Naked Once More (15 page)

The size of the slim sheaf of papers made Jacqueline’s heart plummet. There couldn’t be more than… She snatched it and glanced quickly through the pages. Six. Six miserable pages. She was in no fit state to absorb what Kathleen had actually put down, except to note that the beginning of the book corresponded fairly closely to her own outline. Ara was not, of course, dead. She had followed an Illusion.… Damn-fool female, Jacqueline thought distractedly. She ought to have known better. I had second thoughts about having her do that myself, after I had submitted the outline. It will take some ingenuity to explain why a woman so clearheaded and intelligent would fall for… But the most depressing thing about the outline was its brevity. The action Kathleen had described couldn’t be stretched to cover more than three chapters. After that, Jacqueline would be on her own.

Which, she consoled herself, was no more than she had anticipated before she learned of the existence of Kathleen’s outline.

“Take your time,” Booton said, pouring more champagne. “Peruse it at your leisure. The reporters can wait.”

“I’ll have another look at it after I get home,” Jacqueline said. “I’m really too distracted to concentrate just now.”

Allowing her to take it home was not what Booton had had in mind. The outline was top secret, he couldn’t allow copies of it to circulate.… But Jacqueline stuck to her guns; she could afford to be hard-nosed now, the contract was signed and sealed. “I understand your concern, Boots, but you needn’t worry; I’m no more anxious than you to have anyone else read this. If the finished book deviates in the slightest way, the critics will scream, and if the other contestants see it they can surely find ways in which their versions came as close as mine. I’ll guard it with my life, but I must have it.”

She got it. And she walked out of the office into a maelstrom of media.

The publicity had strained even her well-equipped ego.
People, Life,
and a round dozen women’s magazines had pleaded for interviews—and got them, at healthy fees. On that subject Jacqueline was emphatic. “No freebies, Booton. Writing is my job, and my sole source of income. If publicity is part of the job then I should be paid for it. The people who interview me get paid, and the people who publish the magazines and produce the shows make big bucks. Why should I be the only one working for nothing?”

“But that’s the way—”

“Don’t tell me that’s the way it is,” Jacqueline growled. “I’ve done more than my share of publicity, and let
me
tell
you
that while it can be entertaining and interesting and sometimes productive, it is also damned exhausting. I used to read theatrical autobiographies and wonder why actors complained about being absolutely wrung-out after a performance. Now I know. When I make a publicity appearance, I am performing. Oh, I usually enjoy it, I don’t mind admitting that; but I simply can’t do everything you people expect of me and have enough energy left to perform the function that is, after all, the purpose of it all—namely and to wit, writing the damned book. And furthermore—”

Booton might not have been convinced, but he had learned the futility of further argument. He certainly couldn’t complain of any lack of cooperation on Jacqueline’s part. She had whipped up soufflés in her kitchen for
Good Housekeeping
(and poured the peculiar-looking mess down the sink after the photographer had quit snapping); modeled
Naked-in-the-Ice
-inspired gowns and furs for
Vogue
(her modest suggestion that she keep the sable cape as her fee was politely but firmly rejected); lied through her teeth to Jane Pauley and Oprah when asked about her family life; assured the
National Enquirer
that she had been in touch with the spirit of Kathleen Darcy, who had crowned her as the Chosen Successor; and suggested to
TV Guide
that Vanna White and Sylvester Stallone would be the ideal choices to play the lovers in the film of the sequel. (She was getting a little punch-drunk by that time.) She had done everything but lead a parade down Fifth Avenue, and she had expressed her willingness to do that if someone would pay enough.

Booton whooped with laughter at this suggestion. They had achieved a kind of rapport by this time, united by common interests and needs. Booton had learned to let her sarcastic comments roll off his back, and she had developed an unwilling admiration for his professional skills. She noticed, however, during that last interview with him before she left New York, that, like herself, he was showing signs of strain. At least she could use makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

“I was kidding,” she admitted. “But I’m about at the end of my rope, Boots. I’m heading for Pine Grove on Tuesday, unless you can think of anything else you want me to do.”

