“I’m not surprised,” Patricia drawls. She looks me up and down. “You’re looking well, Billy. Handsome as ever. Touring agrees with you.”
“Don’t tell him that,” says Jayne. “I need him to sit his handsome ass down in the chair and write.”
“I’m going, I can take a hint,” I say. “I just wanted to pop in and say hello.”
“It’s always good to see you,” says Patricia, and she’s turning back to her desk when I say, “By the way, I met one of your authors when I was in Boston withLambent Souls. Simone Vetiver?”
Patricia blinks. “Oh, Sam. Right. I always forget her real name is Simone.”
“She’s charming,” I say. “And your ears must have been burning. She thinks the world of you.”
“Mutual,” says Patricia. “She’s a gem.”
“That she is. I finally read her this past year and saw what all the fuss is about. Completely merited. Good job, you.”
“Well, it’s really her, you know,” says Patricia. “But thank you.”
I lower my voice. “I don’t want to be the bearer of unhappy news, but she did say something that concerned me a little. Gravely, actually.”
Patricia’s brows rise. “Oh?”
“Yes. When we had dinner, she confessed she was struggling with her latest book and said she was going to try her hand at a thriller instead. I’m sure you’re aware of this?”
“We discussed it recently, yes.”
“Yes. Well. You understand why I was concerned for her. It’s usually a bad bet for an author to switch genres. Unless”—I laugh and gesture to myself—“you’ve made a whole career of it.”
“You are one of a kind, it’s true,” says Patricia.
“I’m sure you discouraged her from trying it.”
Patricia sticks the stem of her glasses in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “The pivot isn’t for everyone. And Sam’s done well with her historicals. But sometimes, with a fresh idea, it can work.”
“Not in this case,” I say firmly. “I wouldstronglydiscourage her, Patricia. Between you and me, and you know I hate to tell tales, but Simone doesn’t have a strong grasp on this new genre. In fact, it’s sadly shaky. And, from what she read to me, I’m sorry to say it’s...” I pause for emphasis. “Appropriated.”
Patricia frowns. “Now that is a serious allegation. Appropriated from whom?”
“From me,” I say. I sigh. “Maybe it wasn’t intentional, it might have been the heat of the moment, but Simone airlifted a situation directly from my own life. One I told her about in confidence.”
“Is that true?” says Jayne from behind me. I’d forgotten she was there. “That’s a big deal, Billy.”
“Oh yes, it’s true,” I say. “Remember my little support group I run, the Darlings?” Both women nod. “And the genesis of it? That’s a lesser-known story... and it’s hard for me to talk about. Suffice it to say I founded the Darlings after the death of somebody I loved, and that is what Simone’s writing about. She’s”—I start to sayperverted—“she’s ‘borrowed’ it,” I say, making air quotes, “as the basis for her murder mystery. It’s so hurtful. It’s reopened a very painful wound.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Patricia says.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to have to tell you. But I’m sure you appreciate why this upsets me. I’d hate to have to bring legal into this. Especially since we’re all one big happy Hercules family.”
“Of course,” Patricia says. “I understand. Thanks for telling me. I’ll look into it.”
“You’ll talk to Simone?” I persist.
Patricia glances toward Jayne, and I feel something pass in the air between the two editors. I’m sure they’ll have words about this after I leave the office. For a moment, I almost feel bad about derailing their crowded pretravel schedule. “I’ll definitely talk to her,” Patricia says.
“Thank you, dear.” I bend toward her again. Air kiss, air kiss. “So good to see you.Gut Reise. Dominate those Germans. They’ve had it coming for years.”
I reverse my trajectory, sayingauf Wiedersehenand good luck to dear Jayne in the lobby, finger-tipping the receptionist, taking the elevator down into Gotham. I step through the revolving door into the busy afternoon: steam rising from the subway grates, smell of pretzels, pigeons cooing, the usual cacophony of conversation and cell phone chimes and horns and sirens. My publisher’s tower gleams at my back.
That visit was a smash success by anyone’s standards. I take out my phone, then realize there’s nobody to call. As always. The first time I came here, reeling out of the building with my satchel and the almost unbelievable news that I was going to be published, I wanted to call Pen. But I couldn’t. I went across the street to a deli instead and had a cheese omelet as big as a football that made me sick all afternoon. Now, though I yearn to text Simone, I can’t, for many obvious reasons. I could call Cyndi, flavor of the moment, but to tell a self-published novelist about this meeting would be boastful and cruel. I consider phoning back upstairs and asking the splay-legged receptionist whether she wants to play hooky for the afternoon.
