All That Lies Within (2 page)

“Absolutely. They loved the last book so much they want to lock Constance Darrow into another three-book deal.”

“And they gave us what we wanted on the e-book royalties?”

Carolyn nodded, pleased to see the child-like glee in Dara’s expression. “The film rights too.”

“Why?”

“Why?” The question caught Carolyn off-guard.

“Every other writer is fighting tooth and nail to get a publisher to give them a fair piece of the electronic market, and we don’t even have to break a sweat?” Dara scanned the contract again. “So yeah, why are they giving us this without so much as an argument?”

Carolyn laughed. “Do the words ‘Pulitzer Prize for Fiction’ mean anything to you?”

“Well, yes, they mean something to me. The question is, do they mean that much to the money men who carped about poor book sales?”

“Having Constance Darrow in their stable of writers gives the publisher credibility. It gives them gravitas. They don’t care if she makes money for them.”

Dara shook her head. “No. They always care about the bottom line.”

“True. But in this case, they assume Constance Darrow’s presence draws in other authors they want to land.”

“So, they figure giving Constance movie rights and e-books won’t amount to much; therefore, they aren’t risking much financially and they keep her happy?”

“Pretty much.” Carolyn slid the papers out of Dara’s hands. “It’s a really good deal.”

“What about the personal appearance clause? Are they still insistent that they need to meet the author face-to-face and that she needs to do interviews? Or have they given up on that?”

“I reminded them that the mystery surrounding Constance builds her image as an enigmatic recluse, and it enhances the buzz. The fact that no one has ever photographed or seen her, that she refuses to do interviews or social media of any kind, that she works through a representative and not even her publisher has met or spoken directly to her, that she didn’t even accept the prized Pulitzer in person… All that makes her even more inscrutable and appealing.”

Dara pursed her lips. “They bought that?”

“Read the contract. It’s written right in there. No public appearances required, no social media—nothing.”

“Okay. Sign it.”

“Yeah?”

Dara smiled that million-dollar smile. “Yeah. Why not? Besides, Constance is halfway through the next manuscript.”

“I can’t wait to read it.”

Professor of American Literature Rebecca Minton distractedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned the page of the hardcover sitting open on her cluttered desk. Gradually, she became aware of someone standing in the doorway. She smiled and looked up, assuming it was one of her students stopping by, even though posted office hours wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes. When she realized that it wasn’t a student at all but her ex-girlfriend, her smile became a pained frown.

 “What do you want, Cynthia? And why couldn’t you have asked for it over the phone like a normal person?”

“Because, dearest, you don’t take my calls anymore. Remember?” Cynthia sashayed the rest of the way into the office and looked Rebecca up and down as she wiggled into one of the visitor chairs.

“You needn’t have bothered to sit down. You’re not going to be here that long.”

“Tsk, tsk. To think, you so used to look forward to my impromptu office visits. Some of the hottest sex we ever had took place right here, on this desk.” Cynthia trailed her fingers across the glossy wood surface.

Despite her best efforts, Rebecca felt a blush creeping up her neck. She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “What do you want? Or did you just come here to reminisce? Because if you came here to relive old times, any happy memories I might have had of us went out the window when I found you in bed with our landscaper. What a cliché.”

Cynthia threw her head back and laughed. She ran her fingers through her luxurious hair, a move Rebecca knew well.

“There was a time when that would’ve worked. That time is long past.”

Without warning, Cynthia leaned forward and snatched the still-open book off the desk. This time the laugh was more of a cackle. “Well, dearest, perhaps if you had paid more attention to me and less attention to your obsession with Constance Darrow, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere for…entertainment.”

Rebecca reached out and grabbed the book back. Through clenched teeth she managed, “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

Cynthia sat back and crossed her long legs, revealing quite a bit of skin. “I want the rest of my things.”

“You already got everything that belonged to you. Now get out.”

“Not true, dearest. How about those lovely three-carat diamond earrings you bought me last Christmas?”

“You’re the one who left them behind. I believe you said, and I quote, ‘Keep them. I’m sure I can get plenty more where those came from.’”

Cynthia waved her hand dismissively. “I was just hurt, that’s all.”

Rebecca narrowed her eyes, the pieces finally clicking into place. “You’re broke.”

Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was a squeak.

“You want the earrings so you can sell them for cash. What’s the matter, did the flavor-of-the-month kick you out?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that so? Try this on for size. Get out of my office now, before I have security throw you out.” When Cynthia didn’t move immediately, Rebecca picked up the phone.

“All right, all right. I’m going. Besides, I have a date.”

As Cynthia sauntered out the door, Rebecca muttered, “Heaven help the next victim.”

