“How is Tom Jeffries, by the way?” he asked, changing the subject.
Kris glanced from one to the other, aware that somewhere in this conversation was a topic he chose not to discuss.
“Tom is quite well, thank you,” Anne replied.
“You should know that he asked for my approval, last time I was home,” he commented.
Anne was startled. “Approval? For what?”
He leaned across the desk. “For whatever is going on between the two of you.”
“I don't believe I need your approval,” she replied.
His expression shifted.
“Tom does.”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “He's a good man. Don't be hard on him. Say yes, the next time he asks.”
“You'll be careful?” Anne said.
He flashed her a smile as he left the office.
“Always.”
“Damn,” she swore softly when he'd gone.
Anne had made reservations at the River House. It was cozy, intimate, with tables that looked out on the River Ness. Kris had come there once before with Cate and her London publishers.
“You must know that Cate was very fond of you,” Anne said as their orders were taken.
“Not in so many words, of course, that wasn’t her way. It was in the other things she did say,” Anne went on to explain. “About how you fought for her first book when the publisher wanted her to write her memoirs—he thought it would be more marketable, more sales; how you went to the distributors and convinced them to increase their orders because you were certain it was going to be a bestseller; and how you convinced her that she needed to go with a certain cover design that set the tone for the other books that followed. It's probably the only time that I heard her admit that she was wrong about something.” That smile again.
“She was a bit put-off about that. But she admitted that you were right, and admired the fact that you stood up to her.”
Kris smiled to herself. That was putting it mildly. Cate had threatened to pull her book from Ellison Publishing and take it someplace else where she didn't have to argue over every point.
The point Kris finally made was that it was Cate's job to write the book, it was her job to get it published.
“I think a better description would be pissed off,” Kris admitted, taking a sip of wine, remembering the arguments.
“You were right though,” Anne replied. “And she trusted you because of it.” She was thoughtful. “She would trust you now to see it through with this last book.”
See it through. Her brother Mark had said that once, before he went back the last time.
“The others are still over there,” he had told her. “I have to see it through. I owe it to them.”
“How do you do it?” Kris asked, trying to figure out how to say something that was so deeply personal.
“How do you deal with the possibility that he might not...?” She hesitated and decided against asking it.
“That he might not come back?” Anne suggested, taking up the question.
She said nothing for several moments, her expression thoughtful. Then, she set her glass of wine down and folded her hands before her on the linen tablecloth.
“It's not the wounds, although that gave me quite a turn when they brought him back this last time, to see your child like that.” Another expression then, not quite a smile.
“Except that he's not a child.” Anne looked over at her. “You didn't notice? I'm not surprised. He doesn't let on, you see. It's not his way, never has been. I suppose it has to do with the way he was raised, stoic Scottish attitude, carry on, and all that.
