It was fascinating to see my book stretched out over several episodes, each one like a mini novel in itself. I resolved to read a few books on screenplay writing or take a class, so that I might be able to adapt future projects myself.
I stayed in close contact with my friends and made every effort to be social. I told them all what I was planning, and they told me, each in their own way, I was mad to even consider it. I dismissed their concerns wholly because for the first time, I felt I finally had all the facts.
When at last, I wrote those exhilarating two words,The End, on my manuscript, I waited less than a day to fire it off to Bitzy with the expectation that we’d meet for lunch after her first pass. She wasted no time in reading it, and a couple of days later, we were seated together on a sidewalk café enjoying one of the last temperate fall afternoons before the winter chill descended.
“It’s marvelous,” she said. “Your best work ever, but you probably knew that already.”
“Never hurts to hear it,” I said.
“Your father’s going to say we can’t sell it,” she said and before I could reply, “but I’m going to convince him he’s wrong.”
“I’m not changing it,” I said stoutly. “My readers managed well enough when it was a heterosexual relationship. They can manage a homosexual one or find another author.”
“We could potentially be looking at LGBT imprints or an indie house.”
“I have no allegiance to Black Rook. They were the right publisher forCold Lake Chronicles,but they may not be the right fit for this one.”
“It’s just so damn good,” Bitzy said with a dazed smile on her face. “You think Arden will mind?”
There were striking similarities between my main characters and Arden and myself, but they were by no means carbon copies.
“Hazards of dating a writer. Besides, I changed the names.”
She laughed. “Then you’ve done your due diligence, haven’t you? Well, Michael, I’ll make you a deal. I will tell you, in excruciating detail, how your father reacts to your story, if you’ll do the same for me after Arden reads it.”
I shook her outstretched hand because I’d be seeing Arden soon enough, and I was feeling optimistic.
“And, Bitz, we can always consider self-publishing. We can work out some arrangement outside of the agency where you still get your 15 percent.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. I have a few editors in mind who might be interested.”
We ended our lunch with a promise to keep in touch during the coming weeks via email. I visited Carousel that night with Franco, Liam, and their lovers. We drank and reminisced and professed our undying love and mutual respect for one another. They said they would miss me profoundly and wished me luck.
The next morning, I boarded a plane for Florida.
December in New Yorkbrought near freezing temperatures, but Florida’s Gulf Coast was trapped in a perpetual summer. That was my first impression as I exited the Tampa airport to a balmy 75 degrees. Sweat droplets sprouted almost immediately all over my face and neck, and I feared what an actual summer in the southern reaches might portend. How warm were the tropics without air conditioning?
I’d told Arden earlier that week that I was wrapping up some business in New York and would be visiting soon, but I didn’t give him an exact date because I wanted to surprise him. Was I being reckless? Absolutely. Did I give a damn? Absolutely not.
The car ride to the coast was fraught with peril. Partly it was my jitters and also the reckless driving of the locals. There were more people than I’d expected with swarms of cars honking in traffic, cutting one another off on the highway, and accelerating way too fast only to wind up stopped at another red light. I thought most Floridians were retirees. What the hell was their hurry?
There were bridges to cross and water, water everywhere—bays, rivers, and stormwater ponds. The feat of engineering it must have taken to build a metropolis right at sea-level was astounding. Not so different from New York City, in fact. Boats float, at least.
When at last I’d arrived at the address Arden had provided, it was late afternoon. The house was a wooden clapboard on stilts and could have been constructed entirely of driftwood judging by its worn finish. I was tempted to bypass the house and go straight to the dock out back, but I didn’t want to be rude or have the police called on me for breaking and entering.
I knocked a few times on the front door and was greeted by a woman in her sixties with a cat draped lazily over one arm and a lit cigarette in her other hand. Aunt Janice, I presumed.
“Who are you?” she asked, not unkindly. She had platinum blonde hair and a very deep tan, the kind that came from baking in the sun regularly.
“I’m Michael D’Agostino, a friend of Arden’s.” I would have offered my hand but both of hers were occupied.
“A friend, you say?” She took a puff of her cigarette. Her hot pink lipstick bled into the wrinkles around her mouth. I wondered just how much she knew of Arden and my relationship.
“Actually, ma’am, I’m his boyfriend.”
“Now, don’t go getting fancy on me,” she warned. “Arden’s not here, but you can come inside and get out of the heat. Have a drink with me, and we’ll get to know each other better.”
Sounded innocent enough. I stepped inside the house. Her decor was an interesting mix of nautical kitsch, which included an astounding number of pelicans.
