Monday evening, Manhattan
A light dusting of snow had covered the sidewalks as Taylor Robinson pushed open the heavy wooden front door of Joan Delaney’s brownstone. Moments earlier, she’d glanced up from the manuscript she was reading and saw the time: six-fifteen. She yelped, bolted out of her chair, threw on her overcoat and wool hat and grabbed her briefcase, then raced down the stairs. She had fifteen minutes to make it all the way across town and up the West Side, a task that on a snowy February evening in Manhattan was a practical impossibility.
She glanced to her left, then right, desperately hoping to spot an available cab. The street was lined with cars moving along at walking speed, but the only cabs she saw had darkened roof-mounted medallion lights. She began walking west the two long blocks to Third Avenue, hoping that by getting to a cross street, she’d have twice the chance of catching a taxi.
The winter gusts seemed to rip through the Manhattan canyons faster and more powerfully than ever as they gathered strength on their way to the East River and Queens.
Taylor pulled her coat tightly around her and bent into the wind, forcing herself to move as quickly as she could while still maintaining her balance on the slick streets.
New York was gray in the seemingly endless wintertime.
Even then Taylor loved the city, its gloomy days melting into early darkness and frigid evenings. She found the cold invigorating, the nights romantic, even though it had been months since she’d had the chance to share a romantic evening with anyone.
Taylor loved the city; what she hated was being late. She’d been reading a manuscript from the slush pile that actually might have some promise. Maybe, she thought, Michael will understand.
About fifty feet from the intersection and just ahead of her, a yellow Checker Cab pulled off to the right in front of the Hawthorne Building, its door opening and discharging an older woman in an ancient fur coat carrying two large Bloomingdale’s bags. Taylor put her fingers to her mouth and whistled, hard, just the way her brother had taught her when they were kids. The shrill, piercing noise easily caught the driver’s attention. Seconds later, Taylor slid into the rear seat, pulled her briefcase in behind her, and slammed the door. The driver turned, scowling at her through the dingy bulletproof Plexiglas panel.
“Sorry,” she said, “didn’t mean to slam it.”
The driver’s wrinkled face softened a bit. “Where to?”
“Broadway and Seventy-eighth,” Taylor answered.
The driver shifted, turning to face the front of the car and grabbing the wheel. “Care which way we go?” he asked.
“Whatever’s fastest. Your call.”
“Gotcha,” the driver said, slapping the handle on the meter and jerking the car forward as the light at Second changed.
Twenty-five minutes later, the driver turned onto Broadway a half block from the restaurant. “There,” Taylor instructed, pointing out the right front corner of the cab. She checked the meter and quickly figured a generous tip that could be left without having to wait for change, and pulled two bills out of her wallet.
The driver pushed the slide tray into the passenger com-partment. “Thanks,” Taylor announced loudly as she stuffed the bills into the plastic bin and reached for the door handle.
“Pleasure was all mine,” the cabbie said, his voice a mixture of stress and sarcasm.
Taylor stepped gingerly out onto the slick street and was careful not to slam the door again. She made her way between two parked cars over to the sidewalk and up the front steps of La Caridad, the neighborhood restaurant Michael had requested for dinner. The front of the restaurant was, as usual, packed with locals waiting for a table. She scanned the crowd, looked past it, and spotted Michael at a window table near the middle of the restaurant. She slid past a group of chattering college-age kids and wove her way through the crowd. He glanced up from the menu just as she approached the table.
“Sorry to be late,” she huffed, realizing that the dash up the sidewalk had left her short of breath.
“No problem,” he said, rising halfway up out of his chair as she pulled her coat off, folded it onto the chair next to her, then sat down. She pushed her briefcase under the seat with her right foot.
“Been here long?”
He shook his head. “About fifteen minutes is all,” he answered. “But I just now got a table. I was late, too. This being rush hour, I took the subway. Even it was moving slow today.”
“Believe it or not,” Taylor said, unfolding a menu, “I got here in about twenty-five minutes.”
