Sleeping Beauty

by Phillip Margolin

  Joshua Maxfield’s writing group was going to start in two weeks, and Terri had joined it. The members were supposed to submit a writing sample that Maxfield and the group would critique. Terri had brought her partially written manuscript for Maxfield to read. She still could not believe that the author of one of her favorite books was going to help her with her writing.

  The Academy had a building for pre-school through fifth grade, another for the middle school program, and two buildings-one for science and the other for liberal arts-for the high school. Joshua Maxfield’s office was in the middle of the hall on the third floor of the liberal arts building. The door was closed. Terri knocked.

  “Enter,” Maxfield said.

  This was the first time she had been in a published novelist’s work-place, and Terri was uncharacteristically nervous. She opened the door and took a quick look around. Maxfield’s office surprised her. A mug of coffee, a half-eaten doughnut, and a neatly stacked manuscript were the only things on his desk. There were no family photographs, no literary journals or books, not even an ashtray.

  The rest of the office also had the feel of temporary occupancy. A bare coatrack hid in a corner, and a glass-fronted bookshelf, with very few books, stood near it. The four walls were devoid of decoration except for framed covers of Joshua’s two novels, a favorable review of A Tourist in Babylon from the New York Times, and framed awards that the book had garnered. Other than Maxfield’s desk, the bookshelves, and some chairs, the only other furniture in the room was a small table upon which sat a coffee pot. A few mugs, packets of powdered creamer and sugar, and an open box of doughnuts kept the pot company.

  Maxfield was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a tight black T-shirt that stretched across his chest and showed off his well-defined biceps. He looked amused.

  “If you’re searching for the tools of my trade-the quill pen, the parchment, my smoking jacket-they’re in my cottage. That’s where I create my masterpieces. I’d never get anything accomplished if I tried to write here. Too many interruptions and distractions.”

  Terri looked embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not the first person to have that reaction. I’ve never felt comfortable in an office. Makes me feel like an accountant. You’d like my cottage. It’s on the school grounds down by the river. I don’t have any animal head trophies hanging from the walls à la Papa Hemingway but the cottage is much closer to the stereotype of a writer’s digs, very cluttered and untidy. Maybe I can show it to you someday.”

  That sounded like a pass, and Terri hid her surprise. If Maxfield noticed her discomfort he didn’t show it. Instead, he pointed at the manila envelope Terri was clutching with both hands.

  “Is that your magnum opus?”

  Terri blushed. “Yes.”

  Maxfield flicked his fingers, beckoning for the manuscript.

  “Let’s have it.”

  Terri handed over the envelope. “It’s hard to part with,” she said. “Especially when you know that strangers are going to rip it apart.”

  “No one is going to rip your baby apart. My critique groups are very civilized. And you should look forward to criticism, even when it’s negative. One of the rules of good writing is that no one is perfect. Everyone screws up. That’s why we have editors. The good ones catch our mistakes before the public sees them in print.” He paused. “And not everyone is going to be a stranger.”

  Terri looked surprised. “Do I know someone else in the group?”

  “I was referring to myself. We’ve been formally introduced. I hope you don’t still consider me to be a stranger. Sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Thanks,” Terri said, taking one of two chairs that faced Joshua’s desk. Maxfield walked over to the coffee pot and filled a mug for Terri.

  “Cream, sugar?” he asked.

  “Black is fine.”

  “Can I tempt you with a doughnut? I’m addicted to sweets.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  When Maxfield set the mug in front of Terri, he looked down at her and smiled. It was a warm smile, but something about his proximity made her uncomfortable. She’d received many friendly smiles from men while she was married, but she had not received one from a single man since Norman died. Terri wasn’t sure how to respond. She wanted to be friendly, too, but showing any kind of interest in a man made her feel as if she was being unfaithful to Norman. That made no sense but it was the way she felt. She had really loved Norman; she still loved him. You didn’t stop loving someone just because they were dead.

  “Your daughter…Alice?” Joshua asked when he was back on his side of the desk.

  “Ashley.”

  “Right. Has she decided to come to the Academy?”

  “Yes,” Terri answered, relieved to be discussing a safe subject. “Actually, she’s here now. She’s a counselor at the soccer clinic.”

  “I thought I saw her around.”

  “She’s living in the dorm. I miss her at home, of course, but we talk on the phone a lot. She chatters nonstop about the Olympians she’s met, the other counselors, and the children she teaches. Working with the young kids has been very good for her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. She seems like a very nice young woman.”

  “She is. It was horrible right after her father died.” Terri’s voice caught for a moment. Maxfield looked concerned and surprised.

  “Was this recently?” he asked.

  Terri nodded because she was unable to speak.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry. I still…” She stopped and shook her head.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m insensitive, but I really didn’t know.”

  Maxfield reached in his drawer and pulled out some Kleenex.

  “I’m okay,” Terri assured him.

  “I’m glad working at the clinic has helped Ashley deal with her grief,” Maxfield said. “Maybe she’ll take my creative writing class and I can get to know her better.”

