Past a bar crowded with people drinking lunch, and probably not there on business, was a wide glass picture window ornamented with reversed neon beer signs. Reversed to Thomas, of course. They were perfectly readable from the steaming, sun-drenched sidewalk of Twenty- Third Street.
Thomas watched people walking by, ties loosened, jackets off. Those who didn't have such dress codes wore as little as legally possible. One woman walking her dog had on a bikini top and what seemed to be a silk scarf instead of a skirt. Thomas didn't even blink, and only the tourists turned to see her as she walked by. It was Manhattan, after all.
It was a hot Friday in July and not even the lightest breeze stirred the stagnant air in the canyons of New York City. When the sun dropped behind the Flatiron Building, long, cool shadows would insinuate themselves across the sidewalks, stretching fingers into the street itself.
For now, there was only the glare.
Then, blocking the glare, a silhouette, a shape, a woman.
"I hope you haven't been waiting long."
Thomas blinked several times, forced his eyes to adjust. The silhouette resolved into his agent, Francesca Cavallaro. Attractive, yet diminutive, she was possessed of an immutable resolve and an air of confidence that gave her a much larger presence than her size would warrant.
She had fire, Thomas always thought. He'd liked that in her from the first. It had served both of them well.
"Nope, waited for you before ordering," Thomas revealed. "But I know what I want. The jambalaya is excellent here, you should try it."
"I'm in the mood for fish, actually," Francesca said. "If they have blackened catfish, I'm sold."
"You may be in luck," he told her as she picked up a menu. Then, after a moment, "I don't want to rush you, but we're going to have to be fairly quick. I've got to pick Nathan up from school."
Francesca's blue eyes rose over the top of the menu to regard him tenderly. She had long hair, dyed an almost natural red, and blue eyes that reminded Thomas of a marble he'd had as a boy; just one, and he'd lost it the spring he'd turned seven. But he never forgot.
"How's that going, anyway?" she asked.
"Seems to be working out," Thomas replied. "I get my work done during the week, and play with Nathan on the weekend. The best of both worlds, actually, considering how Emily and I get along these days. Which is to say, not at all."
This answer seemed to satisfy Francesca, for she glanced idly around in search of the waitress.
"How's the new one coming? What's it called?"
"Fly Away to Strangewood," he reminded her. "It's the one where Grumbler and Feathertop finally come home."
Francesca brightened with that.
"God, TJ," she said. "The kids have been screaming for that for about three years, right? That'll make you a mint."
"Us," Thomas reminded her, brushing his fingers through his thick scrub of short dark hair. "It'll make us a mint. And please, Frankie, don't call me TJ. You know I hate that."
"Sorry," she lied. Then the waitress came, and when he glanced at her tag, Thomas realized he'd forgotten her name. In the space of less than five minutes, it had been lost to him. He chided himself, and the failings of the human mind, and ordered his jambalaya.
"Another Voodoo?" the waitress asked.
"Just Coke this time," he requested. "With a lime."
As Francesca ordered, Thomas slid down a bit in his chair. It was as rickety as the table. He wore fresh blue jeans and new sneakers, a well-made short-sleeve shirt with three buttons at the neck. He was comfortable. Anytime he began to have misgivings about the things he felt he'd given up creatively, the spark, the heart of his work, Thomas reminded himself how fortunate he was.
It was a hell of a way to make a living. And besides, he had created Strangewood, beloved by children the world over. How bad could that be?
The question was bittersweet for him, actually. He made a lot of money, had a limited amount of notoriety, and a property that would most certainly outlive him, and possibly his children as well. But the more popular Strangewood became, the more languages it was translated into, the more merchandise produced, the less it belonged to Thomas. The less it was his vision.
Like this thing with Grumbler and Feathertop. When he'd written them out of the series in Leaving Strangewood, he'd meant for them to be gone forever. He'd wanted to spend time developing some of the other characters in more detail. But the backlash from kids and their parents — not to mention film and television executives with an interest in the series — was so severe that he was practically forced to bring them back.
The books had changed in other ways, too. The central figure of the entire Strangewood series, The Boy, had always been a cypher, a six- or seven-year-old boy exploring a small wood behind his home which, to him, contained fantastic otherworlds and extraordinary creatures, both friendly and not-so-friendly. But more than anything else, The Boy was merely the reader's window into Strangewood.
Once upon a time, The Boy had been Thomas. But several years earlier, while Thomas was writing At the Heart of Strangewood, that had changed. The Boy had walked out his back door, his mother, as always, calling for him not to stray too far. He had followed the Scratchy Path, lined with pricker bushes, deep into Strangewood's heart, where Grumbler's little cottage always had a fire burning in the hearth.
As usual, trouble was already brewing. Brownie the Grizzly had promised to help the scarecrow, Gourdon Squashhead, implement the latest in his never-ending series of schemes to keep the Crow Brothers out of the cornfield. But Brownie was lazy, always yawning, and had nodded off midmorning. Gourdon's corn had gone undefended, and the Crow Brothers had made off with dozens of ears.
When The Boy arrived, everyone was out behind Grumbler's cottage, not far from the cornfield, arguing about Brownie's responsibility, or lack thereof. Well, everyone but Fiddlestick — who was still in his cave — and some of the nastier residents of Strangewood.
Feathertop and Grumbler were firmly on Gourdon's side. The hyena, whom everybody called Laughing Boy and who always spoke of himself in the third person, thought it was all very funny. But he felt bad for Brownie, who, he said, "couldn't help his sleepiness any more than Laughing Boy can help laughing." Mr. Tinklebum wasn't the smartest bell-bottom in Strangewood, but he also thought it was an honest mistake.
They all looked to The Boy for judgment, of course.
While he was making up his mind, Bob Longtooth and Cragskull, a nasty pair who were thieves and scoundrels and just generally made life in Strangewood unpleasant whenever possible, moved into Grumbler's home and claimed it as their own.
After The Boy had decided that Brownie should try to be more conscientious and should help Gourdon out in the field for the next few days by way of apology, they were all to retire to Grumbler's for tea. Grumbler, made excellent tea, despite his grumpy disposition.
But Grumbler's cottage was "gone." In its place, though it looked precisely the same, was an apparently brand new dwelling owned by Bob Longtooth and Cragskull. There followed a series of amusingly failed attempts to find Grumbler's old house or take over this "new" one. After which, of course, The Boy inspired the others to prevail by using their wits and convincing the villains that they'd actually taken the wrong house.
That was when it happened.