CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marie sat amid the chaos of Tony Freeman’s office. Boxes were everywhere; he was clearly in the middle of packing up for greener pastures.
She was back in her disguise, but her heart wasn’t in it. She had left her hair down and she had lost her dark sunglasses. She was holding a cigarette, but couldn’t bear to light it and taste ashes for the next half hour. The only thing she clung to was wearing black.
Tony finished reading her manuscript pages, and looked up. “This is...interesting reading.”
“It’s crap. It’s puerile, predictable, and nugatory.”
“Nugatory?”
“‘Of little or no importance; trifling. Without force; invalid.’ American Heritage Dictionary.” She sighed. “Page eight-sixty-two.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, can you pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time?”
To her surprise, he proceeded to do just that, startling a laugh out of her. She tried to copy his actions, and found she couldn’t.
“It’s all in the wrist, sugar...well, well, we can’t do everything, can we?”
Just like that, her temporary cheer disappeared. She scowled and gestured to the pages on his desk. “Obviously not.”
Tony, still rubbing his stomach and patting his head, leaned forward. “It’s clear the talent is there. I get the feeling you’re trying too hard. Reaching for...I don’t know. Do you know?”
He finally quit rubbing his stomach and patting his head. She looked him in the eye and, for a moment, saw something there she could trust.
No, you don’t.
Yes, I do.
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the edge of his desk. “This is going to sound...beyond stupid, I know.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“But here it is. For the longest time, I only wanted two things. To be a respected author. Not a famous one, or even a rich one. Respected. There’s a difference, you know.”
“Sometimes.”
“I wanted critical acclaim, and...well, one other thing. And now I’m wondering if the two things I wanted most, that I’ve spent years working for and pining for and wishing for, I’ve got to wonder if I really wanted him—them—after all, and how much of that time spent wanting is dead time, wasted.”
There was a long silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Y’know, I never wanted to write. But I love books. That’s why I got in this business. And you know how they say those who can’t, teach? Well...one of the first rules of writing is do it because you love it. Not to be famous. Excuse me—respected. You should write literary novels because nothing in you will rest until what’s inside you is out on paper. Not because you think people should write good reviews about you.”
She was giving him her careful attention, even as she could feel her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t help what I need.”
He laughed, without humor. “Tell me about it.” To her surprise, he took her hand, and when he spoke again, it was most gently. “Marie G. Hhermannn, what’s wrong with doing what you’re good at?”
“What if what I’m good at isn’t worth anything?”
“You’re far too hard on yourself. You need a different perspective, you know? Someone objective, who doesn’t—” He coughed suddenly. “—have any sort of emotional investment in you?”
She pulled her hand out of his grasp. The moment, if one had ever existed outside his imagination, was over.
“Look, feed those pages to the shredder or use them to line the bottom of your birdcage or set them on fire. I’ll do better. I’ll work on it some more this week and I’ll do better.” She got up, then looked back at him and managed a smile. “Thanks for listening to me whine. It was pretty great of you, considering the words we had at lunch the other day.”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “About that—”
“Forget it. We both said awful things.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “True, but one of the two of us was significantly more awful.”
She scowled. “Let’s not talk about it, all right?”
“You brought it up.”
“And now I’m dropping it. I’m sorry I’ve wasted so much of your time. I’ll let you get back to work.” She moved toward the door.
Tony jumped up. “Wait a—”
But she was gone. He sat back down, dispirited. He hadn’t ever seen her so down, not even when she was signing the books she hated. Obviously, writing literary novels meant a great deal to her. She had been devastated to find out she couldn’t do it.
What to do, what to do?
He fished out his cell.
“Thank you for calling Dial-A-Shrink. If you’re depressed, press one. If you’re hearing voices in your head, press two. If you’re—”
He impatiently hit a number and waited, drumming his fingers on the desk blotter.
“If you know your psychiatrist’s extension, please—”
He again cut off the voice, stabbing in four numbers.
“This is Dr. Waban. How may I help you?”
Dr. Waban’s tone was deep and soothing, a voice right out of central casting for Compassionate Therapist.
He was unmoved. “I want Carol!”
“Dr. Simms is on the other line, sir. May I help you? What would you like to talk about? Work? Family? Sexual dysfunction? I’m here to help.”
“Stay out of my head, you quack! I want Carol! Tell her to call the bastion of insecurity when she gets a moment.”
He hung up without waiting for an answer and then headed for the window to watch Marie walk away. But it was too late. He couldn’t see her anywhere.