Keep Dancing (13 page)

I laughed. “Nice to meet you. This building’s so much fancier than what I’m used to. My old office had only eight stories, and the carpet was circa 1960.”

“You won’t think it’s so slick when there’s a power outage.” Cathy rolled her eyes. “That happened twice last year, and we had to walk down fourteen flights. Want to grab some lunch?”

“That would be great!” I was happy to have an invitation on my very first day. Cathy took me to a shoebox of a sushi place, and over California rolls we found that we had mutual acquaintances. We also compared notes on the literary agents we dealt with, and by the time we got back to the building, I felt that I’d made a new friend.

As we waited with a large group of people in the lobby, Perry Stroud came forward and pushed the elevator button. The door opened and I started to get on, but Cathy grabbed my arm. “Perry doesn’t like anyone to ride up with him,” she said under her breath. Sure enough, everyone who’d been waiting at least ten minutes held back; the door closed, and Perry rode to the eighteenth floor alone.

We all crammed into the next car, at the last minute making room for a woman wearing pink bedroom slippers. “Thanks,” she gasped, edging in sideways, her hands bracing her beach-ball belly.

“How’s it going, Brenda?” a guy asked.

“Only two months left ’til my due date. I’m gaining five pounds a week, but at least I’ve finally gotten over the morning sickness. Or should I say, the 24-hour sickness.”

Everyone nodded politely as she got off on her floor.

“That’s Brenda from accounting. She’s had a rough time with this pregnancy,” Cathy commented.

“Why was she wearing slippers?” I asked as we exited the elevator.

“Water retention. Her feet have gone from a size seven to ten and a half.” Cathy stopped, listened, and then darted down the hall at the sound of her phone. “Stop by later!” she called over her shoulder.

The phone was ringing when I got home. I almost tripped over Muddy in my rush to answer it. “Jack?” said a woman’s voice.

“He’s not here. Can I take a message?” I asked, but the line went dead. Ten minutes later it rang again, and this time I was pleased to hear his half-sister on the line. Usually Sharon called Jack in the afternoon, given the time difference.

“You’re up late, aren’t you?” I asked. It was seven here, so it must be midnight in England.

Sharon sighed. “I couldn’t get Oliver to bed. He keeps going on about the balloons in New York. Where did you get them?”

She sounded deeply exhausted. “Sammy bought them at the zoo; they were regular helium balloons. Did he tell you Jack filled them with water and they dropped them out the window?” I knelt, letting Muddy bump against me.

“Oh yes, he’s all about wanting to do that. I keep telling him it’s a different effect from two floors up, versus twelve. Did you ever catch all the mantises?”

“I think we got most of them. They’re really fast; it could have happened to anyone.”

“That’s nice of you to say. Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep. Tell Jack I’ll call him later this week. I hope we’ll see you again soon, Julia.”

“I’d really like that.” I hung up and got Muddy’s leash. “Come on, puppy. Let’s go for a walk.”

After we finished our takeout, I remembered to tell Jack about Sharon’s call.

“I’ll ring her tomorrow. But I promised Oliver I’d write to him.” He put a piece of notepaper on an album cover and scrawled his message in capital letters. At the bottom, he drew a picture of a scruffy guy holding a guitar, and I added a P.S. about our puppy. “You really should try writing to your father,” Jack said, licking the thin blue airmail envelope. “Does Dot have an address for him?”

The thought made my stomach clench. “She said she has no idea where he is.”

“You know, my own Dad died three years ago, and I always regretted not getting to know him better. He didn’t think much of my being a musician; thought I should get a
real
job. Even when I started making scads of money, he didn’t really approve.” Jack patted the couch, and Muddy jumped up onto his lap. “And he definitely didn’t approve of the lifestyle. So we had our differences. But now I really regret not spending more time with him.” Jack looked at me, his depthless dark eyes reflecting the low lamplight. “It might be good for you to track down your father; get to know him as an adult. Isn’t it time you heard his side of the story?”

My mind was churning. I didn’t want to stir up all the hurt, which I had thought I’d managed to tamp down. I had only made my peace with my mother last November, after years of blaming her for the divorce and all the bad things that followed. When Dot revealed that she hadn’t had an affair with her boss—that my father had just been irrationally jealous—suddenly the man I’d put on a pedestal all my life fell to earth with a loud crash. Did I want to get involved again with someone who’d falsely accused his wife, and then abandoned his only child?