“There are plenty of other things you could do.” Booton leaned back in his chair and passed a limp hand over his wavy locks. “But I’ll let you call the shots, Jacqueline; you’ve been an absolute dreamboat about all this, and no one could expect you to do more. Actually, at this point I think additional exposure would weaken the impact. We don’t want to make you too accessible. Turning down NBC was a smart move.”

“They wanted me to do it for nothing,” Jacqueline said indignantly.

“The money isn’t the issue, darling, it’s the… Oh. Another of your little jokes.” He chuckled.

“Huh,” said Jacqueline.

“Yes, that should work very well,” Booton mused. “I’ll announce that you are exhausted and in need of solitude, so that you can tune your sensitivities to the demands of the task ahead.”

He grinned at Jacqueline, who glowered back at him. “It’s true, you know. I am exhausted, and I’m getting edgy. Do what you can to keep the press off my back, will you? It won’t take much intelligence for them to figure out I’ve gone to Pine Grove, and if some smirking photographer sticks a camera through the window when I’m working, I’ll ram it down his throat.”

“What are you edgy about? Has anything happened?”

“Oh, no. Just the usual threatening letters and personal assaults.”

Booton dropped the pen with which he had been playing and stared at her in alarm. Jacqueline realized she had underestimated his sense of humor—or his nerve, or both. “It’s just Brunnhilde,” she explained kindly. “Don’t tell me she hasn’t sent you a few friendly reproaches.”

“Oh—Brunnhilde. Horrible woman.” Booton shuddered.

“Ignore her,” Jacqueline said. “I always do. Well, Booton, if there’s nothing else… Oh, I almost forgot. My publisher said he was going to get in touch with you to discuss a floor for the auction. Has he called?”

“Not yet. Wait a minute, though; I haven’t listened to my messages today. It’s been so hectic around here.…” He punched buttons. The tape whizzed and whirred and clicked. A woman’s voice said, “Bootsie, dearest, I know you told me never to call you at the office, but I miss you so much, you sweet teddy bear…”

“Oh, bad Bootsie,” Jacqueline exclaimed.

Booton smiled weakly. “It’s not what you think. The damned-fool female wants me to market her rotten book. I have no secrets from you, Jacqueline.”

In a pig’s eye, thought Jacqueline. There wouldn’t have been any point in trying to keep that one, though, the disclosure had already been made. That was the trouble with message tapes; it was impossible to select one call out of a long string of them. The aspiring author ran out of endearments and hung up; a series of briefer, less affectionate messages followed, from an editor and another writer and Booton’s tailor. Then another female voice began to murmur sweet nothings. “Are you there, Boots? I’ll bet you’re surprised to hear from me after all this time.” Booton glanced sheepishly at Jacqueline. His expression altered, suddenly and dreadfully, as the voice went on, “I had to tell you what a rotten, cheating swine you are. Did you think you could get away with a swindle like that? I’ll be watching you, Boots—Little Boots—calig——”

Jacqueline missed the last word. Booton fell on the machine like a fury and jabbed the cutoff button. His face was the color of putty.

“What on earth…” Jacqueline began.

It took Booton several seconds to catch his breath. “Damn it! I don’t know what you’re going to think of me, Jacqueline.…”

“I know. Just another frustrated author.”

“That’s one of the drawbacks of the business.” Booton slumped wearily in his chair. “Sometimes I think Chris had the right idea. For two cents I’d give the whole thing up and find a comfortable beach house next to his.”

“You can’t do that. If I have two agents retire on me, one after the other, I’ll start feeling unloved.”

“My little joke this time.” Booton forced a smile. “I love this business. The present situation is a trifle unusual; it’s no wonder we’re both feeling the strain. You know, Jacqueline, it might be a good idea if you had all your mail forwarded to my office. I’ll have my secretary weed out the shit. You’ll get some, you know, and anonymous letters can be unsettling.”

“No, thanks. I adore getting mail, even the kind addressed to Occupant. And anonymous letters don’t bother me one bit.”

“As you like. At least you won’t be getting obscene phone calls. You’ll be staying at the inn?”

Jacqueline rose. “That’s my mailing address. My precise whereabouts will be a deep dark secret from everyone, including you, dahling. That way you won’t have to lie when someone asks you where I am. I know how you hate lying to people.”

“Ha-ha,” said her sometime agent. “Damn it, Jacqueline, I need a phone number, at least. What if something important comes up?”