“From your office?” Michael asked, surprised, as he held up his hand and motioned for the waitress.
The cuisine at La Caridad was Cuban-Chinese-Hispanic, a curious combination of flavors that Taylor could not recall having seen anywhere outside Manhattan. She had eaten here a couple of times before and found it to be cheap and scrumptious, a combination that was getting harder and harder to find in the city.
The waitress approached. “Maybe we’d better go ahead and order,” Taylor suggested. “We’ve only got about an hour.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“No, you,” Taylor said, reading the menu as the waitress fidgeted.
“Okay, I’ll have the lemon pork chops,” Michael said, closing the menu. “Skip the salad. Oh, and a glass of Chardonnay.”
“I’ve had a hard day,” Taylor said. “I want the shrimp pa-ella and a Cuervo Gold margarita.”
Michael smiled as the waitress scribbled their orders and turned to walk away. Then his smile faded as he turned back to her.
“Taylor …” he said. He looked down at the table, his eyes flicking back and forth nervously.
“Yes.” Taylor felt a knot beginning to form in her stomach.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Taylor studied his face for a moment. “Okay.”
Michael crossed his arms and leaned forward, his elbows on the table, then looked up at her. “About the other night,”
he said. “I feel really bad about that.”
Taylor stared at him a moment, confused. “What?”
“The girl,” he said. “The blond.”
Taylor sighed. It was her turn to look away. “Yes, the blond,” she said.
“I don’t usually behave like that,” Michael said, his voice low. “It’s not something I make a habit of.”
“Michael, you don’t have to explain-”
“This isn’t an explanation,” he said. “It’s an apology. I’m not making any excuses. I behaved badly, and in the home of someone I happen to respect very much. Someone I owe a lot to.”
“Look, we’re both adults,” Taylor said, looking up at him.
“And our relationship is a professional one.”
“It’s more than that,” he snapped. “It’s more than that to me. You saved my life, Taylor. I was sinking fast and you rescued me.”
Taylor felt her skin flush. “C’mon, Michael. You’re a talented guy. You were going to make it no matter what.”
“Bull. Lots of talented writers never get anywhere. You know that as well as I do. Talent’s about fifth on the list of things you need to have to make it in this business. Number one on the list is the right person to work with. The right person and the right place and the right time. You gave me that and I’m grateful to you. More than grateful …”
Okay, Taylor thought, give it up. Go ahead. Permission to blush granted.
“You’re blushing,” Michael said, grinning.
She held up her hands, palms out. “I know. I know.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “That’s all I wanted you to know.
And it won’t happen again.”
“Consider it forgotten,” Taylor said as the waitress brought their drinks.
“I think it’s just the pressure of the last few months,” Michael said. He took a long sip of the wine and closed his eyes. “Being on the road,” he continued. “Always moving, then working seven days a week when I’m not on the road.”
Taylor felt the Cuervo Gold warm her stomach as she set her glass back down. “I thought you said no excuses.”
He smiled. “Touche.”
Taylor smiled back and then unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. “Excuse me,” she said.
“You are tired. So why the hard day?”
Taylor leaned back in her chair, pulled her hat off, and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it loose and back over her shoulders. “I swear, prosperity’s going to be the death of me yet.”
“We should have those kinds of problems,” he said.
“I’m serious,” she shot back. “I need a vacation.”
Michael stared thoughtfully at her. “Maybe you’ll get one soon.”
She sighed, shook her head. “Not any time soon.” Then she leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Well?”
she asked.
“Well what?”
“Don’t you want to see them?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You mean you’ve got them here?”
“Why not? There’s no time like the present.”
“If I’d known I was going to sign an eight-million-dollar contract over dinner, I’d have taken us someplace nicer.”
Michael’s large blue eyes were clear, shiny and bright like those of a boy on Christmas morning. Taylor felt suddenly warm again, flushed all over.
“Want to see?” she asked. He nodded.
She reached down and pulled her briefcase into her lap, extracted a sheaf of papers, and handed them across the table to him.
