Cheating at Solitaire (6 page)

Her response jolted Julia. "No, dear, that's why I'm calling. Harvey's in the hospital."

Hospital?

"He went to get the paper this morning and had a heart attack at the newsstand."

Shock forced Julia against the wall. She leaned against the glass doors, not caring about the mitten print she was leaving on the pristine glass. "Francesca"—she stumbled for words— "I'm so sorry. Is he . . . "
How do you ask a woman this about her husband?
Julia wondered. "Is he . .

."

"He's resting. The doctors say that's what he needs after surgery. No visitors," she added quickly. "By the way, dear, congratulations."

"Oh, Francesca—"

"It's a lovely picture. Harvey was clutching a copy when . . . the paramedics saved it for him."

When this is over,
Julia thought,
I'm going to need a very good shrink.

Back on the street, Julia began a list of reasons she shouldn't walk in front of a bus. Harvey wasn't a young man. In a city full of walkers and joggers and yoga-ers, she'd seen him break a sweat while heading to the bathroom. It was ridiculous to think that
she
had caused his heat attack. Then she rounded a corner and passed a newsstand, and her own heart nearly stopped beating.

Her cell phone rang, and she opened it quickly, anxious for news.

"Hi." It was a voice she recognized immediately.
Surely he wasn't calling her. Surely no one in
their right mind had given Lance Collins her private number.
"Hello?" he said. "I was calling for Julia—"

"There is no way you are calling me."

"We need to talk."

She snapped the phone shut.

On the street in front of the Ritz, there were no reporters in sight, but Julia sensed them lurking like zits under the surface of her skin. She quickened her step almost to a jog, then she slowed instinctively. The last thing she needed was a picture of her running in pumps on the front page of the next day's papers, the headline:
JULIA JAMES RUNS TO LOVE
! or
DON'T HURRY LOVE
! or
STOP IN

THE NAME OF LOVE
! The potential plays on words were endless. She wasn't about to give any pun-happy junior editor an easy gem to print in eighteen-point font.

She made it inside and to the elevator, and pushed the button.
Button lights up; this is good,
Julia thought.
Elevator doors open, good. Turn left. Fumble with key. Not good—who created
these cheap little plastic card things? Red light. What does the red light mean?
She tried the card again. Another red light.

A door behind her opened and closed. A voice cried out, "Oh, my goodness!"

A fan,
Julia thought.
Of all the times and all the places . . .

She plunged the card into its electronic lock once more.

"I heard the news and I . . ." The woman behind her struggled for words. "It's just. . . you've always meant so much to me and . . ."

Red light.

" . . . new hope. Such an inspiration. I mean, if
you
can find love, then
anyone
can."

Hey!
Julia forgot about the lock momentarily. I
think I'm offended,
she thought, suddenly feeling like the Quasimodo of the self-help section.

She knew she should begin a one-woman PR campaign in the hotel hallway, but at that moment, all she really wanted was to be on the other side of that door.

"I'm sorry, but. . . " she started, when, to her amazement, she felt the door handle turn, opening from the inside. Stunned, she turned and came face-to-face with Lance Collins.

Lance grabbed Julia's arm and pulled her into the room. "I'm sorry," he told the woman, who dropped her Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bags where she stood. "We need a little alone time.'

With the door closed behind them, Lance was squeezing Julia into the corner of the room. It reminded her of how her father would squeeze baby calves into the side of the corrals while he gave them shots.

"Get close," he'd told her. "Don't give them room to kick."
Lance Collins must be a farm boy,
Julia thought. She didn't have a spare inch to move, much less enough space to haul back and kick him with her sensible shoes. He had one hand pressed firmly over her mouth as he spoke in a low, even tone.

"I know you hate me," he said, bright eyes staring into hers. "But we need to talk. Talk now—

hate later. Okay?"

All she could do was look, wide-eyed, into his face and wait.

"Okay," he went on, "the hand is coming off now."

