Praise Her, Praise Diana

By Anne Rothman Hicks and Ken Hicks

Jane Larson's new client has written a novel in which the main character is a woman who seeks vengeance for a horrific rape by seducing men and then killing and castrating them. Soon a person who calls herself Diana begins to imitate the character in the book, setting New York City on edge and men and women at each other’s throats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781612359458

Anne Rothman Hicks

Anne Rothman-Hicks and Kenneth Hicks have been married for a little over forty years and have produced about twenty books and exactly three children so far. At press-time, they still love their children more.Their most recent novels have been set in New York City, where they have lived for most of their married lives. Anne is a graduate of Bryn Mawr College where, in nineteen sixty-nine, as the fabled Sixties were drawing to a close, she met Ken, who was a student at Haverford College. They don’t like to admit that they met at a college mixer, but there it is!Together their books include Theft of the Shroud, a novel; Starfinder, a non-fiction book about the stars for children; a series of books on individual names for children (for example Michael’s Book, Elizabeth’s Book, John’s Book, Jennifer’s Book, David’s Book, Amy’s Book); and, most recently, Kate and the Kid and Mind Me, Milady, two novels, and a middle reader/tween novel, Things Are Not What They Seem.Ken and Anne have a website with the address set out below. There they have links to some of their books and display images that they hope will be used in future efforts. In case you were wondering about the website address, “R” is for Rothman, “H” is for Hicks, and 71 is the year of their marriage. No secret codes or numerology anywhere. Sorry.

Book preview

PRAISE HER, PRAISE DIANA

by Anne Rothman-Hicks & Ken Hicks

Jane Larson's new client has written a novel in which the main character is a woman who seeks vengeance for a horrific rape by seducing men and then killing and castrating them. Soon a person who calls herself Diana begins to imitate the character in the book, setting New York City on edge and men and women at each other’s throats.

We dedicate this book to all women who have suffered rape or violence of any kind, to our three children, Brendan, Zachary and Alice, whose support means the world to us, and to Alice who read and edited every word.

Chapter One

Maggie Edwards sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of her front porch and gazed out at the dense early-morning mist. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, palms up, thumbs and forefingers touching. Her back was arched slightly and propped against a wicker sofa. Breathe. Count. Breathe. Keep the demon thoughts at bay.

She was in her mid-thirties, tall and slender, with deep-set emerald eyes, high cheekbones and a wide sensuous mouth. Her long blond hair had golden streaks in it from being outdoors and was pinned up in a ballerina’s neat bun. On a good day, she could easily pass for under thirty. On a bad day like this one, she felt like a hag.

Through the fog she could just barely see the white and purple asters that grew in a thick tangle at the edges of her yard. The long driveway, lined with maple and oak trees, had also been transformed into an Impressionistic blur. Beyond the veil of mist, she pictured in her mind the surrounding fields and forests and hills, with their mottled shades of yellow, red and orange in full autumn display.

Six years earlier, with the improbable proceeds of her first novel, Getting There, she purchased this house and the surrounding fifteen acres of land, including the barn, pond and dilapidated outbuildings. That first summer, she planted fruit trees and flowers and cleaned up the pond. She’d wanted to tear down some of the smaller structures and renovate the barn into bed-and-breakfast rooms. But the royalties from Getting There had soon slowed to a trickle, canceling those plans, and she hadn’t been able to write another book since.

She still heard from editors or agents who wanted to handle her next novel, but she rarely answered their e-mails or phone calls. She knew what they wanted. They wanted the heroic Marissa from Getting There to resume her sexual escapades—the minutely described couplings that had catapulted Marissa up the corporate ladder and into the position of Chief Executive Officer of a major corporation. Overnight, Getting There had become a widely read favorite of high school and college girls, and then of their mothers as well. She never had the courage to tell any of these still-avid fans that Marissa was dead.

Now the cell phone rang beside her, like an alarm jarring her awake from a deep sleep. Although she had set it on the lowest volume, the sound pierced her mantle of calm so completely that it seemed she could have heard the ringing a mile away through the mist, as the clanging of a buoy travels over water at night. Bad news, bad news. Death, death.

She let it ring. Twice. Three times. She had been expecting the call. Dreading it and desiring it at the same time.

The woman had contacted her many times before, introducing herself as ‘Diana’. She spoke in a heavy Eastern European accent, never disclosing her real name or any detail that might identify her—calling only from public pay phones in New York City.

Hello? Maggie said finally.

Did you send it?

Maggie inhaled and let the air out slowly with her answer. She took yoga classes to discipline her mind, but it didn’t work nearly well enough. Still, she did the breathing exercises, exhaling the cleansing breaths that never seemed to cleanse anything.

Not yet, Maggie said.

Not yet? The woman snapped, enunciating her response with robotic crispness, as if she were biting off each word and spitting it through the phone. You fool! What moment will finally suit you? When the sheriff auctions your house? When they cart you away?

