locusts?”
“Locusts? Non comprende. ”
“Bugs. Like flying grasshoppers.”
“No. No flying grasshoppers.”
“Hmm. Thanks.”
I walked upstairs to my bedroom and took out the book I had filched from Donald Seale. He hadn’t asked for it back during our conversation, and I had put it in my purse as I stood. Passage after passage was highlighted. I had a copy of Simple Simon with me. Donald was right. Keyphrases and scenes were shared. In one passage in Indian Summer Moon, Maria Martin described her lead character:
Her hair fell halfway down her back, a cascade of black mica, almost liquid, perfect and shining. Her eyes were equally dark, and their effect was hypnotic.
In Simple Simon, the lead character visits a whorehouse:
Simon requested an Asian girl, and he was greeted by a young Korean beauty with a shy smile.
“Take your hair down,” he whispered. Trying to shut out the jungle, he forced himself to stare at her cascading hair, black liquid mica, perfect, shining. He was safe, he told himself. Breathing deeply, he turned her face to look at him, wanting to get lost in her eyes, dark black pools, pupils indistinguishable from irises, hypnotic and soothing at the same time. No fire, no gunshots. Just this one girl offering herself to him.
I turned pages in both books, flipping back and forth. I tried to tell myself Donald wasn’t onto anything. But I knew he was. But was it that Roland Riggs wrote romances when he wasn’t writing lengthy and commercially suicidal epic poems? Or was it that his housekeeper was a plagiarist? Or someone else who lived on the island? Or something else entirely? My head hurt. I decided to log on to my e-mail.
Cassie:
You took my highlighted copy of Indian Summer Moon. While I suppose I might like to pretend you did this because you want to see me again and this makes a fine excuse, the view of your lovely and pert derriere as you left the restaurant perhaps tellsme otherwise. Please call me at my hotel, though, because I really need my copy back. And please consider my offer to back off the story if Roland Riggs will agree to an interview. He is Maria Martin. I feel it in my bones.
Donald
P. S. I don’t think I have ever been so angry and so amused by a woman in many years. Not since Patty Maloney tried to stab me with safety scissors in third grade and then told me she loved me.
In retrospect, perhaps mooning Donald Seale was not the best exit I could have chosen.
Donald:
I will call you soon to return your book. You are clearly mistaken…he is most definitely not Maria Martin. You, however, deserve to be stabbed with safety scissors. Apparently Patty Maloney didn’t teach you much.
Cassie
My next e-mail was from Lou. Lou is a notoriously horrible typist. He has an excellent assistant who edits all his letters, but his e-mails are full of errors.
Cassie:
What the hell is up with the bok. You promisd me you were going to call as soon as yu looked at it. Areyu trying to kill me or something?
Lou
Dear Lou:
I am not ready to talk about the book with you yet because I am not done reading it. Let me say, though, that it is more imperative than ever that you keep your mouth shut about Roland Riggs because I am not sure if this is as marketable as Simple Simon . Will call soonish. Promise.
Cass
Next e-mail…more hell from Kathleen, my author with photo envy.
Cassie:
I understand I am now getting a full back cover photo. But now I really am having second thoughts about my head shot. I think it maybe makes my face look a tad puffy. I am going to have them reshot. Please put the back cover on hold for just a few days.
Kathy
Kathleen:
I think you would be crazy to reshoot the pictures. Everyone thinks you look like a young Kathleen Turner…from her Body Heat days. There is no way you could take a better photo. Honest. Don’t delay the book. The head shot is beyond perfect. All the men in the office are drooling over
“Locusts? Non comprende. ”
“Bugs. Like flying grasshoppers.”
“No. No flying grasshoppers.”
“Hmm. Thanks.”
I walked upstairs to my bedroom and took out the book I had filched from Donald Seale. He hadn’t asked for it back during our conversation, and I had put it in my purse as I stood. Passage after passage was highlighted. I had a copy of Simple Simon with me. Donald was right. Keyphrases and scenes were shared. In one passage in Indian Summer Moon, Maria Martin described her lead character:
Her hair fell halfway down her back, a cascade of black mica, almost liquid, perfect and shining. Her eyes were equally dark, and their effect was hypnotic.
In Simple Simon, the lead character visits a whorehouse:
Simon requested an Asian girl, and he was greeted by a young Korean beauty with a shy smile.
“Take your hair down,” he whispered. Trying to shut out the jungle, he forced himself to stare at her cascading hair, black liquid mica, perfect, shining. He was safe, he told himself. Breathing deeply, he turned her face to look at him, wanting to get lost in her eyes, dark black pools, pupils indistinguishable from irises, hypnotic and soothing at the same time. No fire, no gunshots. Just this one girl offering herself to him.
I turned pages in both books, flipping back and forth. I tried to tell myself Donald wasn’t onto anything. But I knew he was. But was it that Roland Riggs wrote romances when he wasn’t writing lengthy and commercially suicidal epic poems? Or was it that his housekeeper was a plagiarist? Or someone else who lived on the island? Or something else entirely? My head hurt. I decided to log on to my e-mail.
Cassie:
You took my highlighted copy of Indian Summer Moon. While I suppose I might like to pretend you did this because you want to see me again and this makes a fine excuse, the view of your lovely and pert derriere as you left the restaurant perhaps tellsme otherwise. Please call me at my hotel, though, because I really need my copy back. And please consider my offer to back off the story if Roland Riggs will agree to an interview. He is Maria Martin. I feel it in my bones.
Donald
P. S. I don’t think I have ever been so angry and so amused by a woman in many years. Not since Patty Maloney tried to stab me with safety scissors in third grade and then told me she loved me.
In retrospect, perhaps mooning Donald Seale was not the best exit I could have chosen.
Donald:
I will call you soon to return your book. You are clearly mistaken…he is most definitely not Maria Martin. You, however, deserve to be stabbed with safety scissors. Apparently Patty Maloney didn’t teach you much.
Cassie
My next e-mail was from Lou. Lou is a notoriously horrible typist. He has an excellent assistant who edits all his letters, but his e-mails are full of errors.
Cassie:
What the hell is up with the bok. You promisd me you were going to call as soon as yu looked at it. Areyu trying to kill me or something?
Lou
Dear Lou:
I am not ready to talk about the book with you yet because I am not done reading it. Let me say, though, that it is more imperative than ever that you keep your mouth shut about Roland Riggs because I am not sure if this is as marketable as Simple Simon . Will call soonish. Promise.
Cass
Next e-mail…more hell from Kathleen, my author with photo envy.
Cassie:
I understand I am now getting a full back cover photo. But now I really am having second thoughts about my head shot. I think it maybe makes my face look a tad puffy. I am going to have them reshot. Please put the back cover on hold for just a few days.
Kathy
Kathleen:
I think you would be crazy to reshoot the pictures. Everyone thinks you look like a young Kathleen Turner…from her Body Heat days. There is no way you could take a better photo. Honest. Don’t delay the book. The head shot is beyond perfect. All the men in the office are drooling over
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