though there was some time-frame business in the middle that could be plainer; he made it plain. Changing the tone and feel of the book from a Wayne Prentice novel to a Bryce Proctorr novel wasn't hard; instantly he knew how to phrase Wayne's thoughts in his own words.
The third chapter, a very powerful mountainside near-death scene, was now the first chapter, with the rest adapted to fit, which was partly because Bryce thought it read better with that strong opening and partly because, if one of the few people who'd seen the book in its original form were to pick it up and start to read it, the story wouldn't seem instantly familiar. If it felt familiar later on, that would be all right; most novels remind us of other novels.
On the weekend, he could be with Isabelle. A divorced woman of thirty-four, soft and round with lustrous black hair, she was the daughter of a Spanish diplomat who'd retired back to Spain not long ago from some sort of long-term post at the United Nations. Isabelle's ex-husband was Spanish, had divorced her in Spain, and had custody of their three children, all under twelve. This was Isabelle's ongoing agony and struggle, the way Lucie was Bryce's, and they could find temporary respite and forgetfulness and comfort with one another. In Madrid, Isabelle's father was doing his best to get the case reopened, but for some reason the Catholic Church seemed to be on the ex-husband's side; Bryce thought it smarter not to delve too deeply into that situation.
They traveled separately to and from Connecticut every week-end, she driving up Friday morning and back Monday afternoon. She was a copywriter for an ad agency, working mostly on catalog copy for manufacturers of faux country-style clothing. Her arrangement with her boss was that she could work at home — at Bryce's home, actually — Fridays and Mondays, so long as she was available to have material faxed to her and to fax copy back. Otherwise, it was merely expected that her long weekends would leave her refreshed, with new copy in hand.
Bryce took the train. He used to drive, used to love it, but three winters ago he and Lucie had been a minor part of a multi-car pile-up during bad rain on Interstate 84, and the sight of the much greater destruction just beyond his own battered BMW — the one he'd gotten for doing the ad — had left him fearful for a long time. He was enjoying too good a life to want to throw it away. And he wasn't a commuter in the normal sense, he didn't have a job with time pressure at the New York end, so why not conveniently, comfortably, safely take the train?
Monday morning he took the train, a later one than the rush-hour people, and again he had a dual seat to himself, so he could continue to go over
Two Faces in the Mirror.
Occasionally, on the train, somebody would ask him for an autograph, but most riders on this line were more sophisticated than that. He could see them recognize him from time to time, but they left him alone.
He had done almost all he could with the manuscript. It had been a good novel to begin with, and he felt he'd made it better. Really, all that was needed now was for Wayne to return the contract.
He had. Bryce got home just before lunchtime, and Saturday's mail was waiting for him, and there was the envelope with 'Prentice' on the return address. Manila envelope, manuscript size, not too thick. Priority Mail sticker.
He saw it, on the table just inside the front door where Jorge, the doorman, always put his mail when he was away, and he felt an instant of terrible fear. He's done it! he thought. She's dead!
He didn't open the envelope then, nor look at the rest of his mail, but went beyond it, feeling weak, knees shaky, and sat in the living room, his back to the view of Central Park. He was trembling, and his throat felt constricted.
No, she isn't dead, he told himself. Calm down. He knew what I meant when I mentioned California in the note. She's still alive.
When he had himself
The third chapter, a very powerful mountainside near-death scene, was now the first chapter, with the rest adapted to fit, which was partly because Bryce thought it read better with that strong opening and partly because, if one of the few people who'd seen the book in its original form were to pick it up and start to read it, the story wouldn't seem instantly familiar. If it felt familiar later on, that would be all right; most novels remind us of other novels.
On the weekend, he could be with Isabelle. A divorced woman of thirty-four, soft and round with lustrous black hair, she was the daughter of a Spanish diplomat who'd retired back to Spain not long ago from some sort of long-term post at the United Nations. Isabelle's ex-husband was Spanish, had divorced her in Spain, and had custody of their three children, all under twelve. This was Isabelle's ongoing agony and struggle, the way Lucie was Bryce's, and they could find temporary respite and forgetfulness and comfort with one another. In Madrid, Isabelle's father was doing his best to get the case reopened, but for some reason the Catholic Church seemed to be on the ex-husband's side; Bryce thought it smarter not to delve too deeply into that situation.
They traveled separately to and from Connecticut every week-end, she driving up Friday morning and back Monday afternoon. She was a copywriter for an ad agency, working mostly on catalog copy for manufacturers of faux country-style clothing. Her arrangement with her boss was that she could work at home — at Bryce's home, actually — Fridays and Mondays, so long as she was available to have material faxed to her and to fax copy back. Otherwise, it was merely expected that her long weekends would leave her refreshed, with new copy in hand.
Bryce took the train. He used to drive, used to love it, but three winters ago he and Lucie had been a minor part of a multi-car pile-up during bad rain on Interstate 84, and the sight of the much greater destruction just beyond his own battered BMW — the one he'd gotten for doing the ad — had left him fearful for a long time. He was enjoying too good a life to want to throw it away. And he wasn't a commuter in the normal sense, he didn't have a job with time pressure at the New York end, so why not conveniently, comfortably, safely take the train?
Monday morning he took the train, a later one than the rush-hour people, and again he had a dual seat to himself, so he could continue to go over
Two Faces in the Mirror.
Occasionally, on the train, somebody would ask him for an autograph, but most riders on this line were more sophisticated than that. He could see them recognize him from time to time, but they left him alone.
He had done almost all he could with the manuscript. It had been a good novel to begin with, and he felt he'd made it better. Really, all that was needed now was for Wayne to return the contract.
He had. Bryce got home just before lunchtime, and Saturday's mail was waiting for him, and there was the envelope with 'Prentice' on the return address. Manila envelope, manuscript size, not too thick. Priority Mail sticker.
He saw it, on the table just inside the front door where Jorge, the doorman, always put his mail when he was away, and he felt an instant of terrible fear. He's done it! he thought. She's dead!
He didn't open the envelope then, nor look at the rest of his mail, but went beyond it, feeling weak, knees shaky, and sat in the living room, his back to the view of Central Park. He was trembling, and his throat felt constricted.
No, she isn't dead, he told himself. Calm down. He knew what I meant when I mentioned California in the note. She's still alive.
When he had himself
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