“It did,” Jo Ann confirmed, looking mildly surprised. “The whole scene is beautifully written. Every emotion, every sensation, is right there, so vividly described it’s difficult to believe the same writer is responsible for both versions.”
Parker’s expression reminded Bailey of Max when he’d discovered ground turkey in his dish instead of soggy cat food. His full sensuous mouth curved with satisfaction.
“I only hope Bailey can do as well with the dancing scene,” Jo Ann said.
“The dancing scene?” Parker asked intently.
“That’s several chapters later,” Bailey explained, jerking the manuscript out of Jo Ann’s lap. She shoved it inside a folder and slipped it into her spacious shoulder bag.
“It’s romantic the way it’s written, but there’s something lacking,” said Jo Ann. “Unfortunately I haven’t been able to put my finger on what’s wrong.”
“The problem is and always has been Michael,” Bailey inserted, not wanting the conversation to continue in this vein. She hoped her hero would forgive her for blaming her shortcomings as a writer on him.
“You can’t fault Michael for the dancing scene,” Jo Ann disagreed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I recall, Michael and Janice were manipulated—by Janice’s father—into attending a Pops concert. The only reason they went was that they couldn’t think of a plausible excuse.”
“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “A sixties rock group was performing.”
“Right. Then, as the evening went on, several couples from the audience started to dance. The young man sitting next to Janice asked her—”
“The problem is with Michael,” Bailey insisted again. She glanced hopefully at the older gentleman, but he just shrugged, eyes twinkling.
“What did Michael do that was so wrong?” Jo Ann asked with a puzzled frown.
“He...he should never have let Janice dance with another man,” Bailey said in a desperate voice.
“Michael couldn’t have done anything else,” Jo Ann argued, “otherwise he would’ve looked like a jealous fool.” She turned to Parker for confirmation.
“I may be new to this hero business, but I can’t help agreeing.”
Bailey was irritated with both of them. This was her story and she’d write it as she saw fit. However, she refrained from saying so—just in case they were right. She needed time to mull over their opinions.
The train screeched to a halt and people surged toward the door. Bailey noted, gratefully, that this was Parker’s stop.
“I’ll give you a call later,” he said, looking directly into Bailey’s eyes. He didn’t wait for a response.
He knew she didn’t want to hear from him. She was frightened. Defensive. Guarded. With good reason. Only he didn’t fully understand what that reason was. But a man like Parker wouldn’t let her attitude go unchallenged.
“He’s going to call you.” Jo Ann sighed enviously. “Isn’t that thrilling? Doesn’t that excite you?”
Bailey shook her head, contradicting everything she was feeling inside. “Excite me? Not really.”
Jo Ann frowned at her suspiciously. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Bailey answered with calm determination. She’d strolled down the path of romantic delusion twice before, but this time her eyes were wide open. Romance was wonderful, exciting, inspiring—and it was best limited to the pages of a well-crafted novel. Men, at least the men in her experience, inevitably proved to be terrible disappointments. Painful disappointments.
“Don’t you like Parker?” Jo Ann demanded. “I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s hero material. You recognized it immediately, even before I did. Remember?”
Bailey wasn’t likely to forget. “Yes, but that was in the name of research.”
“Research?” Jo Ann cocked her eyebrows in flagrant disbelief. “Be honest, Bailey. You saw a whole lot more than Michael in Parker Davidson. You’re not the type of woman who dashes off subways to follow a man. Some deep inner part of your being was reaching out to him.”
Bailey forced a short laugh. “I hate to say it, Jo Ann, but I think you’ve been reading too many romances lately.”
Jo Ann shrugged in a lie-to-yourself-if-you-insist manner. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”
Nevertheless, her friend had given Bailey something to ponder.
* * *
The writing didn’t go well that evening. Bailey, dressed in warm gray sweats, sans makeup and shoes, sat in front of her computer, staring blankly at the screen. “Inspiration is on vacation,” she muttered, and that bit of doggerel seemed the best she could manage at the moment. Her usual warmth and humor escaped her. Every word she wrote sounded flat. She was tempted to erase the entire chapter.
Max, who had appointed himself the guardian of her printer, was curled up fast asleep on top of it. Bailey had long ago given up trying to keep him off. She’d quickly surrendered and taken to folding a towel over the printer to protect its internal workings from cat hair. Whenever she needed to print out a chapter, she nudged him awake; Max was always put out by the inconvenience and let her know it.
“Something’s wrong,” she announced to her feline companion. “The words just aren’t flowing.”
Max didn’t reveal the slightest concern. He stretched out one yellow striped leg and examined it carefully, then settled down for another lengthy nap. He was fed and content and that was all that mattered.
Crossing her ankles, Bailey leaned back and clasped her hands behind her head. Chapter two of Forever Yours was just as vibrant and fast-paced as chapter one. But chapter three... She groaned and reread Paula Albright’s letter for the umpteenth time, wanting desperately to capture the feelings and emotions the editor had suggested.
The phone rang in the kitchen, startling her. Bailey sighed irritably, then got up and rushed into the other room.
