Haunted Heart

I would wholeheartedly like to thank Paul Richmond, Associate Art Director of Dreamspinner Press, for answering my questions about art in the publishing world during the writing of this story. Thank you kindly for all your help, Paul.

“W
HO
ON
earth made this?” Duncan Kerr asked, staring at the book cover on the screen of his work laptop, infatuated. It was only a mock-up, but the rendering was already breathtaking.

The picture was a book cover made by a freelance artist. Fireflies danced in an orange cloud, like sparks in the night, set against the background of the whole universe expanding outward. The broken castle tower in the forefront, with a branch of a tree and grass below, framed half of the picture, the details rich and strong. The image was dreamlike, the edges blurred to form a vision beyond time and space—and Duncan loved it.

His assistant, Maggie, stepped next to his chair, peered over his shoulder, and said, “That’s from Ruben Winterbottom.”

Duncan grimaced as he looked up at her with disbelief. “Really?” Was that even a real name? Good God, what a misfortune for a boy.

She shrugged, neither amused nor weirded out. “It says so in the information packet he sent me.”

“Okay.” Duncan studied the picture carefully with a trained eye.

As the director of the art department of a midsized romance publisher, he had an eye for what was good, what was bad, and what could be good with a little work. This piece of art, however, required no finishing touches. If the author and the publisher approved it, this was ready to go.

Since the current house artists were already overloaded with work, Duncan had decided to scour the country for promising new artists who might become part of the fold permanently, temporarily, or as specialized contractors. So he had put out a submission call for new cover artists and given them a few short, upcoming book blurbs to see how the applicants fared with a deadline and a limited amount of information about the subject.

This artist had figured out how to depict the adventure story that expanded from medieval times to the stars, giving the image a luster, a spark of imagination that entranced the viewer with its lively colors and picturesque view. A bloody sword on the grass stood in stark contrast to the peaceful heavens above, while the leaves on the branch grounded the viewer with the familiar icons of nature.

“Has he submitted anything to us before?” Duncan asked, beyond curious. Raw talent, in his experience, had to be cultivated before it bloomed. The strokes of this artist required little or none of that. There was no hesitation in his work. He was eager to offer this young man a contract.

Maggie shook her head, her black curls swinging slightly. “My records say no. He’s new.” Then she looked at him with a wicked grin. “And he’s local. So to speak.”

That further sparked Duncan’s interest. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”

Maggie chuckled. “You don’t know everyone in Seattle, darling.”

Duncan pursed his lips. He hated her calling him that. Yet he never admonished her for it because she was invaluable to him and a friend. “What does his info packet say?”

“Sorry, darling, he didn’t give vital measurements,” she quipped, looking all guileless.

Duncan sighed. “Just give it to me straight, Maggie. No games.”

“Oh, and here I thought you preferred men,” she purred, feigning innocence.

“Maggie….” Duncan was
this
close to throwing her out of his office, packing it in, and going home to work.

“Oh, all right, all right. You’re no fun today.” She pouted and huffed.

“Do I need to remind you who’s the boss here?” Duncan gave her a knowing look, but he couldn’t manage to keep the smile off his face. Then they were both laughing.

“Okay, boss man.” Maggie rifled through the papers in her hand for the right folder. “Winterbottom, Ruben. Twenty-two, schooled at—”

“That young?” Duncan stared at the picture again, getting lost in the depths, frowning. “He’s got a gift for someone so young.”

“Talent isn’t age-dependent,” Maggie wisely reminded him before continuing. “After all, we’ve worked with teenage artists too.”

That was true. Younger artists usually worked under pseudonyms so that if they one day chose a different career where erotic art might hinder their success, their real names wouldn’t be attached to anything that might be considered smut or porn. Teenagers could work freelance if and when they paid their taxes, same as legal adults.

“Winter—” Maggie started, but Duncan impatiently waved her silent.

“Let’s call him Ruben, shall we? That name….” He shuddered, all the while knowing he shouldn’t be behaving so childishly.

Maggie shrugged, dispassionate about such details. For her, one name was as good as any other. She was remarkably democratic about some things. “Fine. Ruben attended the Art Institute of Seattle for one year, then dropped out in—”

“Why the hell would he?” Duncan cut in, angry. Glowering, he stared at the beautiful picture and couldn’t for the life of him fathom why the young man had discontinued his studies at such a good art school. “He’s so talented.”

“It doesn’t say why here,” Maggie said, still oozing her placating calm.

“Where’s he been since then? Another school?”

“Apparently not. A freelance, it would seem.” Maggie was good at reading between the lines. “He’s probably sold some pictures at street fairs and such and the odd piece through online sites now and then. That’s how a lot of artists work these days. Nonconformists.”

Duncan snorted. Not all artists were like that. In fact, many were multitalented, conversant with several different media. Some had even learned to market their skills to corporations as media consultants rather than traditional artists. Duncan didn’t think they were sellouts. They were simply good at playing by the rules of the capitalist world.

Then again, with Ruben, perhaps street art was a possibility. “No blips on the radar, then?”

“I’ll look into it. If he’s had pictures out since he left school, I’ll find them.” Maggie had a finger on the pulse of the art world, that was certain. Her girlfriend, Nadia, owned a large prestigious art gallery—where Maggie’s boyfriend, Elliot, coincidentally also worked. They had the most curious, yet functional, relationship Duncan had ever seen, but he’d learned long ago to mind his own business. What other people did in their bedroom was of no concern to him.