  Ashley had enjoyed eating lunch with her mother. Terri had been so excited about being in Mr. Maxfield’s writing group. It was good to see her happy again. She had been so sad since Norman ’s murder. Ashley knew that she hadn’t helped matters by being depressed. She felt bad about the way she’d added to her mother’s problems. Terri was always asking how she felt, checking to see if she was sinking back into despair. It could get a little annoying at times, but Ashley knew her mother asked because she cared.

  After lunch, Ashley worked with a group of girls age eight to ten on basic skills. She really liked working with the little kids. They were very eager to learn, and so cute. When the clinic ended, she and Sally Castle, her roommate and an Academy starter, slipped into their swimsuits and headed for the Olympic-size outdoor pool.

  Sally was a stocky brunette who was always happy. She and Ashley had played on the same club team when they were in middle school, and they were being courted by some of the same colleges. It was possible that they would be college teammates.

  Sally’s folks had Ashley over for dinner at their big house in the West Hills shortly after they started rooming together. Back at the dorm afterward, Ashley had apologized for being so quiet during dinner. She told Sally how much it hurt to be around a happy family. The laughter and good feeling had reminded her of the way things used to be at the Spencer family table when her dad was alive. Sally had been very understanding, and the two girls had been tight ever since.

  Half of the pool had lane lines for lap swimming. The other half was for fun. Ashley and Sally dove in the unlined section and paddled around to cool off. It had been very hot all afternoon, and the water felt great. Some of the boys from the soccer camp showed up, and the play became rowdy. Ashley and Sally didn’t enjoy the roughhousing, so they swam closer to the lap swimmers. That’s when Ashley noticed a man squatting on the edge of the pool and Casey Van Meter stroking smoothly down the center lane toward him. The man was deeply tanned and wore his long black hair in a pon
ytail. His black silk muscle shirt and tight-fitting jeans looked out of place among the cheap T-shirts, baggy shorts, and swimsuits that everyone else was wearing.

  “Uh-oh,” Sally said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “See that guy at the edge of the pool?”

  Ashley nodded.

  “His name is Randy Coleman. He’s married to Dean Van Meter.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Here’s the good stuff.” Sally dropped her voice. “I heard that she met him last year in Las Vegas at an education convention. Supposedly, they had a wild fling and got married in some Elvis chapel.”

  “Dean Van Meter! Gosh, she seems so…so sophisticated. And that guy looks so greasy.”

  “Well, she did drop him about a month later but he followed her to Portland. We’re members of the country club where the Van Meters go, so my mom is on top of all the good gossip. She says that Coleman is bugging the dean to come back to him because Henry Van Meter had this real serious stroke and he’s still sick. If he dies, the dean and her brother will be loaded and Coleman wants a piece of it. And get this, Coleman’s supposed to be a professional gambler with ties to the mob.”

  Casey reached the wall. Coleman tapped her shoulder. She stopped in mid-turn and looked up.

  “What are you doing here?” Ashley heard Casey ask. She sounded annoyed at having her workout interrupted.

  “We have to talk,” Coleman said.

  Something about his voice was familiar, but Ashley was certain they’d never met.

  “If you received the papers you know that there’s nothing to talk about,” Casey said coldly.

  “Yeah, I got them, but this is all wrong. We belong together, baby.”

  Casey took a quick look around. A number of the students were watching.

  “I’m not going to discuss this here, Randy. In fact, I’m not going to discuss it at all. You can have your lawyer call mine if you’ve got questions.”

  Casey turned her back to Coleman and positioned herself to start swimming away from him. When she raised her arm, Coleman grabbed her wrist. Van Meter glared at her husband.

  “Release me at once.”

  “I said we have to talk.”

  A movement to her right distracted Ashley. Joshua Maxfield was strolling toward the pool.

  “Hey, Randy, let her go.” Maxfield sounded friendly, not threatening.

  “Fuck off, Maxfield. This is between me and my wife.”

  “Get your hands off me,” the dean commanded angrily.

  Coleman turned his face toward Casey Van Meter and said, “Listen, bitch,” but he never finished the sentence because she lashed out with her free hand and smacked him hard. Coleman reared back to punch Casey but Maxfield was on him before he could strike. Everything happened fast after that, and the action ended with Coleman on the ground, his arm twisted behind him at an odd angle.

  “This isn’t helping anyone,” Maxfield said, still calm and completely in control of the situation. He stood and forced Randy to his feet.

  “I’ll get you, you fuck,” Coleman gasped, obviously in pain.

  “Now, now. I’m the last guy you want to threaten, Randy. I had demolition training in the Rangers. Make me nervous and you’ll be even more nervous every time you start your car or open your apartment door. Do you want that? I don’t think so. So why don’t you calm down and leave while the only aches you have to nurse are a sore wrist and injured pride.”

  Coleman looked unsure of himself. Maxfield inched up Randy’s arm until he was forced to stand on his toes.

  “What do you say, old chap?” Maxfield asked. “I’ve got nothing against you but there are kids around here. It’s not good for them to see this.”

  Coleman grimaced with pain and nodded.