“I can’t think of anything as important as my peace and quiet.” She blew him a kiss from the doorway. “Just forward everything—especially checks.”

Remembering that conversation, Jacqueline shook her head. Who was it who had said that the easiest way to gain a reputation as a wit was to tell the simple truth? She had not been joking about the checks; but Booton had laughed hysterically. Actually, there wouldn’t be many checks coming from him, only the delayed (as always) payments for her various interviews. Chris had arranged for his secretary to stay on for several months in order to forward incoming mail directly to the authors concerned.

With a shrug and a smile Jacqueline dismissed Booton, publicity, anonymous letters, and the entire island of Manhattan from her thoughts. All that was behind her now, thank God; the inadequacy of Kathleen’s outline was not even a minor problem, only a temporary disappointment. She had no reason to be depressed. Writing the book was a challenge of the sort she enjoyed, and Pine Grove itself held other, equally delicious challenges to her wits and her curiosity. The sun was shining, the scenery was lovely… and there ahead was a sign reading “Granddad’s Antiques.” What more could a woman ask of life?

She spent a delightful hour with granddad. Emerging from the shop, she stowed away her purchases with some difficulty, since the car was full of her personal possessions, from her favorite kitchen utensils (coffee maker and microwave oven) to her most indispensable books. But that cute little wicker basket, with its quilted pad, had been too charming to resist. It would be perfect for a cat—if she had a cat.

Maybe I should get one, she mused. A lot of great writers were cat fanciers. Mark Twain, Henry James, Dr. Sam Johnson, Barbara Michaels.… She had nothing against the creatures, in fact. They required very little attention, they made pleasant noises when stroked, and they were extremely ornamental.

The Highway Department still hadn’t got their asses around to fixing that bridge on 483. This time Jacqueline found Whitman Brothers Road without difficulty, and proceeded at a decorous pace, keeping a weather eye out for antique shops. In this she was disappointed, but the scenery was certainly lovely. It was a longer route than the other she had inadvertently taken, however, and she wondered why she had been directed this way originally. When she reached Pine Grove, she understood. This route took her straight into the “good” part of town. Except for a modern shopping center on the edge of town, there was nothing unsightly to be seen.

Now, instead of frothy pink and white, the trees wore garments of crimson and gold. Fallen leaves carpeted the lawns with patterns like Persian carpets. Chrysanthemums, asters, and Michaelmas daisies overflowed the flower beds. The charm was more than visual, however. It was equally compounded of nostalgia for a way of life that had not so much vanished as never really existed. Freckle-faced boys riding bikes and tossing papers onto front porches; American flags proudly displayed; healthy, pink-cheeked nuclear families dressed in their Sunday best, walking hand in hand toward a white, steepled church.… A Norman Rockwell cover, flimsy as the paper on which it was printed, with ugly things hidden behind the pretty facade. The people who yearned for the good old days might not have enjoyed the reality; good old days before penicillin and heart surgery, social security and minimum wages.

Not to mention air-conditioning, imported chocolates in every supermarket, and the demise of the corset. So far as Jacqueline was concerned, they could keep the good old days—and Pine Grove’s bucolic charm. She would die of boredom here. A lovely old house in the country, fine; she still wanted it. So long as it was within fifty miles of a big city.

Had Kathleen fallen for that illusion? She couldn’t have, she was too intelligent. A woman like her must have found life in Pine Grove horribly restricting. When her ship came in heavily laden with money and success, she could have headed for the bright lights. Why the devil hadn’t she? What had kept her in Pine Grove? If she was so devoted to her family, she could have taken them with her.

And yet for all her cynicism Jacqueline felt a pleasant, insidious sense of homecoming when she pulled into the parking lot behind the inn and went to the front door. No grim old lady squatted in the parlor; the television set was silent; and from behind the desk Mollie ran to greet her as an old and cherished friend. “We’ve been so excited! We’re so glad it’s you! And to think you’ll be here for months.… Oh, it’s wonderful!”

She was wearing another of the shapeless calico dresses, with gathers falling loosely from a rounded yoke, but it became her better than the ones she had worn before. She looked brighter, healthier, happier; her mousy brown hair shone. Jacqueline thought, aha! but offered neither comment or question—at that time.