“There are three sets there,” she said. “An original for you, one for my files, and one for their contracts department.”
Michael Schiftmann looked down at the bundle of paper in his hand, the stack of contracts that virtually guaranteed him everything he’d always desired: wealth, fame, the freedom to do what he wanted both creatively and personally.
For a few moments, he stared at them silently with a blank look on his face.
“I still can’t believe it,” he murmured.
Taylor leaned across the table and laid her right hand over his left. “Believe it,” she said. “It’s quite real.”
Then she sat up straight and pulled a small rectangular box out of her purse. The box was tied with a red ribbon. She handed it across the table to him.
“A little congratulatory gift,” she said. “I thought it might come in handy right about now.”
Stunned, Michael took the box, slowly untied the ribbon, then opened it. Inside lay a brand new Montblanc fountain pen.
“My God,” he said. “You remembered.”
“That first day in my office,” she said. “The day we met.
You said someday you wanted to be the kind of writer that signed books and contracts with a very expensive fountain pen. Well, buster, now you’ve got one. Let’s see what you can do with it.”
He grinned. “Has it got any ink-”
“It’s locked and loaded,” Taylor said. “Go for it.”
Michael pulled the cap off the pen. He folded back the sheets of the contract until he came to the last page, where a blank line awaited his signature. With a flourish, he signed his name to first one contract, then the second, and finally the third.
He lifted up his wineglass and clinked her offered margarita.
“You know,” he said. “I think we’re going to like being rich.”
Taylor smiled and took a long sip of the drink.
We? she thought.
Taylor stood in the back of the packed store and found herself suppressing the urge to shout. She’d done a quick, down-and-dirty head count of the crowd at the Barnes amp; Noble superstore at Eighty-second and Broadway and figured that Michael had to have drawn upward of two hundred and fifty people to his signing. And this, she thought, on a Monday night in February when it’s nasty as hell outside.
It was all she could do to keep from squealing. Not only were the numbers good, but Michael was as relaxed and as charming and as appealing as she had ever seen him at a book signing. He had bantered playfully with the audience and then, after reading one of the darker, more violent pas-sages from The Fifth Letter, had made a wonderfully self-deprecating offhand comment that broke the silence and got them all laughing when the reading was over.
As Taylor stood in the back of the crowd, leaning against a bookshelf with her coat folded over her arm, Michael was wrapping up a question-and-answer session that had now gone on for more than twenty minutes.
“Yes,” Michael said from the podium, pointing to a raised hand in the third row. The questioner stood up, a young woman in tight jeans, black turtleneck, long blond hair pulled behind her.
“How far along are you in the next book and when will we see it?”
Michael smiled. “I’ve just completed the manuscript for The Sixth Letter and I’m about halfway through the rewrite.
And I’ve started the research for number seven.”
The young blond’s hand shot up again. “How do you do research for these books?” she demanded. “How do you bring so much realism to them?”
“Well,” Michael said, leaning forward on the podium,
“the research, for me, is the fun part. I’ve read stacks of books on the psychopathology of serial killers, case histories, interviews with both the killers and the relatively few victims who survive these kinds of attacks.”
A chorus of murmurs erupted throughout the crowd.
“Okay,” Michael said, reacting to the crowd noise, “maybe
‘fun’ isn’t the right word. Some of this stuff is pretty grim.
But I find that it’s necessary to really get inside Chaney’s head. After all, this guy kills people, sometimes for fun, but always for what, to him, is a good reason.”
The young girl sat down as the bookstore manager stepped to the podium and announced that the line for signed copies should form to his left. Taylor looked down at her watch; between the introduction, Michael’s talk, and the questions, they’d been there nearly an hour. She eyed the crowd of eager buyers lining up for autographs and realized they’d be there at least another hour, maybe longer. She sighed wearily and turned around, searching for a comfortable chair, when she spotted Brett Silverman across the room.
Brett turned, caught Taylor’s eye, smiled a thin smile, and nodded. The two women began walking toward each other and met in the center of the large second-floor gallery where the signing had taken place.