“I have an idea.” Jack broke into my reverie. “Why don’t I have Mary Jo hire a private detective to find him?”

“I wouldn’t want to bother her with that. It’s way outside her job description.” And to be honest, I didn’t want his manager poking around in my personal life. She and I had reached an uneasy truce since I’d moved in with Jack, but I’d never forgotten the look she gave me backstage at a concert last summer. It was one of deadly envy, as in:
I would feed you a poisoned apple if I could just get my hands on one.

Jack frowned. “Her job is anything I ask her to do. I’m curious about the guy myself; it sounds like he had good taste in music.”

I had told Jack some of my memories of my father: sitting with Dad on the front porch of our old house, listening to 45s on the record player he’d given me. Being swooped up in his arms and dancing whenever a great Motown song came on the radio. My favorite night of the week—Saturdays, when Dot was moonlighting as a cocktail waitress—when Dad would put me on a stool in my pajamas and wash my hair. I’d always felt closer to him than to my impatient and less cuddly mother, which made it even harder to believe it when he left me behind.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But what if we find him, and he doesn’t want to see me?”

Jack gave my thigh a squeeze. “Let’s burn that bridge when we get to it. C’mon, Muddy,” he said to the snoozing dog in his lap. “Let’s go to bed. I’m zonked.”

“Should we put him in the crate, like the shelter said?” I asked.

“Nah, let’s let him sleep with us. I always had a dog in my bed growing up.”

Every Day I Write the Book

“When I was editor of the Harvard newspaper, I always went with my gut,” Ted said. I’d gotten used to his habit of working his Ivy League education into almost every conversation. “So if you’re excited about this little book, go ahead and make a modest offer. Somewhere in the ten-thousand range. We have a hole in the upcoming list; we can rush it out and plug it in there.”

I stared at Ted; at my former company, a “modest offer” was a couple grand. I’d felt a tingly premonition when reading the self-help manuscript, which was only a hundred pages long, and aptly titled
Little Things Can Be Big.

“And be sure to get world rights. Our new rights director is champing at the bit for things to sell at Frankfurt this fall,” he added, referring to the big book fair in Germany.

“Okay, I’ll try.” Thrilled to be making my first offer since I’d arrived at Hawtey, I got on the phone with the agent. Fifteen minutes later I was the proud owner of a guide to appreciating the smaller things in life, which often led to larger opportunities. The agent told me to go ahead and call the author, so I had a nice chat with the friendly insurance salesman from Omaha who’d written the whole thing on his days off.

I stopped by to tell Cathy my news. “Congrats! You’re off and running,” she said. “Take a look at this.” She handed me a xeroxed form with Perry Stroud’s name at the top.

“Perry’s expense account?” I asked, wondering why she had it.

“His assistant asked me how to code it for accounting. Look at item number four.”

I gazed down the list; lunch with this agent, that agent…
Boy, he spends a lot on meals.
Number four seemed to be a dry cleaning bill. “He puts his shirts on his expense account?”

“And see what he put for the ‘Purpose’ column?
To look good
.” She laughed.

“Huh. I guess that’s one of the perks of being publisher,” I said. “Along with riding up in an empty elevator.”

Cathy nodded. “That isn’t the half of it.”

I was returning from my own agent lunch when a tall, well-dressed man jumped into the elevator at the last minute. “What floor?” I asked, since I was closest to the buttons.

“Fourteen. The same as you.” The man seemed to look me over. He was very handsome in a polished way; dark wavy hair, piercing blue eyes, open jacket with a crisp light blue shirt, Italian loafers. His tanned face seemed familiar. Suddenly I realized that it had been staring down at me from a huge poster in our lobby. Dermot Chase was one of Hawtey’s biggest authors; that rarity who wrote highly acclaimed literary fiction, yet also managed to sell by the bucket-load. His last novel had spent four months high up on the bestseller list.

