by Gwyn Cready
“Dammit, Ellery, why can’t you just behave like a good writer?”
She almost laughed. She had never thought she’d live to see the day when she was chastised for misbehaving. Score one for the uptight, straitlaced company gal. Er, make that former company gal. She flopped on her back.
“I’m sorry to have it end this way, Mr. Black. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I really do. But I can’t write how you tell me to write. That’s not how it works—at least, not for me.”
He snorted. “You’ll change.”
I hope not, she thought, but said nothing.
“Is your erstwhile photographer with you?” he asked dryly.
Black was mad at Axel too. Kate was right. “No.”
“Do you have any idea how I could reach him?”
“You might try his cell.” She held Axel’s phone at arm’s length and wondered what Black would say if she answered that one too.
“Thank you. I would have never thought of that. Let me just put away my signal flags.”
She swallowed.
“When you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”
“I will.”
She desperately wanted to ask if the story of paying Axel to corral her was true, but it was likely that Kate and Axel were the only people other than Black who knew; while Ellery probably wouldn’t have minded getting Axel in trouble for it, she definitely didn’t want Kate to catch any flak.
“Good day, Ellery.”
If this was good, she’d settle for below average. “Good day.” She hung up.
Christ.
She lay in a formless heap, reimagining her life. No more Vanity Place. No certainty about Lark & Ives. Jill in trouble. And Axel a great big question mark. With any luck, this could turn into the worst day of her life.
She picked up the phone and dialed Carlton Purdy.
“Carlton,” she said happily when he answered. “I’m glad you called. I was just going to call you. I have some good news.”
“You do? And what might that be?”
“I have officially left Vanity Place. I’m a free agent and I’m raring to go.”
The silence was, well, if not deafening, then certainly highly muffled.
“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.” Purdy cleared his throat significantly. “Ellery, I heard something about you that I simply can’t believe.”
Bingo. Worst day of her life.
“A little birdie told me that your swan song for Vanity Place is a piece extolling the joys of romance novels.”
“‘A little birdie’? Who might that have been?”
“I don’t think it’s important who told me—”
Of course not.
“—but the person he heard it from seems like she should have reason to know. Bettina Moore.”
Well, it was no great mystery who told Moore, but who was the missing link between Moore and Carlton Purdy? Kate? No. Axel? Unlikely. Black? Downright impossible. Then she remembered Barry effing Steinberg and the publishing conference in London. Would Moore have been at the conference? Of course, she would have. In fact, Ellery had a vague memory of seeing Bettina Moore’s name in capital letters on the conference announcement in her e-mail. Would she have told Barry Steinberg? Hell, yes. She was probably telling everyone she knew Ellery Sharpe was writing an article on romance novels.
Barry Steinberg had just moved to the top of her hit list.
“Bettina Moore would have reason to know, you’re right,” Ellery said. “And I’m afraid that’s part of the reason Vanity Place and I have parted ways. Look, let’s cut the crap here, Carlton. The person who told you was Barry Steinberg, and I have the highest regard for his writing—I do—but let’s face it: Steinberg is known for his blustery bullshit. I’m just saying you may have to ask yourself about his motivation.”
“Then you’re not writing a piece on romance novels?”
“It was my assignment, Carlton. I’m not writing it anymore.”
“I see. Then that’s not going to be the piece the board sees when the issue comes out?”
“Nope. But in disentangling myself from the romance story, I disentangled myself from my entire job.”
“Do not fear. Uncle Purdy is here. First, you’re my lead candidate. I’m sure the board will be encouraged to hear you’re a candidate with principles. Second, let’s not forget the DeLillo piece. That’s going to win you points. It’s excellent. Hold on,” he said, the sound of keys clicking in the background. “I’m pulling it up.”
“Thank you,” Ellery said. “I’m very proud of that one.”
“Between you and me,” Purdy said, speaking in a confidential tone, “a romance article would have been the shell that sunk the Bismarck.”
“Yes,” she said pointedly, “I am aware of that.”
“I mean, my God, what would the world have come to?”
“Well, it’s not as bad as, say, a hundred thousand people dying of cholera each year—I mean, right?”
Purdy made a nervous laugh. “Well, no. Of course not. But when you think of the literary world and books of real value…”
“The ones that capture the true essence of the human condition?”
“Yes. Thank you. When you think of them, you’re simply looking at a much bigger canvas.”
“You know, Carlton, I know you and I don’t think of romance novels that way, but there’re actually a lot of people out there who do.”
“Don’t I know it. The bib overall crowd.”
She cringed. Is that how she sounded? “They’re not like that. Honest to God.”
“Bib overalls. Polyester pants. Cuddled up to their warehouse club-size tubs of Chips Ahoy.”
Ellery thought of the lovely, sweet Rosemary Readers, the women cheering passionately at the Monkey Bar and Dr. Albrecht with her PhD.
“With all due respect, Carlton, you’re wrong. It’s young people, older people, the highly educated—even men. There’s a whole host of romance readers out there, and they’re pretty diverse.”
“Yes,” Carlton said, capitulating, “but they’re not the sort of readers we want, really, are they?”
