by Roxy Sloane
“That sounds good,” said Maggie, forcing a small smile. “I’d like that.”
The timer on my phone rang. “That’s dinner,” I declared.
We let the chicken rest as we rinsed the plates and set up one of the cushions as a table. Then we divided up the chicken and piled our plates high with green beans and potatoes, their skins deep brown and glistening with butter. We each got another beer and then sat in front of the fire and ate like lumberjacks.
After dinner we polished off a bakery box full of Italian cookies that Maggie had brought. Soon we were lying on the floor, watching the shadows created by the fire as they danced across the ceiling.
“I love this place,” I said with a sigh.
“Maybe you should bring Jackson here,” B suggested.
“I can’t.” My face fell and I struggled to swallow my beer past the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. “I’m going to have to sell it.”
“What?” said Maggie. “Why?”
“The cost of my mom’s care is going up,” I confessed. “The funds from her personal account will be drained in about two years. And then I have no idea what I’ll do. Even the money from the cabin won’t cover her for very long.”
“Isn’t there a less expensive option for her?” asked Bianca.
“I’d hate to move her,” I said. “It would be so disruptive to her and her routine. And I really trust those people with my mother—they really care about her. But I might not have a choice.” I sighed again, deeper. “I wish I had some real money. I’d be your investor, Mags, and you could make us both rich.” We laughed a little.
“If I had a shitload of money, I would take care of you guys first and then go on a luxury cruise to Europe,” declared Maggie.
“Really?” asked B. “Where?”
Mags grinned. “There are a couple of shoe masters I’d like to apprentice with in Italy.”
“I love Italy,” I said. “I want to go to Italy. Just think of the pizza.”
“And the French countryside,” said B. “And the Swiss Alps.”
For a while we dreamed of travels together.
And when the fire died down, the three of us brushed our teeth, threw on our nightclothes, and climbed into my parents’ chilly queen-size bed, snuggling together for warmth and laughing ourselves to sleep like teenagers.
In the morning we made coffee, dressed in layers, and went for a hike, working up an appetite in the crisp air. When we got back home we made silver dollar buttermilk pancakes and ate stacks of them with butter and strawberry jam and real maple syrup. Then we played gin rummy and, as usual, Maggie beat the pants off Bianca and me. It was bliss.
In the afternoon we took a walk into town for BLTs at Margot’s Cafe. We checked out a couple of realtors afterward, and both offices informed us that it was a good time to sell, as the market in the Hudson Valley had recently rebounded.
In town we ran into the fellow who looks after the cabin, Mr. Wong, and he gave me the card of a real estate agent he knew, a woman named Nancy Parker, coincidentally. He assured me that she was the best in the area. Later we stumbled upon a craft fair in the parking lot of one of the churches, so we checked it out to Maggie’s great pleasure. And then we returned to the cabin to pack up for the short drive home.
Back at my apartment, without the resonance of Jackson’s voice or the laughter of my friends, the silence was deafening. I showered, put on my pajamas, and climbed into bed. Then I decided to quit worrying and just call him.
But he didn’t pick up.
About an hour later, as I lay in the darkness staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling, my phone rang. It was him.
“Just returning your call,” he said. “How are you doing? It sounded like something was up.”
“Better now that I’m hearing your voice,” I replied. “I’ve had a rough few days.” I snuggled deeper under the covers, relishing the warmth of my blankets and the sound of Jackson’s deep, steady voice.
“Are you in bed?” he asked.
“Yes I am,” I said, putting just a hint of sexiness into it, wondering how he’d react. He was quiet for a moment. “Are you in front of the fire?”
“I am.” He chuckled. “Am I that predictable?”
“Mmm. Did you have a good weekend?” I asked. “Get lots of work done?”
“I knew you called to crack the whip,” he said, amused. “And yes, I did. Many pages were forged in blood, sweat, and scotch whiskey. Mark came by tonight for a bit, too. He said to send you his regards.”
