She knew they were going to be late. Why would today be any different? But it was. Today was the day.
“Mitchell…come on…get up!” she muttered aloud after entering his dark hotel room. “You have to be at your book reading in an hour.” There was no activity from the bed. “I thought you’d be up by now. It’s nearly eight o’clock.” Still no movement.
Finally, she heard a voice speak from beneath the covers, “Carol?” he groaned; it sounded more like an accusation than a question. She often wished she could have seen him in action back when he was a homicide cop. From all she’d heard about him he was …
“Carol?” he repeated.
“Yes, who else would it be?”
Carol Ann Litchard, Cal to her friends, thrust open the drapes. In one sweeping motion, the twenty-nine-year-old literary agent invoked brightness to the darkened room, allowing the early-morning summer sunlight to stream inside and chase away the shadows.
He pulled the sheets higher over his head to cover his eyes to keep out the start of the day.
She looked over at her client as his leg moved slightly, falling out from beneath the covers. “Come on my friend, time to get up,” she said shaking the bed in an effort to wake him.
No movement until a long groan greeted her. “Oh no… I need coffee,” he mumbled like a dead man, sounding more like the tough homicide cop he used to be.
“Here, have a sip of this” she volunteered, handing him her latte in a foam cup, “then take a shower and get dressed. Hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Fingers appeared from underneath the sheets, searching for the coffee cup.
She saw the long scar across the back of his hand, which extended up his arm. She guided the cup to his clutching fingers and watched it disappear under the sheets.
“Ugh God, Cal,” he said … “that’s just milk. There’s no coffee in that. Order me some real coffee will you?” he muttered in disgust.
“Hey, I’m your literary agent, not your servant, remember?” she said with a grunt to her star client.
She had met him three years earlier while working at the Gardner Agency when her boss, Gayle Gardner, was still alive. Carol had been working for Gayle since leaving college seven years earlier, then last year Gayle assigned her to work with him. His first book was good, got rave reviews, and it sold well. She had a great planning meeting with him in anticipation of his book being completed. He and the stories he wrote intrigued her; he put his heart and soul into his writing- but also had the true skills of a writer to back up his ideas.
Over a year ago, the three of them had dinner one night when he visited New York to talk about his latest book. The next evening just the two of them met again and had a great meal, a bottle of wine, and then another, followed by dessert and coffee. They talked for hours upon hours. She could listen to him talk forever. Her life had not been the same since. He drew her in closer and closer with his outlook on life and his writing. He was a complicated man. When Gayle died two months later in an auto accident and the agency disbanded, Carol opened her own shop and approached him about representing him. She was not hopeful since the other New York powerhouse literary agencies were also courting him. She had no job, no clients, no money and no prospects. She was surprised but grateful when he called and said yes. She needed him for her fledgling agency and so wanted to work closely with him. But it came with a price.
Carol had learned a lot over the years from Gayle, but now over the last few months she had broken her own number-one cardinal rule—never fall for a client. She knew he had met someone recently while in Florida, but she still felt drawn to him and his writing, compelled to read every word. She could not explain it, she wanted to know everything about him.
She heard the sheets rustle again.
“Please?” he murmured. His leg moved.
She could never say no to him; that was always part of the problem, and today they were running late.
“Okay Mitch, but you see, if you were up and ready, I could order your usual—two eggs over-easy, side of ham, and a toasted English muffin with some marmalade.”
Finally, picking up the room phone, she ordered a pot of coffee and a bagel for breakfast.
Still no further movement from underneath the sheets.
She repeated her wakeup call to him again; by now, it was something she was accustomed to doing. “Late night?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “I should have known. Come on, time to get up, time to pay the piper.”
The smell of spilt whiskey, burnt cigarettes, and stale cologne filled the air. She made her way to the nearby armchair and sat down while she finished perusing yet another manuscript given to her by someone in her apartment building. Everybody had a “friend” who just finished writing what they felt was the next great American novel. Most of it was crap. She sipped her lukewarm coffee. She saw two half-empty whiskey glasses on the floor next to a nearby ashtray filled with cigarettes. The rank smoky odor was disgusting as she shoved the ashtray away from her across the floor with a push from the toe of one of her high-heeled shoes.
She stretched out her long limbs, crossing her legs at her ankles causing her skirt to tighten across her thighs and rise slightly. Sometimes she would catch Mitch casting an admiring glance when she sat that way. Was it sexy? No…comfortable. She sat up in the chair and uncrossed her legs.
Forcing her way through yet another manuscript she complained to no one in particular, “I can’t believe the crap people write. I’ve heard other agents say they can tell a manuscript is crap just by reading the first page. Hell, I can tell by reading the opening sentence.” She tossed the blue-covered, three-inch thick manuscript into a nearby metal trashcan, making a resounding noise in the silent room. She looked over and watched his bed—still no movement.
