to finish. When she had, she flopped on the couch like an exhausted teenager, letting her book-bag drop to the floor and putting the shopping bag on the coffee table. From inside she removed a stack of gift-wrapped packages, gold foil paper with a blue ribbon tied neatly around each.
"That it?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah." She took the top package from the stack, then flipped it my way as if throwing a Frisbee.
It was a hardcover copy of her book. The dust jacket was in matte black, with two traditional theatre masks on the cover, both in an embossed, glossy silver. One of the masks was Tragedy, the other Comedy. In Tragedy's left eye glistened a tear of blood. On the back of the dust jacket were quotes from a whole bunch of people I'd never heard of before, saying things like "Terrifying!" and "A revelation!" and "Possibly the most definitive work on the subject ever!"
Her signature was on the title page, with an inscription. The inscription read,
To Atticus
--
Thanks for almost blowing me up.
"You're welcome," I told her. "Next time I'll try harder."
"That was murder to come up with. I never realized how damn hard it is to inscribe a book." She patted the stack. "You were the easy one, too. I had no idea what to say to Corry and Dale. Are they here?"
"Dale's working in the conference room. Natalie and Corry are out right now. If you want to leave the books with me, I'll make sure they get theirs."
"You're busy."
"We are," I agreed.
"I'll leave these with you, then." She settled back on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table, giving me no sign that she was ready to leave. "I tried to do well by you guys. Tried to be honest. You'll have to let me know what you think."
"I will," I said, closing the book and putting it to one side of the desk, by the phone. "Any word on how it's doing?"
"The book's not officially out until Monday, and we've already sold through the first print run just on the advance orders. My publisher is going back to press, this time fifty thousand copies in hardcover, can you believe it? They're talking about the
Times
list like it's a sure thing."
"I'm impressed."
She shook her head and made a vague gesture with her hands, telling me to wait, that there was more to come. "Gets even wilder. I mean, I've got a literary agent, he's just sold my second book, the publisher wants it ASAP, and the advance is an
embarrassing
amount of money, believe me. I've got another agent, the Hollyweird one, and he called this morning with an offer for the movie rights, and
that
makes the advance for book two look like the change you'd find in a gutter."
I realized that what I'd thought was delight in her was actually shock.
"I go on tour next Monday, I'm supposed to do radio and television and Internet chat rooms and PBS and the whole shebang. People are calling my agent, badgering him to get interviews scheduled and crap like that. I'm waiting to wake up, Atticus, waiting for someone to call and say there's been a terrible mistake, they don't mean
my
book, they mean someone else's book, some other Chris Havel."
"I'm happy for you," I said, and I was, but my voice didn't carry the sincerity, and she caught it. Hurt crossed her face for a second, then vanished.
"No, no, I didn't use your names," she said. "All the names were changed."
The relief was like a car rolling off my chest.
"Was that it? What was bugging you?"
"That was it," I said. "Thank you, Chris."
"Maybe you shouldn't thank me, yet. You're in the acknowledgments, you and the rest, and I mention the firm, too. Anyone paying close attention, they'll figure it out, but..."
"We can survive that."
Havel straightened on the couch, letting her feet drop back to the floor. "That scared you?"
"The thought of more publicity actually makes my blood run cold," I confessed.
"Is that it? Not that you're afraid she'll, uh..." Havel made a gesture with her right hand, as if shooting a gun.
"Not anymore."
She came forward on the couch, perching on the
"That it?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah." She took the top package from the stack, then flipped it my way as if throwing a Frisbee.
It was a hardcover copy of her book. The dust jacket was in matte black, with two traditional theatre masks on the cover, both in an embossed, glossy silver. One of the masks was Tragedy, the other Comedy. In Tragedy's left eye glistened a tear of blood. On the back of the dust jacket were quotes from a whole bunch of people I'd never heard of before, saying things like "Terrifying!" and "A revelation!" and "Possibly the most definitive work on the subject ever!"
Her signature was on the title page, with an inscription. The inscription read,
To Atticus
--
Thanks for almost blowing me up.
"You're welcome," I told her. "Next time I'll try harder."
"That was murder to come up with. I never realized how damn hard it is to inscribe a book." She patted the stack. "You were the easy one, too. I had no idea what to say to Corry and Dale. Are they here?"
"Dale's working in the conference room. Natalie and Corry are out right now. If you want to leave the books with me, I'll make sure they get theirs."
"You're busy."
"We are," I agreed.
"I'll leave these with you, then." She settled back on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table, giving me no sign that she was ready to leave. "I tried to do well by you guys. Tried to be honest. You'll have to let me know what you think."
"I will," I said, closing the book and putting it to one side of the desk, by the phone. "Any word on how it's doing?"
"The book's not officially out until Monday, and we've already sold through the first print run just on the advance orders. My publisher is going back to press, this time fifty thousand copies in hardcover, can you believe it? They're talking about the
Times
list like it's a sure thing."
"I'm impressed."
She shook her head and made a vague gesture with her hands, telling me to wait, that there was more to come. "Gets even wilder. I mean, I've got a literary agent, he's just sold my second book, the publisher wants it ASAP, and the advance is an
embarrassing
amount of money, believe me. I've got another agent, the Hollyweird one, and he called this morning with an offer for the movie rights, and
that
makes the advance for book two look like the change you'd find in a gutter."
I realized that what I'd thought was delight in her was actually shock.
"I go on tour next Monday, I'm supposed to do radio and television and Internet chat rooms and PBS and the whole shebang. People are calling my agent, badgering him to get interviews scheduled and crap like that. I'm waiting to wake up, Atticus, waiting for someone to call and say there's been a terrible mistake, they don't mean
my
book, they mean someone else's book, some other Chris Havel."
"I'm happy for you," I said, and I was, but my voice didn't carry the sincerity, and she caught it. Hurt crossed her face for a second, then vanished.
"No, no, I didn't use your names," she said. "All the names were changed."
The relief was like a car rolling off my chest.
"Was that it? What was bugging you?"
"That was it," I said. "Thank you, Chris."
"Maybe you shouldn't thank me, yet. You're in the acknowledgments, you and the rest, and I mention the firm, too. Anyone paying close attention, they'll figure it out, but..."
"We can survive that."
Havel straightened on the couch, letting her feet drop back to the floor. "That scared you?"
"The thought of more publicity actually makes my blood run cold," I confessed.
"Is that it? Not that you're afraid she'll, uh..." Havel made a gesture with her right hand, as if shooting a gun.
"Not anymore."
She came forward on the couch, perching on the
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