“Well,” Taylor said, “so much for the reports that he’s drawing small crowds.”
Brett Silverman was dressed in a dark green business suit with a camel hair overcoat draped across her shoulders. Her eyes were tired, bloodshot, and Taylor guessed the hard-working editor had been in her office up until the signing.
“It’s amazing what adding the words ‘ New York Times Best-Selling Author’ will do for a crowd. I must admit,”
Brett confessed, “he had ‘em wrapped around his little finger tonight.”
The two women turned at the sound of laughter across the room. At the signing table, Michael had just said something to a middle-aged woman carrying a sack of books to be signed that had caused her to break out cackling. Several other patrons were laughing and smiling as well, and the broad grin on Michael’s face was an indication of just how good a time he was having.
“You know, I think he’s learning how to do this,” Taylor said. “I was worried. In his own way, he’s quite shy, you know.”
“He does seem to be in a good mood,” Brett offered.
Taylor reached into her briefcase and pulled out the stack of signed contracts. “Maybe it’s the things he’s been signing lately besides books. Here, consider these hand-delivered.”
Brett took the contracts from Taylor. “I guess this would put just about anybody in a good mood.”
“Don’t worry,” Taylor said. “He’s worth every penny and you know it.”
“I heard him say he’s finished the first draft of six. Have you talked to him about it?”
Taylor closed her briefcase. “He’d have it turned in already if you guys hadn’t added another twelve cities to the tour,”
she said teasingly.
“Yeah, well,” Brett said, “that was upper management.
Personally, I’d rather have him home writing.”
“He will be, and soon.”
Brett yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’m beat,” she said.
“It’s been about a fourteen-hour day for me. I was going to stop and chat with him for a while, but I think his legions of adoring fans would lynch me if I broke in line.”
“I’ll tell him you said hi,” Taylor said. “Go on, grab a cab home. Have a glass of wine on me.”
“Hah,” Brett said wearily, turning toward the staircase. “A hot bath and bedtime is all I want.”
“The glamorous life of an editor,” Taylor called.
“Hah!” Brett said again, for emphasis.
It was quarter past ten by the time Taylor and Michael stepped out onto the icy sidewalk on Broadway near Eighty-second. The snow had shifted gears and was now a slow, grainy drizzle. Michael stepped out into the street and raised his hand with an index finger pointed up. Almost instantly, a cab appeared and braked to a stop next to him.
“Your karma’s incredible tonight,” Taylor said as she ran out from under a canopy over the sidewalk. Michael held the door open for her. “You don’t even have to wait for cabs.”
Michael slid in next to her and shut the door. “When you’re hot, you’re hot …”
The cab driver-a turbaned Sikh with a ponderous black beard-turned to them. “V’ere to?”
“Let’s stop for a drink somewhere,” Michael said.
Taylor looked at him. “You have to be at Rockefeller Center in roughly”-she looked at her watch-”seven hours.
Remember, that little Today show gig?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Michael said, mock-begging. “There’s no way I can get to sleep now anyway. I’m too pumped. Let’s stop, please?”
Taylor shook her head from side to side. “What am I going to do with you? All right, we’ll stop at N’s,” she said. “It’s just around the corner from my place. One drink and then it’s bedtime, okay?”
“Yes, mommie dearest,” Michael answered.
Taylor raised her voice to be heard through the Plexiglas shield. “Crosby Street, down in SoHo, between Grande and Broome.”
The driver turned, shrugged.
“Jeez,” Taylor whispered, then raised her voice again.
“Just stay on Broadway-” She pointed out the windshield.
“Down Broadway just before Canal? Okay?”
“Okay,” the driver said, smiling and nodding.
The cab jerked out into traffic and began speeding down Broadway as Taylor settled back for the long ride. The trip down Broadway from the Upper West Side to SoHo was a long one by Manhattan standards.
“Brett was there,” Taylor said. “She left when you started signing.”
“That’s too bad,” Michael answered. “We could have asked her to join us.”