I smiled. “Please send mine back.” Jackson’s mention of scotch had given me a sudden craving, so I tiptoed out of bed and into the living room to pour myself a little nightcap.
“I will. What did you do this weekend?”
“My girlfriends and I went up to my family’s cabin in the Catskills, near Woodstock,” I said, pouring a few sips into the tumbler and setting the bottle back on the gold and glass bar cart. “It’s amazing up there.”
“Sounds like a good time,” he replied. “So why do you sound so sad?”
“Hmm.” I took a small drink as I padded back down the hall toward my bedroom, swallowing slowly to let the scotch warm my throat. “I guess because being up there again reminded me of how much I love the place. And I’m going to have to sell it.”
“Why?”
I settled back into bed, Jackson in one hand and my scotch in the other; fortified by man and liquor but not by money, which I hated to admit that I actually really needed at that moment. “My mom’s care facility. Costs are going up. Rent, medication, everything. So we need to liquidate.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “And I know how important it must be to keep her in a place she feels safe, and knows her routine.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, brushing a tear off my cheek and taking another drink.
“If there’s anything I can do. . . ”
“There isn’t.” It came out harsh, and I cleared my throat. “But thank you, Jackson.”
“Do you have siblings?” he asked. “I mean, is anyone else around to. . . help?”
“No. Only child, though my best friends are close enough to be my sisters.” I smiled thinking of Maggie and Bianca, and at how much we’d all grown into ourselves since high school. “How about you?”
“Same,” he replied. “What’s the cabin like?”
I warmed at the slight change of subject. “Oh it’s a little log cabin on two acres, just one bedroom which is up in a loft. But there’s a fireplace, a full kitchen—it has everything you need, and it’s been taken really good care of. There are lots of hiking trails and you can walk right into town, so that’s great.”
“Sounds like my speed,” Jackson said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I think you’d love it. I have so many good memories of that place. I used to bring my friends up during the summer and my parents would let us sleep on the pull-out couch downstairs, but as soon as they’d go to bed we’d build forts out of blankets and chairs and stay up all night talking about boys and colleges and drinking peppermint schnapps.”
Jackson laughed. “You were a wild child.”
I grinned at the teasing. My chest felt lighter just hearing him laugh. “Anyway,” I said, “before I let the place go, I’d love to take you up there.”
“I’d love to take you anywhere,” he said suggestively.
“Oh, really?” I drained the rest of my scotch, set the glass on the nightstand, and turned onto my side. “Because I wouldn’t mind being in your bed right about now,” I said softly.
“I wouldn’t mind it either,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “I’d pull you on top of me. Make you ride my dick, nice and slow. Your dark hair hanging down over your face as you moan. Your perfect tits bouncing right above my face so I can just reach up with my mouth and taste you, suck your nipples hard enough to make you say my name.”
My hands went between my thighs and I rubbed, gently, already aroused and
slick at the images his words had conjured up.
“What else,” I asked breathlessly, slipping two fingers inside me, rocking my hips back and forth as I envisioned every moment Jackson was describing to me.
“I want your legs spread wide as you’re riding me, so I can fuck you deeper and harder, and I can reach down and rub your swollen clit with my thumb. I want to stroke you and fuck you so good, until you come with my cock buried deep inside your tight, wet pussy. I want to see that incredible look on your face, watch you close your eyes and moan. Let me hear you moan, Ellie.”
I came fast and hard, shocked at how easily it had happened, moaning softly into the phone as my pussy clenched, contracting tightly around my thrusting fingers. “Fuck, Jackson,” I gasped, panting into the phone.
“Mmm,” he said. “Good girl. Now you can sleep.”
He was right. I was becoming drowsy.
“Sweet dreams,” I whispered.
“Sweet dreams, Ellie.”
16
The Mark Stella book launch was at Brick & Mortar, one of my favorite bookstores. They have great booths with plush seats where you can sit and read in natural light and a pretty awesome coffee bar where the baristas really know their way around an espresso shot. I love the store’s taste in book titles, too.