He slipped his hand away from her mouth, gently releasing the pressure until she was able to free her lips. She didn't scream. Instead, she bit—hard.
Let the man be the one to scream for
once,
she thought, gratified by the sound of his yelp.

"I can't believe you did that!" Lance moved away from her and studied the red semicircle that surrounded the knuckle on his pinkie.

"Why?" Julia pushed past him. "Because you know me so well?"

"Hey, look," he said, following her, jerking his hand as if to start the blood flowing again to his finger. "I've got this agent. You know, the jerk from the restaurant. And he saw you there and, well, I didn't know anything about it."

"Do you want money?" Julia asked in her snippiest tone. "Because I have money. I can give you money."

"No," he said, stepping forward.

Julia stepped back. "Contacts?" she guessed.

"I don't wear contacts."

"I mean I can
get you
contacts. To help your career."

"Oh! I don't want your contacts."

"So you just ruin people for the fun of it?" she snapped.

"I
assure you,
I
don't," Lance said.

"You're ready to clear things up then?" Julia asked. "Make a statement? Set the record straight?"

"That may not be the best thing for you," he answered.

"You know nothing about me or what's in my best interest!"

"I
know you make little check marks when you buy things off a list.
I
know you're crazy about your sister's kids. And that you take lemon in your iced tea."

"Well,
I
never . . . "

"And
I
know you've got the number-one and number-two books in the country today." He reached into his pocket and handed a piece of paper to her. "This was under your door."

Julia recognized the Eli-Winter logo at the top of the stationery. Dumbfounded, she scanned the numbers while Lance put ice on his swelling finger. The handwritten note was in Candon's writing.

Jules, I came by but you were out. Great news:
Solitaire
and
Table for One
are flying off the
shelves
—
#1 and
#2
The cookbook's way up, too. We've got to talk about what it means. There
might be more room to spin it to our advantage. Dinner? I'll see i f Collins and his people can
come, too. Lots to talk about. Congratulations. CJ.

It can't be,
she thought.
It just can't be.
"Are you okay?" Julia heard Lance's voice. It was close and full of compassion.

"Get out!" she roared and pushed him toward the door, growing stronger and more forceful with every step. "Get out of my room. Get out of my life." She grabbed the door, threw it open, and gestured for Lance to leave.

"Julia, you've got to believe me—"

"You have two seconds to get out of my sight!"

Lance didn't budge, obviously thinking that her instructions didn't apply to him. "Julia, listen to me," he pleaded. "This isn't my fault."

"Oh? Whose fault is it?"

Behind her, the elevator doors opened, and Julia heard Candon laugh and another man say,

"It's honey." She turned to see the agent and editor coming down the corridor, smiling and laughing like old fraternity buddies.

"Now, this is a good-looking couple," Richard Stone exclaimed. "We can sell this!"

Julia glanced back at Lance in time to see a look of supreme shame cross his face. He sidestepped the two men and went to the elevator. When the doors opened, he stepped inside, and Richard Stone rushed in beside him. Julia was glad to see the doors slide closed.

"Sweetheart, you look wonderful!" Candon said.

"What's this?" She shoved the handwritten note in his face as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"Isn't that amazing?" Candon beamed.

"You want me to
lie
to my readers?"

Candon looked at her, confused. "I want to help your career."

"Candon, my career didn't need any help. My career was just fine. It was
my
career! Not yours.

Not his. Mine!" She poked him in the chest. "You're going to fix this, Candon. Do you hear me?"

"Why don't you talk to Harvey. . "

"Harvey had a heart attack, thanks to this!"

Shock flooded his face. "Really?"

"This charade has officially crossed the line!"

"Julia, with the money we're making, you can buy Harvey the best doctors in the business."

"Was that a joke?"

"Julia, we don't want to stop this," he said simply. "Do you have any idea how much more you're worth now?"