“Hello,” she said curtly, realizing two important things at the same time. The first was how unfriendly and unwelcoming she sounded, and the second...the second was that she’d been unconsciously anticipating this call the entire evening.
“Hello,” Parker returned in an affable tone. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by her disagreeable mood. “I take it you’re working, but from the sound of your voice I’d guess the rewrite isn’t going well.”
“It’s coming along nicely.” Bailey didn’t know why she felt the need to lie. She was immediately consumed by guilt, then tried to disguise that by being even less friendly. “In fact, you interrupted a critical scene. I have so little time to write as it is, and my evenings are important to me.”
There was an awkward silence. “Then I won’t keep you,” Parker said with cool politeness.
“It’s just that it would be better if you didn’t phone me.” Her explaining didn’t seem to improve the situation.
“I see,” he said slowly.
And Bailey could tell that he did understand. She’d half expected him to argue, or at least attempt to cajole her into a more responsive mood. He didn’t.
“Why don’t you call me when you have a free moment,” was all he said.
“I will,” she answered, terribly disappointed and not sure why. It was better this way, with no further contact between them, she reminded herself firmly. “Goodbye, Parker.”
“Goodbye,” he said after another uncertain silence.
Bailey was still gripping the receiver when she heard a soft click followed by the drone of the disconnected line. She’d been needlessly abrupt and standoffish—as if she was trying to prove something. Trying to convince herself that she wanted nothing more to do with Parker.
Play it safe, Bailey. Don’t involve your heart. You’ve learned your lesson. Her mind was constructing excuses for her tactless behavior, but her heart would accept none of it.
Bailey felt wretched. She went back to her chair and stared at the computer s
creen for a full five minutes, unable to concentrate.
He’s only trying to help, her heart told her.
Men aren’t to be trusted, her mind said. Haven’t you learned that yet? How many times does it take to teach you something?
Parker isn’t like the others, her heart insisted.
Her mind, however, refused to listen. All men are alike.
But if she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so rotten? Yet she knew that if she gave in to him now, she’d regret it. She was treading on thin ice with this relationship; she remembered how she’d felt when he kissed her. Was she willing to risk the pain, the heartache, all over again?
Bailey closed her eyes and shook her head. Her thoughts were hopelessly tangled. She’d done what she knew was necessary, but she didn’t feel good about it. In fact, she was miserable. Parker had gone out of his way to help her with this project, offering her his time and his advice. He’d given her valuable insights into the male point of view. And when he kissed her, he’d reminded her how it felt to be a desirable woman....
* * *
Bailey barely slept that night. On Tuesday morning she decided to look for Parker, even if it meant moving from one subway car to the next, something she rarely did. When she did run into him, she intended to apologize, crediting her ill mood to creative temperament.
“Morning,” Jo Ann said, meeting her on the station platform the way she did every morning.
“Hello,” Bailey murmured absently, scanning the windows of the train as it slowed to a stop, hoping to spot Parker. If Jo Ann noticed anything odd, she didn’t comment.
“I heard back from the agent I wrote to a couple of months back,” Jo Ann said, grinning broadly. Her eyes fairly sparkled.
“Irene Ingram?” Bailey momentarily forgot about Parker as she stared at her friend. Her sagging spirits lifted with the news. For weeks Jo Ann had been poring over the agent list, trying to decide whom to approach first. After much deliberation and thought, Jo Ann had decided to aim high. Many of the major publishers were no longer accepting non-agented material, and finding one willing to represent a beginner had been a serious concern. Irene was listed as one of the top romance-fiction agents in the industry. She represented a number of prominent names.
“And?” Bailey prompted, although she was fairly sure the news was positive.
“She’s read my book and—” Jo Ann tossed her hands in the air “—she’s crazy about it!”
“Does that mean she’s going to represent you?” They were both aware how unusual it was for an established New York agent to represent an unpublished author. It wasn’t unheard of, but it didn’t happen all that often.
“You know, we never got around to discussing that—I assume she is. I mean, she talked to me about doing some minor revisions, which shouldn’t take more than a week. Then we discussed possible markets. There’s an editor she knows who’s interested in historicals set in this time period. Irene wants to send it to her first, just as soon as I’ve finished with the revisions.”
“Jo Ann,” Bailey said, clasping her friend’s hands tightly, “this is fabulous news!”
“I’m still having trouble believing it. Apparently Irene phoned while I was still at work and my eight-year-old answered. When I got home there was this scribbled message that didn’t make any sense. All it said was that a lady with a weird name had phoned.”
“Leave it to Bobby.”
“He wasn’t even home for me to question.”
“He didn’t write down the phone number?” Bailey asked.
“No, but he told Irene I was at work and she phoned me at five-thirty, our time.”
“Weren’t you the one who told me that being a writer means always knowing what time it is in New York?”
“The very one,” Jo Ann teased. “Anyway, we spoke for almost an hour. It was crazy. Thank goodness Dan was home. I was standing in the kitchen with this stunned look on my face, frantically taking down notes. I didn’t have to explain anything. Dan started dinner and then raced over to the park to pick up Bobby from Little League practice. Sarah set the table, and by the time I was off the phone, dinner was ready.”
