Night Mares in the Hamptons (43 page)

The stranger jerked awake. His eyes, a nice soft brown with yellow flecks, focused on the angry dog, the other dogs, Ellen, me, then finally Susan. You could see his relief at recognizing someone in the room. He gave her a tentative smile.

“Barry, this is my cousin Willow, her friend Ellen. Ladies, this is Barry Jensen.” Susan sipped her tea again while the man blinked and brushed his hair back from his eyes. He was definitely cute, but now that he was sitting up I could tell he was older than I thought. The lack of sleep didn't help, but the lines and wrinkles added character to his face, without taking away from the good looks. Clark Kent with a dash of maturity. I could go for that. For my book, of course.

He looked at me. Not at Susan whom every male found adorable, and not at Ellen, who was pretty in a wholesome, unfussy way, and whose lush figure still made heads swivel when we walked through the village. I made myself pet Little Red instead of trying to hide the coffee drips on my ancient T-shirt, or finger-combing my windblown blonde hair, trying to cover the darker roots, wishing I'd had it colored last week. Wishing I hadn't had a million-calorie muffin for breakfast, too.

“I am so glad to meet you,” Barry said. “I've heard great things about you.”

“Me?” Okay, I wasn't great at conversation, either.

“When Susan told me who lived here, I was floored.”

“You must mean my mother. She's famous. Too bad she's still in Florida.”

“Your mother's the dog-lady, isn't she?”

I nodded, gesturing toward the canine collection. “That's my mom, all right. She can do anything with a four-legged stray. Three legs if you count Little Red.”

Barry ignored the animals. “But you, you're Willy Tate! I've admired your work for years. I was at that convention where you won the YA graphic novel award. I've followed your career ever since.”

So maybe he was a hero, after all, instead of a marauder or a mooch. Darn few people outside of friends and family knew my name. “Thanks.”

“I've met a bunch of authors in my day. I work freelance for a small-town news syndicate and website. I do the book page. And I've sold a couple of reviews and articles here and there. But to write and illustrate, both. Wow. And now here I am, on your couch. How's that for luck?”

Luckier than sleeping in your broken-down car, I supposed, or on the beach. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I could put some on. Or tea? I think we have orange juice.”

“Nothing, thanks. I don't want to impose.”

Ellen went to get the coffee anyway and came back with a bowl of cereal, a creamer of milk and a glass of OJ.

Barry smiled his appreciation, but kept looking at me. “Damn, I wish I'd met you last week when I didn't have to worry about getting back to Manhattan, or finding a place to stay until the car is repaired. I'd love to write an article about you. You know the kind of thing, how the author lives, a personal glimpse into the real world of a fantasy writer. I can see the picture now, you on the beach, dogs romping in the waves. It could be a winner.”

Ellen leaned forward from her chair next to the sofa. “It would be great publicity, Willy.”

“I bet Barry could sell an article like that to a bigger audience,” Susan added. “Or get it all over the Web. I know you're a big fish now, but your pond is kind of small. With the right PR you could sell a lot more books. Maybe get a bigger advance next contract. At least you could get your expenses paid for the next ComicCon.”

I refused to think of having to speak at another of those huge conventions. Instead, I admired Barry's dimples and nice white teeth.

The idea of free publicity won me over, not the dimples or the smile, I swear. “Why don't I give you a ride to the garage? We could talk along the way. Then, if Kelvin says your car needs a lot of time for parts or whatever, maybe I could ask around town for a place where you can stay.”

“That would be great! Maybe some of your talent will rub off by proximity. Or maybe I'll learn enough just listening to you to start the novel I always wanted to write. You”—he politely gestured toward Susan and Ellen, after me—“can be my inspiration. Three beautiful women.”

Red snapped at his moving hand. “And a ferocious watchdog.” He tossed Cheerios at all three dogs.

Yeah, cute. And Mom always said you could judge a man by how he treats a dog. Besides, I needed to see more of him to develop a feel for my fire wizard, facial expressions, musculature, the way his body moved. Character development, you know, research. So I invited him to come watch the fireworks with us. . . .