She stared at him. In that instant, Julia realized Candon Jeffries didn't believe in her message—

or in
her.
Candon believed she appealed to a demographic that had high disposable incomes and a lot of Friday nights to stay home and read. As long as there were lonely women, Candon Jeffries was going to try to sell them happiness in a bottle. Julia felt nauseous, realizing that for five years, her face had been on the label.

"I never want to see you again," she whispered.

"But Julia . . . "

Julia tried to retreat back into the safety of her hotel room, but the door was locked again. And she didn't even have the little plastic key. She turned and pushed past Candon, toward the elevators. When the doors parted she jumped in, and he followed. She jabbed the "L" button and watched as the lighted numbers descended while he quoted every valuable statistic in the publishing business. With every passing floor, he droned on. They'd had twenty talk-show requests, ten offers for couples books. Five new Julia James fan sites had popped up that day alone, each one proclaiming her a role model, an example, the new ideal.

Each one worshipping a lie. When the doors opened into the lobby, she wrapped her coat around herself, pulled on her mittens, and rushed for the doors and the street. She forgot about the stupid potential headlines and ran. Lights flashed.

Reporters yelled. "Julia, when's the big day?" "Julia, who's designing the dress?" "Julia, what's the next book going to be about?"

"Julia." This voice she knew. "I've got to talk to you."

"Lance!" a reporter cried. "Let's get a picture of you two together!"

Julia raised one hand above her head in an emphatic gesture. Irritation boiled over as she noticed her mitten-covered fingers and yelled, "I'm flipping you off!"

The mob thundered closer, and Julia was desperate for a cab, a quick escape.

Standing on Fifty-eighth Street, she could feel the cold wind through her wool coat as night began to fall on New York City. Then the flashes started, fast and bright. She couldn't see a thing. She swirled, lost inside the swarm of paparazzi, when a figure lurched between her and the predators. "Stop it!" Lance yelled. "Leave her alone."

Another flash came, closer, so bright that it made her eyes burn. An abandoned luggage cart sat on the sidewalk, and Julia took shelter behind it, but the photographers closed in, pinning her there with no escape. Desperate, she grabbed a makeup case from the luggage cart and swung it at the offending light. She heard a crash and a crunch like breaking glass. Feeling the rhythm, she swung again and again.

WAY #44: Be a role model in your community.

It's important to have a strong sense of community. Charitable activities can be an outlet, in
some cases even a cal ing, so i contact civic organizations and volunteer. Do something that
interests you and makes your community a better place. After al , it's important for everyone
to lead by example.

—from
101 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire St

" I am a good person," Julia said, half slurring her words, feeling them in her mouth like cotton candy, sticky and sweet I and evaporating by the second. "I go to church. I'm kind to children.

Then one day it rains, and I let a strange man share my cab. The next day, I'm a felon."

The clock on the wall above them ticked, its sound ominous through the hollow police station.

Beside her, Lance shifted.

"Hey! I wasn't the one throwing the Samsonite."

A tall man in a blue uniform came to stand before them then, his long shadow shielding Julia's face from the fluorescent glare of the lights above them. "Mr. and Mrs. Collins—" the officer began.

"That statement troubles me on so many levels," Julia said. "I am not married to this man. I am not engaged to this man. I cannot even stand the sight of this man."

The officer closed his file and said, "You sound married to me. Anyhow, seeing as this is more of a lovers' quarrel than a felony assault with a . . ." He consulted the file. " . . . piece of luggage, the injured parties aren't pressing charges. "We'll be with you in a bit to process the paperwork, and then you'll be free to leave." The officer walked away, and Julia glanced at the man beside her.

" Why
are you smiling?" she wanted to know.

"That guy . . . well, everyone really, they think that you and I are . . . well, I know it's not true, but I'm flattered that they would think it could be."

What's that supposed to mean?
Julia wondered-^She looked around for photographers or reporters, but everyone else in the room was busy with the troubles of their own lives—no one seemed to be paying attention to hers. No one except Lance.