“Not a chance. She was exhausted. Even looked tired, which is not like her.”
“She’s got a lot going on,” Michael said absentmindedly as he stared out the window. Then he turned back to Taylor.
“Did you give her the contracts?”
“Yes,” Taylor said softly. “It’s a done deal.”
Michael smiled at her. “Well, it’s not a completely done deal until they countersign and we see a check.”
“I know,” Taylor agreed. “But there’s nothing in the way.
It’s going to happen. I expect the paper back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Great,” Michael said. So subtle as to be almost imperceptible, he relaxed his body and moved closer to Taylor as the driver slowly negotiated the Broadway traffic tie-up north of Lincoln Center. His left shoulder brushed against her right as he turned to her.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” he said. “It’s been a tough few years. I appreciate you hanging in with me.”
Taylor met his gaze. “I’ve enjoyed it,” she said. “We’ve had a good run at it.”
“We make a good team,” he said, then, looking down at his lap, he seemed to hesitate for a second before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about making some changes.”
“What kinds of changes?”
The cabbie swerved to avoid a collision with a car that had cut in front of him, swearing loudly and rapidly in a language Taylor didn’t recognize. The motion caused her to slide across the seat even farther, pressing against Michael hard. He laid his hand on her arm and made no effort to move or ease the pressure.
“I’ve lost touch with so many friends over the years,” he said. “I’ve just been so buried in work. I don’t know that many people in Cleveland anymore. And I need a change.
I’m thinking about moving here, to the city.”
Taylor felt the slightest tension high in her chest, nearly in her throat. The sensation surprised her.
“Well,” she said cautiously. “That would be nice, Michael.”
“I seem to know more people in publishing than anything else these days,” he went on. “And I know the city. I love being here. I’ve always thought that if I could afford it, I’d love to live here.”
She smiled. “And now you can afford it.”
Michael smiled back at her and squeezed her arm. “Yeah,”
he said. “Thanks to you, I can afford it.”
Michael moved his hand down her arm and touched her hand. “Your hands are cold,” he said, his voice low, soft.
“It’s cold tonight,” Taylor said. He took her hand in both of his. His hands were warm, strong. Almost without realizing it, she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder.
An hour later, Taylor finished off her third and last brandy of the night as Michael stood up and held her coat open for her.
They had stopped off at N’s, a warm, cozy bar that was hip and trendy and yet had somehow managed to remain reasonably civilized, which was no small feat in the never-ending struggle for domination in the Manhattan bar scene. It was narrow and dark, with rich leather couches and candles and soft music playing from speakers discreetly hidden in the corners. They sat and talked and held hands and sipped brandy until they relaxed and fatigue caught up with them.
As Taylor stood up, holding her arm out for her coat, she swayed a bit.
“You okay?” Michael asked, smiling.
“Just tired,” she answered. Then, as her arm went through the sleeve and she spun to put the other in: “Okay, so I’m a little tipsy.”
“Good thing we don’t have too far to go,” Michael said.
He took three twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table, then picked up Taylor’s briefcase.
“I can take that,” she said.
“Let me. I’m glad to.” He took her arm and led her toward the door. Taylor looked back over her shoulder at the table they’d just left.
“Kind of a big tip, isn’t it?”
Michael smiled. “I’m feeling generous tonight. Besides, we can afford it.”
He pushed the door open and they walked out onto the sidewalk. The sleet had stopped and the cloud cover had passed on, leaving a clear, dark sky above them. The streets were as deserted as Manhattan streets ever get as they turned north toward Grande Street, then walked the two blocks past Broadway to Taylor’s loft. She fumbled for the keys, then got the front door open. She and Michael took the stairs up to her front door. Taylor yawned as she unlocked the three locks and let them in.
Michael went in behind her, crossed the large main room, and set her briefcase down on a glass table in front of the sofa.
“Can I get you anything?” Taylor asked, relocking the front door.
“I’m fine,” he answered, turning to face her in the middle of the room. Taylor tossed her hat and coat on the sofa.