“Are there ‘sorts’ of readers?” His comments were moving from the offensive to the inane. “I mean, gee, with the number of book and magazine readers shrinking each year, I think we’d be happy for any sort of reader. I used to publish a local arts paper, and we had a saying: ‘The best reader is the one who’ll plunk down his fifty cents each week.’ ”
“Yes, Ellery, there are. Do you know what would happen if we started targeting people who read stuff like romance?”
Yeah, you’d probably sell about a gazillion more magazines.
She was growing uncomfortable with the arbitrary distinction between “literature” and “romance”—and ashamed that she had made the same distinctions herself.
“Romance novels explore important territory,” she said. “The territory might not be of interest to every reader—no territory is—but that doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ellery, you sound like you might have liked to write that romance article. Sorry, I know it’s not true. But, honestly, have you ever read some of that stuff?”
She frowned. “Have you?”
“God, no. It’s deadly dull.”
She stifled a giggle. This had gone from a heated debate to an SNL sketch. Ah, Jemmie, what have you done to me? She grinned at her surprising new role as defender of romance. A smart interviewee would hold her tongue, but she was starting to feel a streak of recklessness worthy of Axel Mackenzie. Come to think of it, maybe it was Axel who was having the real impact on her.
“Actually, Carlton,” she said, breaking into a sly grin, “they can be quite page-turning.”
“Are you serious?”
“They speak to an essential human condition. It’s not surprising to me at all that so many readers enjoy them.”
“That’s hardly the purview of literary fiction,” he said, sniffing.
“An essential human conditions is not the purview of literary fiction?”
“I can’t believe you feel like this.”
“It’s not like I just suggested we burn the literary magazine industry to the ground. I’m pointing out that as good journalists and scholars we might want to cross-examine the data we’re using to draw what appear to be some pretty arbitrary conclusions.”
“Those conclusions are not arbitrary,” he said, voice growing sharper.
“Carlton,” she said gently, “you haven’t read a single romance.”
“I don’t need to read a romance to know they’re without value.”
Ellery shook her head. She almost asked if his powers of deduction extended to the outcome of football games and Dancing with the Stars, but what was the point? If you couldn’t see it, you couldn’t see it. Besides, she was still hoping he’d be her boss.
“Well, we’ve certainly gotten a bit off track here,” she said. “You’re okay with the DeLillo piece, then?”
“Yes. Between that and your portfolio, we’ll have what we need.”
“Great. I’m looking forward to meeting your board.”
“And they you. I’m glad we can put this romance misstep behind us.”
Ellery hung up with his last words still sounding in her ear. “Misstep.” She didn’t feel like her foray into the world of romances had been a misstep. Despite the fact that she hadn’t wanted to write the damned article, she had to admit the last few days had been kind of magical. She’d liked standing on the ledge, wearing that Monkey Bar T-shirt. She’d liked talking about Jemmie and his wedding night with the Rosemary Readers. She’d liked hearing Dr. Albrecht’s construction of the case for romance novels. Reading a romance novel was like walking a dog in the park: It gave you an instant connection with almost every person you encountered. And she didn’t need to ask Dr. Albrecht to know why. Romance novels allowed readers to live over and over that tsunami of human experience, falling in love.
It was a tsunami. She remembered the dizziness she’d felt those first few months with Axel, as if all the joy in the world were being pumped into her lungs. Nothing was feared. Anything was possible.
And the sex! Holy moly! She fell back on the bed and covered her head with a pillow at the memory.
Sex was the steam valve on the relentless engine of love and infatuation. God, she could feel the bubbling in her veins as if it were happening right now—
She stopped, startled, and ran an inquisitive finger over her lips.
I’ll… be… damned.…
Immediately, a warning voice inside her head asked, Axel? Again? Are you crazy? What’s changed?
A lot, she answered.
Maybe you have. He hasn’t.
Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s what you want to believe.
“Dammit, it is what I want to believe,” Ellery said aloud. “So cork it, will ya?” She closed her eyes, trying to will away the doubt.
It was one thing to accept Axel’s friendship, even a friendship with some knee-trembling benefits. It was another to feel like she could put her trust in him.
The band began their second set. She could hear the plaintive chords of the guitar and the beckoning notes of the tin whistle as the song’s slow melody rolled across the yard. She closed her eyes and inhaled, letting the wonder of a warm Scottish night wash over her.
Carlton Purdy was wrong about romances. So wrong, she felt bad for him.
She felt the flames of creation begin to flicker at her fingertips. Perhaps it was just more of that Axel streak of recklessness, but if it was, she didn’t care. Maybe she’d even thank him for it.
She flipped open her laptop and pressed ON.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The faint beats of the bodhrán echoed across the yard, and Axel lifted his eye from the viewfinder. He felt the pull of the music, and since the moon had disappeared behind a cloud just as he’d finished setting up the tripod, he decided to go back in to listen for a few minutes.