  “I’m going to let go. Okay? No sneaky punches, promise?”

  “Let loose, damn it,” Coleman gasped. Maxfield released his hold. Randy cast a furious look at Casey.

  “We’re not through,” he threatened before stomping off.

  “Thanks, Joshua,” Casey said as she watched her attacker walk toward the parking lot.

  “No problemo. These marriage things drive people crazy.”

  Casey studied Joshua. She didn’t look angry anymore, just curious.

  “Do you really know how to rig a car?”

  Joshua threw his head back and laughed. “Hell no. Remember, I’m a novelist. I lie for a living.”

  Suddenly, Maxfield and the dean noticed the gawking teenagers. Maxfield held up his hands.

  “Everything’s cool. You can return to your regularly scheduled programming.” He turned to Casey. “Let’s go.”

  “Did you see that?” Sally Castle said, awestruck. “I didn’t know Mr. Maxfield knew that Jackie Chan stuff. That was so cool.”

  Suddenly, Sally noticed her friend’s ashen complexion. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Ashley answered, but she was lying. The violence had made her flash back to the attack in her house. And there was something else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it Coleman’s voice? She’d thought that it sounded familiar when she first heard him speak, but now she wasn’t so certain she’d heard it before. But Coleman was about the same height as her father’s murderer. No, that was ridiculous. A lot of men were the same size as the killer. Mr. Maxfield was the same size, too, and he didn’t make her nervous.

  Chapter Five

  Terri Spencer rushed up the stairs to the second floor of the liberal arts building, then walked down the hall slowly so she could catch her breath. It was the first day of the writing group, and she was late. When she entered the schoolroom, Joshua Maxfield waved her onto a chair next to a heavyset, bearded man who was seated on the side of a conference table nearest the door. Next to him was an older woman with long gray hair. Across the table were two middle-aged women and a young man.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Terri apologized. “The traffic was horrendous.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Maxfield assured her from his position at the head of the table. “We just got settled. All you missed was a chance to get some coffee and doughnuts and I think we’ll still let you do that. What do you say, group?”

  Everyone laughed, including Terri. “I’m fine, thanks,” she told Maxfield.

  “Then we’ll get started by introducing ourselves. And I’ll begin by telling you a little about myself. I went to community college in Boston after I was expelled from high school. I began A Tourist in Babylon in my English class as an essay. My professor encouraged me to turn it into a novel. I thought he was crazy-I honestly didn’t think I had any talent-but I decided to give it a try. I transferred to the University of Massachusetts and finished the novel while getting my BA.

  “Tourist was rejected by several houses before an editor at Pegasus Press was wise enough to discern its merits. The rest, as they say, is history. My first novel was nominated for all of the major literary prizes and was a bestseller. So I know a little about crass commercialism as well as literature.

  “The Wishing Well was published a year or so later. I taught creative writing at a college in New England for a while but I decided to come west a few years ago and dedicate myself to working with younger students. I’ve enjoyed my two years at the Oregon Academy tremendously but I like to work with older writers for balance, which is why I conduct these seminars.

  “But enough about me. Terri, why don’t you tell everyone who you are, where you work, and why you’re here?”

  “I’m Terri Spencer, I’m a reporter at The Oregonian. I know all reporters are supposed to be writing the Great American Novel in their spare time. It’s a terrible cliché but it’s true in my case. I don’t know about the ‘great’ part but I am halfway through a book and I thought it was time to get some professional help.”

  “ Harvey,” Maxfield said, nodding to the bearded man sitting to Terri’s left.

  Harvey Cox told the group that he was a biotech researcher
who had published one science fiction short story and was looking for help with a science fiction novel he was writing. Lois Dean, the older woman, had run across a set of diaries written by an ancestor who had followed the Oregon Trail in the 1800s. She wanted to turn them into a historical novel. Mindy Krauss and Lori Ryan were housewives and bridge partners who were trying their hand at a mystery, and Brad Dorrigan was a computer programmer who had majored in English Lit and spoke earnestly about the coming-of-age story he had been working on for several years.

  “Okay, great,” Maxfield said. “Well, we certainly have a diverse group. That’s good. It means that we’re going to get different opinions when we critique each other’s work. And that is one of the things we are going to do here.

  “Now let me talk about criticism for a moment. Each week I’m going to read something that someone in the group has submitted and each of you is going to be painfully honest with your opinions. That doesn’t mean that you are going to be mean or spiteful. The only type of criticism I expect here is constructive criticism. It’s perfectly all right to dislike something, but I want you to tell the writer why you don’t like what he or she has written and I want you to suggest how the work can be changed for the better. So think before you speak.

  “My job will be to moderate these proceedings but I’m also going to give you tips that I hope will improve your writing. When we start each class I’ll spend some time talking about character development, outlining, and other aspects of the writer’s craft. Now, I don’t like talking to hear myself speak. I assume you’re here because you are motivated to improve your craft. So, ask questions. Remember, in this group there is no such thing as a stupid question.

  “And with that introduction, unless there are questions, I’m going to start our first session with a brief discussion of the method I use to develop story ideas.”