“You do that.” He stared at the beautiful book cover on the screen. “I want him, Maggie. I want this Ruben to work for us.”

Maggie grinned. “I’ll get right on that.” As she pivoted gracefully and hurried out of the room, she called out like an admonishing mother, “Do not forget to eat your lunch, boss man. You won’t like what I’m going to do to your coffee for the next week if you do forget.” Then she closed the door and gave Duncan his privacy.

Duncan shuddered. Even with his fertile imagination, he couldn’t picture the full variety of methods Maggie could use to punish him. She treated him like a child sometimes. But since he could get so wrapped up in work that he forgot to eat, drink, shave, redress, shower, and even sleep, he took her warnings very seriously.

Studying every inch of the painting before him, Duncan threaded a hand through his hair and murmured, “Who are you, Ruben? Can’t wait to meet you in person.”

“N
O
.” T
HAT
was Ruben’s first—and final—response to the e-mail he’d received. In fact, it was the only response.

He’d read the message twice to make sure he got the gist of it. His mock-up book cover had been accepted by Enamored Press, a respectable, midsize publishing house of GLBT erotic romance.
Yay!
The director of their art department, one Duncan Kerr, wanted to meet Ruben face to face.
Not so yay
….

Sighing, Ruben twirled his finger anxiously over the mouse button, knowing he could never send a full affirmative back. Instead, he had written a polite counteroffer, accepting the contract—
if
he didn’t have to meet anyone in person. He’d tried to phrase it so he wouldn’t look like a total lonely loon, à la the Unabomber, but he doubted he’d been entirely successful.

He glanced around his study, free of clutter, with nothing but one wall-size bookcase, a desk, and a chair in it. Yet the walls were closing in, inching toward him when he took his eyes off them. Panic flooded his system like a drug, and his breathing hitched and came out in short gasps.

Curling up into a ball in his huge office chair, his knees up to his chest as he hugged himself under his warm, woolly cloak, Ruben fought for calm. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine.” After he had repeated the words a dozen times, his heartbeat slowed. Still, the cold sweat clung to his skin, leaving him a heaving mess.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he fumbled for the mouse and hit the button. When he opened his eyes again, he saw he had sent the e-mail.

His gut sinking to the floor with despair, he expected the answer from the publisher to be the same as always. They would want to know who they were working with, and all Ruben had to offer was galleries where he’d never been shown, art schools he’d dropped out of, and long lists of excuses for the above. For him, they were valid reasons. For other people, they were reasons not to work with him.

Tears stung his eyes, the burn familiar by now.

“It’s all right. You knew this would happen. Nothing new under the sun. Just another setback. Get back to work and submit somewhere else. Freelance. That’s freedom, right? Freedom of choice. Not having any bosses, no deadlines, no expectations to meet. Yeah, this is good. This is for the best. I wanted this. I do want this.”

Ruben went through the routine of convincing himself this wasn’t another failure but the outcome he was used to and really wanted. He wasn’t entirely successful at that either.

“God, I need ice cream.”

He got up and was heading for the study door when a ping indicated a new e-mail.

Worrying his lower lip until he tasted blood, Ruben fought his instincts. It would be bad news. That could wait until his belly was filled with cold milk and licorice flavor, right? Did he even have any licorice ice cream left? He’d finished the pear-flavored last night.

As he went over the grocery list in his head, he moved toward his desk without realizing it. Heavily, he sat back down in front of the laptop and clicked open the new e-mail from the art department of Enamored Press. The e-mail read:

Dear Mr. Winterbottom,

If you are unable for any reason to come and meet with the art department at our offices, I would be happy to personally meet you at a place of your choosing. At your home, perhaps? We could make it over dinner, less formal. I can bring the wine or any drink you’d prefer.

Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do. I know I speak for myself and the entire Enamored Press staff when I say we would love to have you join our team of talented artists.

Sincerely yours,

Duncan Kerr, Art Director

Enamored Press
.

Now Ruben felt like a heel for turning this publisher down for a meet and greet. But he couldn’t face them. He just couldn’t.

He understood that respectable employers hardly wanted to work with someone they knew nothing about. At twenty-two, Ruben didn’t even have a résumé to give them, unless a blank paper sufficed. He lived alone in an inherited house with the Olympic National Park behind him to the south some miles up and the Strait of Juan de Fuca before him to the north, less than a mile away. He barely had any money to his name, just the house his grandmother had left him that was free and clear of debt. Apart from his late grandmother’s trust fund, which took care of his delivered groceries and whatever art supplies he needed—at least until the money ran out—he had no other means of subsistence. Ruben lived from hand to mouth, and he had no prospects. Only his talent.

And now when it looked like it might actually be worth something, here he was, alone and cowering inside the four walls that closed in on him.

Taking a few deep, calming breaths, he thought about meeting this man, Duncan, in his house.

The panic swarmed his awareness like attacking bees. “No. No. I can’t. Not here.”

His hands were shaking, and his heart thundered as he reevaluated the idea. Maybe they could have a cup of coffee on the porch. It went all around the house. It was large enough to entertain a casual guest, wasn’t it?

“I can do that. Yeah, I think, maybe, I can do that,” he told himself, as if in speaking them out loud, the words were spoken by someone else with more confidence and greater inner strength, someone who could command him to obey so that if something went wrong—like him running screaming into the hills—it wouldn’t be his fault.

Stretching his hands to stop them quivering, Ruben wrote back.