“It’s late,” she said, suppressing another yawn. “Aren’t you sleepy?”
“I guess I’m too …” Michael hesitated. “Too excited, I guess. Maybe too happy, for once.”
Taylor walked over to him. “That’s sweet, Michael.”
“I owe it all to you.”
“I’m just-” Taylor stopped for a moment, looking into his face. Something she saw there made her abdomen tense up, as if in anticipation of something, but she didn’t know what.
Michael brought his arms up and took hold of her arms through her tan silk blouse just below her shoulders. Then he pulled her toward him and kissed her, softly at first, their lips barely brushing, then harder. And he let go of her and wrapped his arms around her whole body, pulling her tightly into him.
Taylor stiffened at first, but as her lips met his and the two began to melt together, she pulled him to her as well, bringing her arms up around him, holding him tightly. Perhaps it was a strange and unpredictable mixture of fatigue, brandy, closeness, and her own loneliness that had caught up with her. Despite herself, her own misgivings and fears, she gave in to an impulse that was sweeter and more powerful than she ever expected it would be.
And when Michael Schiftmann turned, took her hand in his, and began walking toward the black metal spiral staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, she followed him.
Taylor Robinson’s head pounded and her ears hurt as she spiraled up out of some dream she was even then losing.
There was a blaring in her head as well; she couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Her neck hurt and her mouth felt like it was full of dried grass. She moaned and rolled over in the darkness just as the thin line of light under her bathroom door exploded.
“Damn it!” a voice said, as she struggled to remember where she was. “I thought I turned that off!”
Taylor moaned again and started to sit up, but felt the bunched, tangled sheets dragging across her bare skin and stopped. She felt her torso, pulled the sheets tight, and realized she was nude.
A dark form enshrouded in yellow light from the bathroom behind it leaned down next to her and switched the alarm clock off.
“I am so sorry,” the voice said. Taylor squinted and realized it was Michael.
“Wha-” she croaked, startled to find him in her bedroom. What’s he doing here?
“I thought I turned it off,” he said. He leaned down, smoothed her tangled hair back across her head, then softly kissed her on the cheek.
“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-fifteen.”
“In the morning? ” she squeaked. “That’s the crack of dawn.”
Michael laughed. “No, my dear, to be more accurate, it’s actually the butt crack of dawn. And the limo’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Remember, that little Today show gig?”
Taylor groaned again and tried to roll over. “I better get dressed,” she said, still not quite sure where she was.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Besides, the limo’s taking me directly to Newark after the taping. I’ve got a flight out to Boston, then Minneapolis, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “Boston, Minneapolis. You sure it’s okay if I don’t go?”
“Of course,” Michael whispered. He rubbed her back, running his hands lightly down the sheet, to her hips, and then squeezing her beneath the sheets.
Taylor began to wake up, and with wakefulness came the memory of the previous evening, which had ended only about three hours earlier. She felt herself reddening again.
Damn, she thought, this man can make you blush.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “But I’ll call you tonight.”
She smiled. “I’ll be here. Trying to recover …”
“It’ll be an early evening for me, too.” With his index finger under her chin, he pulled her face toward him and then kissed her, full and long. His mouth tasted fresh, clean, and she was briefly embarrassed that she hadn’t had the chance to brush her teeth.
He stood up. “Bye, you.”
“Bye, Michael. Be careful.”
She drifted there a few moments as he turned off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Then she heard footsteps on the metal staircase and the front door opening, then closing again as he left.
Taylor fought off sleep long enough to get up, put on her robe, and walk downstairs to the front door to lock the dead-bolts. Then she walked into her kitchen and thirstily drank half a small carton of orange juice. When she got back upstairs to bed, she flicked on the table lamp next to her bed.
The sheets were tangled, bunched, the bottom sheet pulled completely off the mattress.
“It was a good fight, Ma,” she whispered. “But I think I won.”
And as she crawled back into bed, reset the alarm clock, and turned off the lamp, she lay there in the dark a few moments staring at the ceiling.
“Good heavens,” she muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”