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Patiently she asked, “If you didn’t want your book published, why did you submit the prologue to a book publisher?”
“Because I suffered a mental lapse,” he answered, imitating her precise enunciation. “I’ve since changed my mind.”
Maris took another tack. “Do you have a representative?”
“Representative?”
“An agent.”
“I’m not an actor.”
“Have you ever submitted material before?”
“Just send it back, okay?”
“Did you multiple-submit?”
“Send it to other publishers, you mean? No.”
“Why did you send it to me?”
“You know what, forget sending it back. Toss it in the nearest trash can, use it for kindling, or line your birdcage with it, I don’t care.”
Sensing he was about to hang up, she said quickly, “Just one more moment, please.”
“We’re on my nickel.”
“Before you decide against selling your book, a decision I think you’ll regret, I’d welcome the chance to give you my professional opinion of it. I promise to be brutally honest. If I don’t see any merit in it, I’ll tell you. Let me decide if it’s good or not. Please send me the entire manuscript.”
“You have it.”
“I have it?”
“Did I stutter?”
“You mean the prologue is all you’ve got?”
“It’s not all I’ve got. It’s all I’ve written. The rest of the story is in my head.”
“Oh.” That was disappointing. She had assumed that the remainder of the book was completed or nearly so. It hadn’t occurred to her that the manuscript consisted of only those first twelve pages. “I urge you to finish it. In
the meantime—”
“In the meantime, you’re running up my long-distance bill. If you don’t want to spend any money on return postage, then shred the damn thing. Good-bye. Oh, and don’t send any more deputy sheriffs to my door.”
Maris held the dead phone to her ear for several seconds before thoughtfully hanging up. The conversation had been almost surreal. She even thought that perhaps she had dreamed it.
But she wasn’t dreaming. She was wide awake. By Manhattan standards, it was practically the middle of the night—and her husband wasn’t in bed with her. If the strange telephone call weren’t enough to wake her up, then Noah’s unexplained absence certainly was.
She was concerned enough to call the hospital emergency rooms. But when she’d last seen Noah, he’d been in the company of Nadia Schuller. Which made her angry enough to throw something against the wall.
In either case, her night had ended and she was up for good. Throwing off the covers, she got out of bed and was reaching for her robe when Noah strolled into the bedroom, politely covering a wide yawn with his fist. He was still dressed in his tuxedo trousers and shirt, although he had removed the studs and his shirttail was hanging out. His jacket was slung over his shoulder. He was carrying his shoes.
He said, “Did I hear the telephone ring?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Daniel? There’s nothing wrong, I hope.”