They were going to be late, and she could not afford to anger anyone at this point in their book tour. Today was going to be a busy day. The last day of the tour. She was home, New York, the capital of the world.
Only one more day, Carol. Then he would return home to the beach … to her… and be out of my daily life. Remember Cal, he’s so much older and … he’s taken.
She looked up, “Mitch, come on… get up, you got a big day ahead of you,” she said as she removed The New York Times from the black linen bag she had taken off the doorknob to his room.
“Where are we?” came the question from underneath the sheets.
“New York.”
The downtown hotel room was large and expensive, but it was close to the mega-bookstore and near all the uptown publishing offices. She knew if he stayed here, he would not be late for his meetings that morning. Yeah, fat chance, she thought to herself.
Carol heard the sheets rustle and saw him stand; wearing only his blue boxer shorts, then watched him stagger towards the bathroom. She saw him run his fingers through his rumpled sandy grey and blonde hair while she admired his well-sculpted but slightly aged physique. He looked at least ten years younger than the age on his driver’s license. He closed the bathroom door, and she soon heard the sound of running water from the shower.
Empty liquor bottles from the mini-bar littered the floor. It must have been some night last night she thought to herself before returning to her newspaper. Then she thought to herself, Today was going to be a tough day…a very tough day.
When he reappeared, he had already shaved, combed his hair, and stood in front of her wearing only a smile with a white towel strategically wrapped around his waist. He looked good, real good.
“What’s on the schedule for today?” he asked toweling off his face before he turned and dropped the towel to get dressed. He began to pull his clothes from his suitcase lying on the luggage rack. She watched his every move before looking at her cell phone to view their calendar of events for their last day together.
“Well,” she stuttered, “we grab a quick bite to eat for breakfast when our room service is here, and then you do your book reading at the Megastore followed by a couple of hours of book signing, then you can schmooze with the manager for a while. They sell a lot of your books, so talking with him certainly can’t hurt book sales. Then off to mid-town to have lunch at Velliggios. After that, on to your next reading at Brighton’s, then another one at Reed’s Bookstore and then end up the day with a short press interview here back at the hotel, then drinks with Dan Eliot, Senior Editor of Windham Press. Then maybe dinner here, just you and me.”
“Yeah, tell me again, why are we meeting with Windham? We already have a publisher.”
“He’s responding to some inquiry, a manuscript, you sent him.” She gave him a look… her displeased look.
“Right… I forgot about that,” he said absentmindedly.
“Yeah… well, I had to clear it with Fosters and Riggs, our current publisher to make sure they didn’t have a problem with us meeting with them. Apparently, you had already talked with the top brass there. Remember Mitch, that’s my job, and hey, you’re lucky they said it was okay. You could have really screwed up some things, Mitch. You can’t be shopping manuscripts around, Mitch; we have a contract with Fosters & Riggs, and we could both get in a lot of trouble, expensive trouble. Understand?”
“Sorry, I understand.”
“Okay, just don’t do it again.” She could not get too angry with him. He had stood up for her when she needed him the most. He went to their publisher after Gayle died and said he wanted Carol’s new agency to represent him. They wanted to change the contract, eliminating movie royalties paid to Carol for any potential movie deal for the new book. He said no and had them give Carol the same contract they had with Gayle. That alone would make Carol in excess of $250,000 dollars in commission. She respected that kind of loyalty and she admired him for sticking up for her.
“Now, getting back to Windham, this is just an exploratory meeting with Dan Eliot who handles new book acquisitions. His boss, female, the CEO at Windham is named Kincaid, well, she liked the book you sent her, and wanted a meet. Besides, they’re one of the big ten in the publishing business. It can’t hurt to talk to them. He mentioned she might join us later, so I need you to keep your wits about you. Okay?”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Want a cigarette?” she asked.
“No,” he muttered.
She paused and asked quietly, “Do you need a drink?”
“No… no thanks…, I found out, it doesn’t help,” he said as he pulled on his socks then his shoes and looked at her with his trademark half smile.
The jagged scar on his hand had healed, but the scar to his heart had not. She saw it in his eyes and wanted to go to him, wrap her arms around him and hold him, do anything to help ease the pain. Cal, he’s taken.
He now stood before her in what had become his standard traveling uniform for the last six weeks: white t-shirt, khakis, sneakers, and a well-traveled navy blazer.
“What else?” he asked as he tucked in his shirt, pushing a wild strand of hair away from his face with his fingers.