There was a line around the block when I arrived. I helped Mitchell place some signage and he introduced me to Mark Stella, thankfully, because Jennifer Carpenter treated me as if I was invisible. Stella was soft-spoken, with a wiry build and kind blue eyes. He was so understated for such a famous athlete.
Jennifer’s assistant was filling cups with hot cider and I suggested I bring some to the fans queued up outside in the chill. People thanked me heartily when I walked up and down the line offering the steaming cups. When the velvet rope was pulled aside, everyone moved swiftly indoors to the warmth of the second-floor meeting room.
Stella gave an amazing reading, his emotion clear in his voice, and he didn’t shy away from the toughest questions during the Q&A afterward. He signed a lot of books, taking a moment to thank each fan. I touched Jennifer gently on her sleeve and said, “This was really great. And Mark is wonderful. His book is going to hit the New York Times, I’m sure of it.”
“Thanks,” she replied suspiciously.
“Hey, kid.” A voice said behind me. I turned around and standing there was Sol Braunstein. A huge grin lit my face when I saw my old mentor.
“Solly!” I gave him a warm but professional half-hug and he squeezed me back. “Did you hear Stella read?”
“Yeah, I was in the back. He was great. The man’s come a long way.”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you enjoying the grandkids? Or are you ready to come back?”
He laughed and led me over to the cider, filling cups for both of us. “I had enough of the grandkids by week two. But no—retirement suits me just fine. I’ve had time to organize my library, bake bread. I make a hell of a boule! Go to the movies in the middle of the day. I’m really enjoying it. How about you, Ellie? How’s it going with Ford?”
I gulped the cider, stalling for time. I didn’t know where to begin.
Sol looked at me with knowing eyes. “Yeah, you won the prize. But no one told you the prize was a bull.”
I smiled. “He’s been. . . a challenge.”
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” he said. “I’ll buy you dinner. When are you done here?”
“Five minutes,” I promised.
We walked down the street to a tiny pho shop where Solly knew the owners. We sat in a booth in the back, he ordered, and soon two huge steaming bowls of noodles, fragrant broth, and shrimp arrived. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I dug in, savoring every bite.
“So, what’s going on with Thirteen?” he asked.
“Thirteen?” I repeated.
“His thirteenth book,” he explained. “We always called them by the number, until he came up with a title. He’s always struggled with the titles.”
“Oh.” I chewed slowly. “I thought the whole ‘Untitled’ thing was just his way of messing with me even more.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Sol laughed. “So, what’s going on?”
I shook my head, not knowing where to start. Finally I said, “Listen, can I ask you something? What did you really think of his last four books? Be honest.”
“Schlock.” His candor surprised me. “Utter schlock.”
“Why did you let him get away with that? I mean, and Louise, and everyone else?” I wasn’t accusing him; I was really asking.
He sighed. “Ellie, I like Jackson Ford,” he said. “I really like him. He’s a real mensch. And the early work was. . . well, there’s a reason it’s on everyone’s bookshelf.”
I nodded, tracing the rim of my cup of hot green tea.
Sol went on, “But something happened to him, and I’m damned if I know what it was. Five or six years ago, it was book seven, out of nowhere he just became almost obsessive about the work, going over everything ten times, refusing to let anyone see the pages. What used to take him four months, it took him eight. Louise was pulling her hair out.”
“I’ll bet she was,” I said. “So what happened?”
“He blew deadline after deadline, until one night he showed up at my house. My wife was still alive, rest her soul, and he brought me this bottle of Japanese whiskey because he knows I like whiskey. Insanely expensive bottle of whiskey. And he handed me this massive manuscript. Would’ve been an 800-page book. And he said to me, ‘Solly, I want you to read this. I want you to sit with me right now and read it, start to finish.’ And I said, ‘Jackson, this’ll take me two days to read. I promise I’ll start it tomorrow. We’ll talk right away.’ And he said, ‘No. I need you to read it now.’ He was desperate.”
