone from the bedroom. He paused and gave his friend a once over. Even cleaned up, he still looked pretty ragged with an almost week-old beard covering his face.
“What did you do with Swift?”
“Shut her in the shower.” Evan moved to the dividing counter and helped himself to one of the cups of coffee. After he’d taken a sip, he glanced disapprovingly at the results of Phil’s efforts. “I don’t need a frigging maid.”
“Really? What do you want for breakfast?”
Evan took a large sip of the hot coffee. “You just made my breakfast, so stop playing frigging house and get the hell out of here.”
“Well, I’m not ready to go yet. Like it or not, if it was me instead of you feeling like shit, I know you’d be dragging my butt out of here and knocking some sense into me.”
“Wrong.” Looking away, Evan took the cup of coffee and headed for the round table in the dining area. “Look, I’m fine. Really. Last night I even started writing again.”
Phil glanced at the books piled around the apartment, but he still was not convinced.
“How about taking a couple of days off and going sailing? We could head for Nantucket...or the Vineyard!”
Evan sat down at the table and stared blankly at the Book Review section that Phil had brought along. “Not yet! Maybe...what’s today?”
“Sunday.”
“Maybe next weekend. What, you couldn’t afford the rest of the paper?”
“Nan’s looking at it.” Phil took the dishes that he’d picked up to the sink. “By the way, she said if you keep out the cleaning woman out of this place for one more day, she’s calling the health department on you.”
“She can start again tomorrow.”
Phil glanced back at Evan. He didn’t seem to have gotten beyond the first page of the paper.
“I’m going to head out to New York for a few days. I think I need a change of scenery.”
“Good! I think that’s a great idea.”
“Both Henry and John have been bugging me to get down there to see to some business.”
“You don’t need an excuse, Evan. Why don’t you just get up and go--the way you used to.”
“The way I used to. Christ.” He ran a hand through his hair and came to his feet. “I can’t do anything the way I used to. I feel like I’ve had a frigging lobotomy. I can’t think. I can’t move. I can’t work without...without...” He started for his bedroom. “I’m going for a run.”
Phil just nodded as he saw his friend disappear into the bedroom. Well, this was the first sign of life he’d seen in a week. A change of scenery was exactly what Evan needed.
“Hey!” he yelled after Evan. “Send my dog out, or we’ll have the ASPCA as well as the health department in after you!”
***
She got two calls the same day the ad went in the papers.
The first call came from an engineering grad student in Texas who wanted a proof reader rather than an editor, and the second came from an elderly gentleman in Maine who was interested in having someone write his World War II memoir for him. Although neither were exactly what Meg was after, they still gave her hope that the money she’d put up for the advertising was not going to be a total loss.
Having Rebekah at work on Sunday also gave Meg the chance to sneak one of Drew King’s earlier books out of her friend’s bookcase. For fear of being reprimanded by her friend for not letting go, reading one of his books was something she could never do in the open. So all day, curled up on the sofa with the book, Meg jumped like a sneak thief every time the phone rang or someone’s footsteps could be heard in the hall outside.
But all the same, she found herself getting lost in the pages--in the story and in his seemingly artless style of writing. To think that she had criticized him. To imagine that she’d thought he would even be interested in her input!
Every writer had books that just don’t work. And that one book, The Long Journey, must have been the one for Drew King. But to think that he’d just sat there and taken all the caviling, carping criticism without so much as a word in defense of his own work, made her feel all that much worse.
Perhaps, though, she thought, she would have been better off if he’d done just that. Reading his words, hearing his voice in her head--their days together came back to Meg with a vividness that shredded her insides into an unholy mess.
Sitting there on that sofa, his book on her lap, she found herself reliving in her mind everything that they’d shared. Every moment. Every caress.
And burning a hole in her chest was every word of love that she’d kept locked in her heart.
*****
After changing into his running clothes and returning to the living room, Evan was somewhat relieved to find that Phil was gone. He picked up his coffee cup from the open Book Review section of the paper.
As he drained the cup, his eyes briefly scanned the page. A review of some movie star’s biography. His gaze was drawn to the “Specialists--Services” heading where his coffee cup had left a ring around an advertisement.
“‘Experienced Editor...’” Evan read, frowning and heading for the door. “Yeah, right.”
The day was windless and sunny, and Evan pushe
d himself to run farther than he normally ran. Every turn, though, brought back another memory of her. By the ocean at Brenton Point, passing the mansions and Rosecliff, crossing Bellevue by La Forge restaurant, Evan thought of her.
Upon returning to his apartment, Evan climbed the stairs and stopped at the landing outside his door. Spotting a piece of newspaper stuck to the bottom of his sneaker, he pulled the piece away.
As he started to crumple the scrap up something odd about it struck him, and he stopped dead. On the torn paper, the ring from a coffee mug circled an ad.
Experienced Editor...
Evan stared at the paper for a moment until his curiosity propelled him through the door. Carrying the scrap of paper to the table, he laid it down on the open newspaper. It was a perfect match, circular coffee stain and the ad, as well. He read the advertisement again. An editor looking for freelance work.
He stood over the table for a long minute, trying to make sense of what lay before him.
“No,” he muttered finally, stubbornly denying what he was seeing. “It can’t be.”
Evan closed the paper and folded it, dumping it in the garbage pail beneath the kitchen sink.
Fifteen minutes later, showered and changed, he headed downstairs and found Phil stretched out on a porch sofa reading the rest of the paper.
“Come on, pal. I think I owe you a lunch. How about fish and chips at the Pub?”
“Great!” Phil replied, standing and stretching. “I was just thinking about grabbing a bite.”
The Pub always served their fish and chips the same way, on top of a piece of newspaper in a wicker basket. Today was no different. Nonetheless, halfway through his meal, Evan sat and stared with disbelief into his food.
“What’s the matter?” Phil asked. “Find a deep-fried cockroach or something?”
Made in Heaven Page 26