He sauntered across the grass, stopping in the barn’s darkened doorway to search for a certain green skirt and raven black hair, but found neither. The dancers on the floor had paired into those odd corporate twosomes marked by drunken disinhibition or halting discomfort. But it was the older couple turning in slow circles that inspired Axel to lift the camera once more to his eye. He clicked off a dozen shots, capturing the azure sweep of the man’s kilt and the pink of the woman’s cheeks.
A red-haired man in his midthirties made his way through the spectators and stopped not far from Axel. He, too, was kilted, though unlike Axel and Reggie he wore not only a kilt but a plaid looped over his shoulder, a homespun shirt, distinctly old-fashioned leather brogues and what looked to Axel’s eye like real knives in both his belt and sock sheath. The red of the tartan was nearly the same brightness and hue of his hair. Axel thought of Jemmie and chuckled.
He sidled up to the man. “You a hiree for the evening as well?”
The man spotted Axel’s kilt and grinned. “Aye. You’re the Canuck, I see. I’m Duncan. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand.
Axel’s shoulders relaxed. He’d had enough experience breaking up bar fights to know it was easier to escort potential brawlers out before they started swinging than after.
“What’s with the knives?” Axel asked, shaking his hand. Axel was three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than Duncan, and while they’d gotten off to a friendly start, Axel’s tone made it clear the answer better be one he liked.
“What? Oh, these?” Duncan looked down. “Part of my kit. But I dressed in such a hurry tonight, I forgot to replace them with the dress ones.”
“Kit?”
“There’s quite a business around here in the portraying of a character from this book. Ye probably don’t—”
“Kiltlander?”
The man’s face split into a huge grin. “Ye do! Having hair the color of a persimmon has always been a bit of fash, but suddenly the women love it. There’s a bookstore in town that hires me quite regularly for events. The book’s become a nice little industry for Bathgate. We get tourists all the time, looking at Cairnpapple and the wee kirk where Jemmie and Cara renew their vows. We even have a tearoom in town called the Jem Stone. I’m not exactly right for Jemmie”—he gazed at Axel’s greater height and sighed—“but the hair seems to make up for it.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s just a hobby, but it’s a well-paying one, and it fits with some other stuff I do.”
The woman in the leather blazer caught Axel’s eye and purposefully raked her gaze up his legs, finishing with a suggestive wink.
“Do you have any trouble with women because of the kilt?” Axel asked, adjusting his stance primly.
“Oh, aye.”
“I’m finding it a little scary tonight.”
Duncan snorted. “Tonight is nothing. You need to see the women at these bookstore events.” He blew a quiet whistle and leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Sometimes they ask me to sign their paps! And the things they offer to do…” He trailed off, but the deep crimson stain covering his cheeks gave Axel the general flavor of what he meant. “I’m as adventurous as the next man, believe me, and at the start I was more than happy to sample the wares a time or two, but now I feel like they need to get to know me first. Me, that is, not Jemmie.”
Axel laughed. “It’s a problem a lot of men would dream about having.”
The song ended, and Dr. Albrecht said something to Reggie, whose skin flushed. Then she wandered in Axel’s direction, nearly running into him as she turned to catch another glimpse of her dance partner.
“Whoa!” Axel caught her by the shoulders. “Eyes for-ward, always a good bet. You cut a fine rug, there, Frau Doktor.”
“I haven’t danced in years,” she said, dimpling. “Archie vuzn’t a dancer.”
“It suits you. Have you seen Ellery? Is she still on the phone?”
�
��She vuz on a call when I left the house. Still vurking things out, I think.”
Axel chewed his lip. If she was talking to Jill, he didn’t want to interrupt.
“Go to her,” Dr. Albrecht said. “You might be able to help.”
He looked at his watch. “I’ll give her a few more minutes.”
“Oh, dear!” Dr. Albrecht said, throwing her hands up suddenly. “We’ve forgotten the bar. Axel, can you open it back up?”
He turned to Duncan. “Would you be able to catch the first fifteen minutes or so? I want to grab a few shots of the moon. Do you mind?”
Duncan didn’t, and Axel returned to the tripod out in the yard.
The clouds had passed, and the moon was high enough to spill its silver light over the treetops and cast a layer of cool incandescence over the lawn and fields beyond. He thought of the assignment he was supposed to be on and felt a twinge of guilt. He wished he hadn’t promised Black he’d try to persuade Ellery, not because it hadn’t worked, but because it hadn’t been exactly honorable to be maneuvering behind her back. He should have remembered that, with Ellery, it was much more fun to be maneuvering face-to-face, all cards on the table.
In the middle of reattaching the camera to the tripod, something in the distance caught his eye. It was Cairn-papple, aglow in the moonlight. His fingers slowed. He wondered what the countryside looked like from up there, with the gilded blanket of Scotland, spangled with lights, stretching out below him. God, what a shot that would be. He bet he could see for twenty miles in every direction on a night like this. He glanced at his watch. The mound was no more than a quarter mile away. If he hurried…
He unscrewed the camera, grabbed the tripod and walked quickly toward the mound.
While he navigated the shadowed path, his mind was sorting through the photographic prospects he might have at the top of the hill and considering the ideal aperture and shutter speed.