Sol pushed his bowl away and drummed his fingers on the table, remembering.
“So did you read it?” I prompted.
“I did,” he said. “We sat there at my kitchen table and we drank whiskey and I started reading the manuscript. Parts of it were just brilliant. But it was like he wanted to tell every story he could think of. And all these different plot threads, they were each great but they didn’t belong together. And we sat there, and by about 6:00 a.m. I’d only gotten a third of the way through and I stopped. And I told him what I thought. And he looked at me and he said to me, and I’ll never forget it, ‘What if I got lucky?’ And I said, ‘What are you talking about?’ He said, ‘What if Lions and Lambs is all I’ve got? What if I’m a hack who just got lucky?’”
I thought of the conversation I’d had with Jackson about Lions and Lambs, how interested he’d been in my thoughts. And the way he’d responded when I started prodding him about Addison’s weaknesses and flaws, asking if his hero had ever had a moment of doubt. No wonder Jackson had reacted so strongly to my questions. They were more personal than I ever could have imagined.
“It wasn’t just luck,” I said. “He’s a great writer. How could he think that?”
“The best writers always battle crippling self-doubt,” Sol said, shrugging. “So I told him, ‘Jackson, you’re so young. And you’re so talented. I could kick your ass for even saying that. There’s something great buried in this manuscript, here. We just have to uncover it.’ Then he kind of broke down and he said, ‘Do you think so? Because I’m giving it my all. And if it’s not good enough. . . ’ And I said, ‘Not good enough for what?’ And he just looked at me. I’ll never forget his face. And then my wife came in and cooked us pancakes. Over the next couple of months, we focused the story and we whittled it down. And that became Sleeping Dogs.”
“It’s a great book,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “But, as you know, it’s a complex book and it did well but it wasn’t a hit. And I think, on some level, he had so much riding on it because he gave it his all. And it wasn’t enough. And the next book, he just churned it out. Like he didn’t want to care. And of course that’s the one Hollywood was inter
ested in! And once the movie happened there was no going back. I became a proofreader, not an editor. When I tried suggesting things here and there, he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to be pushed anymore.”
“And I pushed,” I admitted. “Hard.”
Sol nodded, topping off my green tea. “How’d that go?”
“He pushed back. But he did listen. And now he’s reimagined the novel. It’s a prequel. Addison’s first mission.”
He nodded his head as he thought it through. “That’s great work, Ellie.”
“I’ve only read three pages. He’s really onto something. But he won’t let me see more. And Louise is panicking. She wants to see an outline.”
He let loose a deep laugh. “An outline! She’s sticking your head in a guillotine. You’ll never get an outline out of Ford.”
“I know.” I nodded, toying with my chopsticks. “Louise sent me to his home. In the Berkshires. She didn’t tell him I was coming. I think it might have made him withdraw even more.”
Sol snorted in disgust. “What a piece of work. You can’t force the pages out of him, anybody at DR would know that. Listen kid, this worries me. Don’t get in the middle of those two. Louise, she’s the kind who would eat her young. And Jackson, if he’s sabotaging himself, I’m afraid you’re the one who’s going to get shtupped.”
“But Sol,” I said. “What can I do? My job’s on the line, and I’ve tried everything.”
“Let him be someone else’s headache. And as I’m saying this, I know you’re not going to do it. But see if you can try to just. . . take a step back.”
“No, Sol,” I said. “I can’t give up now. Talent like Ford is the reason I do this. The dream of working with great writers on books I love, that’s what gets me up at 6:00 a.m. and keeps me reading until I finish the last page. It’s why I ate nothing but soup for a year while interning for a man who wouldn’t let me read a submission until I shined his shoes. I’m not going to get another chance like this anytime soon. I have to give it my all.”
Sol watched me, nodding slowly to himself. “And it’s become personal now, hasn’t it?”