“I’m impressed.” Several of the women in their writers’ group had complained about their husbands’ attitudes toward their creative efforts. But Jo Ann was fortunate in that department. Dan believed in her talent as strongly as Jo Ann did herself.
Jo Ann’s dream was so close to being realized that Bailey could feel her own excitement rise. After three years of continuous effort, Jo Ann deserved a sale more than anyone she knew. She squeezed her writing in between dental appointments and Little League practices, between a full-time job and the demands of being a wife and mother. In addition, she was the driving force behind their writers’ group. Jo Ann Webster had paid her dues, and Bailey sincerely hoped that landing Irene Ingram as her agent would be the catalyst to her first sale.
“I refuse to get excited,” Jo Ann said matter-of-factly.
Bailey stared at her incredulously. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am. It’s impossible not to be thrilled, but there’s a saying in the industry we both need to remember. Agents don’t sell books, good writing does. Plotting and characterization are what interest an editor. Agents negotiate contracts, but they don’t sell books.”
“You should’ve phoned and told me she called,” Bailey chastised.
“I meant to. Honest, I did, but when I’d finished the dinner dishes, put the kids to bed and reviewed my revision notes, it was too late. By the way, before I forget, did Parker call you?”
He was the last person Bailey wanted to discuss. If she admitted he had indeed phoned her, Jo Ann was bound to ask all kinds of questions Bailey preferred not to answer. Nor did she want to lie about it.
So she compromised. “He did, but I was writing at the time and he suggested I call him back later.”
“Did you?” Jo Ann asked expectantly.
“No,” Bailey said in a small miserable voice. “I should have, but... I didn’t.”
“He’s marvelous, you know.”
“Would it be okay if we didn’t discuss Parker?” Bailey asked. She’d intended to seek him out, but she decided against it, at least for now. “I’ve got so much on my mind and I... I need to clear away a few cobwebs.”
“Of course.” Jo Ann’s look was sympathetic. “Take your time, but don’t take too long. Men like Parker Davidson don’t come along often. Maybe once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.”
This wasn’t what Bailey wanted to hear.
* * *
Max was curled up on Bailey’s printer later that same evening. She’d worked for an hour on the rewrite and wasn’t entirely pleased with the results. Her lack of satisfaction could be linked, however, to the number of times she’d inadvertently typed Parker’s name instead of Michael’s.
That mistake was simple enough to understand. She was tired. Parker had been in her thoughts most of the day. Good grief, when wasn’t he in her thoughts?
Then, when she decided to take a break and scan the evening paper, Parker’s name seemed to leap right off the page. For a couple of seconds, Bailey was convinced the typesetter had made a mistake, just as she herself had a few minutes earlier. Peering at the local-affairs page, she realized that yes, indeed, Parker was in the news.
She sat down on the kitchen stool and carefully read the brief article. Construction crews were breaking ground for a high-rise bank in the financial district. Parker Davidson was the project’s architect.
Bailey read the item twice and experienced a swelling sense of pride and accomplishment.
She had to phone Parker. She owed him an explanation, an apology; she owed him her gratitude. She’d known it the moment she’d abruptly ended their conversation the night before. She’d known it that morning when she spoke with Jo Ann.
She’d known it the first time she’d substituted Parker’s name for Michael’s. Even the afternoon paper was telling her what she already knew.
Something so necessary shouldn’t be so difficult, Bailey told herself, standing in front of her telephone. Her hand still on the receiver, she hesitated. What could she possibly say to him? Other than to apologize for her behavior and congratulate him on the project she’d read about, which amounted to about thirty seconds of conversation.
Max sauntered into the kitchen, no doubt expecting to be fed again.
“You know better,” she muttered, glaring down at him.
Pacing the kitchen didn’t lend her courage. Nor did examining the contents of her refrigerator. The only thing that did was excite Max, who seemed to think she’d changed her mind, after all.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, furious with herself. She picked up the phone, punched out Parker’s home number—and waited. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
Parker was apparently out for the evening. Probably with some tall blond bombshell, celebrating his success. Every woman’s basic nightmare. Four rings. Well, what did she expect? He was handsome, appealing, generous, kind—
“Hello?”
He caught her completely off guard. “Parker?”
“Bailey?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said brightly. “Hello.” The things she’d intended to say had unexpectedly disintegrated.
“Hello.” His voice softened a little.
“Am I calling at a bad time?” she asked, wrapping the telephone cord around her index finger, then her wrist and finally her elbow. “I could call back later if that’s more convenient.”
“Now is fine.”
“I saw your name in the paper and wanted to congratulate you. This project sounds impressive.”
He shrugged it off, as she knew he would. Silence fell between them, the kind of silence that needed to be filled or explained or quickly extinguished.
“I also wanted to apologize for the way I acted last night, when you phoned,” Bailey said, the cord so tightly drawn around her hand that her fingers had gone numb. She loosened it now, her movements almost frantic. “I was rude and tactless and you didn’t deserve it.”