“I don’t recognize you from my last visit,” he said, extending his hand. I shook it quickly, feeling nervous.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Julia Nash, the new editor. We’re all big fans of your work here,” I said, edging around the fact that I hadn’t read any of his recent books. I had only made it through one of his novels years ago, and thought it was kind of pretentious.

“My previous editor has left for greener pastures,” Dermot said. “It’s good that Hawtey’s getting some fresh talent. It doesn’t do to get stale.”

He held the door for me as we went into the lobby. “Good luck with your next book,” I said in parting.

He smiled. “I expect I will get lucky.”

I’d spent half an hour returning calls when my line buzzed. “Can you come in for a sec?” Ted asked.

“Sure.” I grabbed a form that I needed him to sign and rushed down the hall. I was surprised to see our big author sitting in his office.

“Dermot tells me you met in the elevator, but I wanted to introduce you formally,” Ted said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Julia is the bright new star in our galaxy.”

I flushed at his overstatement. “Nice to see you again.”

“Dermot wants you to work with him on his next novel,” Ted said.

“Oh, that would be great!” Incredibly flattered, I wondered what Ted told him about me. He’d probably mentioned that I was Freeman Fyfe’s editor at my former house.

“Perfect,” Dermot said, standing up. “I’m running off to do an interview for
The New Yorker
, but call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time to get together. I like to dig in and revise from the ground up.” Dermot waved Ted off when he started to escort him, saying he knew his way out.

“I’m so excited,” I said to my boss. “Thank you.”

Ted frowned. “I’ll have to finesse it with Erica. Initially she was assigned to him. She’s already met with him several times.”

I was confused. “Then why switch?”

Ted looked a little embarrassed. “Dermot was pretty insistent about working with you. I don’t think there’s any way around it now.” He sighed. “Erica’s going to have a conniption.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble.” I dreaded starting off on the wrong foot with this woman, who seemed super-confident and aggressive in ways I couldn’t even imagine. I’d hate to make an enemy in my very first month. And if Dermot wanted me to be his editor based on a chance meeting in an elevator—well, that was weird. But maybe his agent had heard I was a whiz with a red pencil.

“I’ll fix it with Erica,” Ted said. “You should set up a meeting with Dermot as soon as possible. He requires a lot of hand-holding, and we paid a king’s ransom for this new novel. It’s slated for next spring, and of course it’s late. So you’re going to have a very full plate for the next few months.”

I licked my dry lips. “I’ll do my best.”

The apartment was quiet when I got in. I opened a beer to have with the slice of pizza I’d picked up on the way home, assuming correctly that Jack wouldn’t be there. I poured some kibble into Muddy’s bowl and grabbed the phone on the third ring.

“Still swotting away at those manuscripts?” came a distinctive British voice. Suzanne and I had bonded last fall during my ups and downs with Jack, and I counted her as a real friend. Jack was great buddies with her husband, Mark.

“As always. How are you?” I asked. “Are you getting any painting done?” Suzanne was struggling to be an artist, along with the full-time job of managing and coddling her wayward spouse—who definitely walked to the beat of his own drum.

“The artwork has taken a backseat to getting Mark ready for the tour. Has Jack had his concert wardrobe dry-cleaned yet?”

I was surprised at the question. “I don’t know. Doesn’t Mary Jo handle that kind of thing?”

“She may have assumed you’re doing it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it happens. Listen Julia, I wanted to talk to you. Is there any way you can come for longer than one week? It really gets crazy on tour; it would be good for Jack to have you there from the start. And you could help me keep the guys sorted.” She paused, and I heard the flick of her lighter. “Plus you and I would have a great time together,” she continued. “Mary Jo doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, y’know? And I’m so sick of Patrick’s ditzy tarts. He picks one up at every stop. Or two or three.”

“I wish I could. I know it would be fantastic, but I can’t get more time off.” I took a sip of beer and scratched Muddy’s head.

“That’s what Jack said, but he seemed kind of ticked off about it. I thought I’d give you a heads-up, woman to woman. There are packs of girls with sharp claws, eyeing the guys like a piece of meat. I’ll try to keep tabs on Jack, but it won’t be easy.” She took a puff of her cigarette. “I can’t tell you what that scene is like; you have to live through one to believe it. Women bribe security and turn up naked in their dressing rooms with suitcases full of drugs—you name it.”