She looked at him with a smile. As always, he cleaned up nice… real nice.
“Tomorrow, you have a flight back to Delray Beach, and you can go back to your little beach house in beautiful sunny Florida.
She stopped for minute before continuing. “But today will be a hectic day.”
He grunted. She was keeping him extra busy today, he thought to himself. Today of all days. He thought to himself, I’ve waited years for this day. Today it will be over—finally.
A knock on the door echoed throughout the room. She was up before it even registered with him and his dimmed senses. The bellhop set down the tray with a pot of coffee and a bagel with some cream cheese. She signed the receipt and sent him on his way.
“Black.” It was more of a statement then a request.
She gave him a dirty look.
“Please.”
He looked at her cutting the bagel in half as she began to eat.
“The other half is yours,” she told him, handing him the plate.
“A half of a bagel? Carol, I’m starvin’.”
“We’re having an early lunch at Velliggios, so this is just to hold you over until then.” Just what she needed, another Italian lunch, but it was Mitch’s favorite restaurant when they were in New York.
She saw his disappointment. “But on the bright side you got a great review in the Times today, which should help boost sales. She rustled through the paper. “Ah here it is …and I quote, Mitch Patterson continues his great story telling with his latest book, the hard-hitting story, The Search for Timothy Walker. The ex-cop documents the relentless months’ long nationwide manhunt for Timothy Walker, founder and leader of The Boston Brotherhood. It is a spellbinding tale, and his latest effort is already climbing the Times bestselling sales charts.”
“Damn good if you ask me. Right, Mitch?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “You know, I still remember what Raymond Chandler said about critics and publishers, something like—It’s wrong to be harsh with the New York critics, unless one admits in the same breath that it is a condition of their existence that they should write entertainingly about something which is rarely worth writing about at all.” He chuckled. “Where’s the damn coffee?” he muttered to himself changing the subject. He did not like discussing reviews. They were just somebody else’s opinion of his work. Mitch preferred to write the stories and leave everything else to Carol.
“Here you go.” She looked up at him, “Tell me about this new manuscript. I don’t know anything about it. When I checked in at my office and then returned a call to Dan Eliot at Windham, well he had called and mentioned an interest in a manuscript you sent him and his boss. Mitch, that’s my job, you know, to know everything going on with your career. Remember me, Carol Litchard? Principal Agent of Litchard and Associates, literary agents? The agency that represents you.” She saw his head droop.
“He also said the manuscript you sent didn’t even have your name on it. It had the name of somebody named Roger, Roger Winston? Don’t you think people can tell it’s your writing? Come on now?”
“It’s just something I wrote—short, something very different from what I usually write. One of my first books. I figured I’d just send it off to a few people in the business. Since it was unlike anything I’ve done in the past and… well, I didn’t want you to waste your time on it. It was the first book I ever wrote many, many years ago. Honest, Carol… I’m sorry.”
Oh boy, a first book. And a novella. She hated it already. Smile, be pleasant, Carol.
She wanted to hold him, but then wanted to smack him—what with those lost blue eyes, drooping head, and that heartfelt remorse written on his face she just stood there helpless, just looking at him.
“Let me be the judge of that, will you?” she finally said. “Hell, I haven’t even seen the damn manuscript. I have no goddamn idea what it’s even about and we’re meeting with some of the most powerful people in the publishing industry tonight, and over drinks he or his boss might casually ask me, ‘Well Carol what did you think of his latest effort?’ Duh? I’ll feel like a real jerk… Come on, Mitch.”
“Sorry, Carol… I guess I just didn’t think it all the way through…that’s all.”
She reached out and gently moved the wild strand of graying blonde hair from his forehead, placing it back into its rightful place. “Okay, okay, what’s the title, and what’s it about?”
He smiled that Robert Redford smile of his and said, “It’s called Summertime, and it’s a coming-of-age story. Short, it’s a novella.” He stopped before continuing; “I can email it to you or put it on a flash drive for you. I think I even have a hard copy of the manuscript if you want to see it,” he said. His eyes came alive talking about his latest project.
Surprised at his emotion she told him, “Give me the hardcopy, and I’ll breeze through it today while I’m waiting for you. I’m a fast reader. At least this way I’ll be able to speak halfway intelligently about it when we meet with him tonight for drinks.”
He reached into his worn, brown-leather courier bag, retrieved a tattered manila envelope, and handed it to her.
She looked inside at the cover title, Summertime and shoved it inside her briefcase with the admonishment, “Come on now, we gotta go, just don’t ever do that again. Okay?”
He nodded.
She took in a deep breath, kissed him on the cheek and walked out the door with her briefcase in one hand and her large leather purse slung over her shoulder.