Dara sank into her favorite chair. Fleetingly, she wished she was spending the night at the beach house instead of here, but this was so much closer to the studio and her call for the morning was so early, the commute was impractical. She laid her head back and closed her eyes, letting the soothing jazz music from the sound system ease the stress from her tight muscles.

The day’s filming ran over by four hours, the director was cranky because the fading daylight forced him to alter shots he had planned, and the subsequent adjustments required Dara and her co-stars to improvise dialogue, a fact that made the screenwriters apoplectic.

Tomorrow’s schedule already was tight. Now Dara was waiting for the e-mail to arrive with the new script changes she would have to memorize before arriving on set at five a.m. She opened her eyes, yawned, and stretched her arms over her head, simultaneously rotating her upper torso to relieve the pressure in her upper back and neck. As she did so, she noticed the thick manila envelope her housekeeper had left for her on the coffee table. She smiled at the sight of Carolyn’s neat, precise handwriting.

Once a week, Carolyn forwarded some of Constance Darrow’s carefully screened fan mail to Dara. Every once in a while, when time allowed, Dara/Constance would type out a reply and send it to Carolyn so that it would go out postmarked from New York.

Dara hefted the envelope in her hands and slit open the seal to peer inside. Carolyn’s usual handwritten note was on top of the pile.

My dearest Constance ,

I’m sorry that this week’s pile is so thick. I culled out the dreck as best I could, knowing how busy your schedule is at the moment and wanting to spare you extra work.

There is one letter in here I think you’ll find of special interest. It’s from a professor of American literature. She’s apparently quite a fan. At any rate, her points seem highly intelligent and cogent. Her name is Rebecca Minton and her letter is first in the pile.

Have fun, darling. Talk soon. C.

Dara noted the embossed seal of Middlebury College above the words, “Department of English and American Literatures” and raised an eyebrow. Middlebury was an excellent liberal arts college, famous for the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the oldest writers’ conference in America, and for the Bread Loaf School of English. The same School of English that had turned down an application from a very young and eager, up-and-coming writer named Dara Thomas. That was years ago, before she adopted the nom de plume Constance Darrow, and long before she went to Hollywood.

“I’ll try not to hold a grudge.”

Just as Dara opened the envelope, her computer chimed announcing the arrival of the new pages. She sighed. Rebecca Minton would have to wait. Dara Thomas, movie star, had lines to learn. 

Rebecca’s hands trembled as she turned the letter over and over. She hadn’t dared hope that she’d hear back from Constance Darrow…and within several weeks too. She ran her fingers over the return address, which was ridiculous, she knew, since it wasn’t even hand-written and it was only a post office box in New York.

“Oh, for goodness sake. Just open it and stop being a school girl.”

Rebecca reached for the letter opener and made a neat slit along the top of the envelope. The paper was standard-issue letterhead, with the name Constance Darrow and the same address from the outside of the envelope centered at the top.

As she scanned the contents, she realized with a jolt that there was more than one page. Constance Darrow, Pulitzer Prize-winning author, had taken the time to write Rebecca a multi-page letter.

Ms. Minton,

Thank you for taking the time to write. I’m so pleased that you’ve chosen to key in on the complexity of the metaphor of weather for the condition of the human soul. I agree with you that this is critical to understanding the motivations of the protagonists throughout the novel.

However, I take issue with your assessment of Harold. I am intrigued that you characterized his relationship with God as one of disappointment. You are correct that he is a middle-aged man struggling to find and follow his path. The loss of his wife has left him questioning things he, heretofore, took for granted.

But, compelling as your thoughts on the subject are, I disagree with your conclusion. To my mind, Harold has not stopped believing in God. He’s simply trying to reconcile what he knows of God and Heaven with his own personal experience, which seem to him to be at odds. I’m interested to hear your response to this interpretation…

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. Was Constance Darrow inviting her to continue their dialogue? She reread the passage. It certainly appeared that way. Rebecca squealed and held the letter to her chest. She wondered how long was appropriate to wait before replying. As she’d never replied to an author before, she was unaware of the protocol. Was there one?

“Rebecca, you’re not some fan girl. You’re a grown woman, a tenured professor of American literature. Act like it.” Still, she couldn’t help but wonder about the woman whose prose she so admired. She told herself it was because she was teaching some of Constance’s works this semester, though she knew the interest went far deeper than that.

Rebecca had googled Constance, researched her copyrights with the Library of Congress, written to her publisher, her agent, and anyone else she could find who seemed remotely connected to the mysterious Ms. Darrow, explaining that she needed the information for the course she was teaching. And she’d come up completely empty. No one would tell her anything about Constance, and not a single picture of her existed anywhere that Rebecca could find. Apart from a bibliography of her work, a brief biography, and a vague description of a difficult and lonely childhood, Constance Darrow was as amorphous as a cloud.