By Blood Written by Steven Womack Page A

interjected.
    “No kidding,” Michael said. “Stress-induced memory loss.
    Anyway, he was an idiot. Typical daytime talk show blow-dried anchorperson. Hadn’t read the book, didn’t know who I was. At least he sort of stuck to the prepared questions.”
    “That means he can read,” Taylor said. “In the TV business, he’s an overachiever.”
    “So what’s new on your end?” he asked.
    “I had dinner tonight with Brett,” Taylor answered.
    “Oh, so no hot date?” Michael offered.
    Taylor hesitated. “No, no hot date. But she did tell me you’re climbing to number three on the list Sunday.”
    “Great!” Michael said.
    “And on top of that, The Fourth Letter made it onto the paperback list. You’ll debut at eleven.”
    “Oh man, I love it!”
    “And the contracts have been processed and I expect a check within the next couple of weeks.”
    Michael stretched on the bed and finished off the Scotch.
    “If your job is to make me feel better, you’re sure doing it well.”
    “All part of the package,” she teased.
    “I wish you were here,” he said. “I’m stretched out all alone on this king-size bed with no one to massage the tension out of my tired muscles.”
    “So get a rubdown,” Taylor said.
    “That’s not the muscle I meant,” he teased, then lowered his voice. “I miss you.”
    Her voice lowered as well. “Well, hmm.”
    There was a long silence filled only by a faint whisper of static on the line.
    “You still there?” Michael asked after a moment.
    “Yes.”
    “Something bothering you?”
    Another long pause. “I’m just not quite sure what’s going on, that’s all,” Taylor answered. “I mean, I’ve never done this before.”
    “Done what before?” Michael asked. “You mean you were a—”
    “No, silly,” she snapped, laughing the tension out of her voice. “I’ve done that before! I’ve just never done it with a client.”
    Michael rolled over on his side with the phone resting on his right ear. “Okay, so it’s a little weird, mixing business with a personal life. But there’s something going on here, Taylor. Something powerful. I don’t know where it’s going, but I’d sure like to find out.”
    “I just don’t want to … don’t want to make another mistake, that’s all.”
    “Look,” Michael said, “this stupid tour is almost over. At least I can see the end. Then I’m going back to New York City and find a place, get moved, and get back to work.
    That’s a tall order. I think I’m going to need a rest before I take that on.”
    “So—”
    “What say we get on a plane and go lie on a beach for a week or so? Just the two of us? Maybe someplace in the Caribbean.”
    Taylor cleared her throat and was silent again for a few moments. “I don’t know, Michael, I—”
    “C’mon,” he said. “It’s wintertime. You need to get away.
    We need to get away. Please?”
    “Let me think about it,” she said.
    “Fair enough. At least it’s not a no. So what are you up to for the rest of the evening?”
    She laughed. “It’s nearly eleven here,” she said. “And I’m pooped. I might finish reading the paper and go to bed.
    Don’t know if I’ve got that much left in me.”
    “Me, too,” Michael said, raising up on the bed and plant-ing his feet on the floor. “I think it’s a phone call to room service and then some free HBO. I’ll call you tomorrow from San Francisco. Okay?”
    “What time’s your plane leave?”
    “Not until eleven, which is a real treat. Writers aren’t used to being up in time to make seven A.M. flights.”
    “You and Carol will get a break tomorrow,” Taylor said.
    “By the way, how is she?”
    Michael felt the muscles in his jaw knot up and fought to keep the tension out of his voice. “She’s Carol,” he said.
    “You know.”
    “Yeah. I guess so.”
    “Sleep well,” Michael said.
    “You, too. Talk to you tomorrow.”
    “Okay,” Taylor said. “And Michael—”
    “Yeah?” he asked after a