Maggie took another deep breath.

I keep telling you. It’s not the book I agreed to give Anthony, and I—

You’re lying, Maggie Edwards! the woman shrieked. "That’s not the reason that you delay, day after day! It’s a better book than the one that foolish man wanted. And Heather has agreed to take it and make sure it is printed."

Heather would do anything for me at this point, Maggie said softly. "I’m her hero. Author of Getting There."

So much the better. Infatuation will ease the pain if there are consequences. Did you seduce her? Is that why you have qualms?

"I did not," Maggie snapped.

Silence came from Diana’s end of the phone, although Maggie sensed that this unknown woman was amused by her weakness and enjoyed the pain she inflicted. When the woman spoke again, there was no attempt to cajole. The words were like stones thudding against Maggie’s head and torso.

Then you will delay no longer. You are not a fool! Time has run out. You have no other choice. Tell the truth about Marissa, Maggie Edwards. Tell them how she ... died.

The connection was broken. Maggie gently placed the cell phone beside her on the floor, although she would have liked to throw it against a wall. Her heart was racing. She could feel the throb of blood in her temples. She closed her eyes to try to concentrate and recapture some semblance of calm. But the peaceful image of the autumn countryside was drowned out by the pattern of words drumming in her head.

How could she know?

Was this woman, Diana, real? Or was she imagined like those distant hills through the fog—a figment of an overwrought mind desperate for a way out?

Marissa was dead. She had no choice. Marissa was dead.

Tell the truth.

* * * *

She went upstairs to her bedroom where she had her laptop set up and typed an e-mail to Heather Blake of The New York Portal:

Dear H,

Here is the final draft, for better or for worse.

Your friend, M.

Still she hesitated, filled with the nagging sense that once the chapter left the privacy of her own computer, unknown consequences would follow. Her entire life would be beyond her control.

And yet, what the woman said was true—she had no choice.

She attached a file marked D-Ch 1, and pressed the send button.

Chapter One

~ Diana ~

By

Maggie Edwards

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Diana. You may have heard of me. The Huntress. Goddess of the moon. Beloved of virgins. Never been kissed.

So anyway, I met this guy in a bar near his apartment in New York City. He thought it was by chance—two people locking gazes across a crowded room. I knew better.

It was a dark, dirty place filled with the smell of all the stale beer that had been spilled onto the wooden floor over the course of a half-century or so. When I arrived, his eyes were already bright from several drafts, although he probably would have fought you if you told him he was drunk. He liked to fight. He played rugby just for the fun of hitting people and being hit, and wore his cuts and bruises like trophies.

All the same, he had a surprisingly engaging smile, marred slightly by a cap on one of his front teeth that didn’t quite match the rest. Too bad. His hair was brown and medium length. Slightly tousled, it fell in a cascade over his forehead. His skin was very white, nearly blemish-free, except for a swath of freckles across his nose and cheeks that added to his boyish appearance. You would have liked him at first. I’m sure of that.

He patted the seat next to him at the far end of the bar and bought me a drink. I was wearing a short skirt, high leather boots, and no stockings. A long down jacket was draped over my shoulders like a cape, reaching to the floor.

He looked me up and down without apology, weaving this way and that, just a little unsteady on the barstool. He liked what he saw, apparently. With all the beer that had passed his lips that night, he didn’t notice I was wearing a blond wig. I was also wearing my blue contacts. He didn’t notice that either.

He told me a joke about dumb blonds and his hand slapped me on the naked part of my thigh as I pretended to laugh. A minute later, his hand returned to the same spot, tweaking me a little higher up the inside of my leg, like a mischievous child who is sure his antics will be forgiven. I pushed his hand away and he started describing his job and his boss, and I remember thinking, ‘I don’t care about your life, tooth-boy.’ And then there was that hand again, creeping upward along my thigh, and he was chattering away and grinning roguishly at me as though that five-fingered appendage was operating independently of the rest of him, finding its own way in the world.

What’s with the coat, he asked me.

I moved my shoulders as if I were shivering.

I’m cold, I said, hunching over the bar and pulling my arms together. This had the effect of pressing my breasts upward against the unbuttoned top of my shirt. His eyes were glued to that triangle of soft, inviting flesh. There was no subtlety in him.

I could warm you up, tooth-boy said, obviously proud of his wit.

I’ll bet you could, I said, and stood up.

The air was cool and the pale clouds of our breath were caught by a light wind and dispersed as we walked down a deserted side street, westward into a neighborhood of small buildings, passing a row of worn brownstone stoops that extended onto the pavement. I had put on my down coat with its neutral unmemorable color, and I now had a similarly nondescript knitted cap pulled low over my ears. I liked the anonymity of it—the sense that a person passing would see just a slightly drunk guy leading a girl to his apartment and that, if anyone were asked, no essential part of me would stand out to be described.

His arm was around my waist, and he leaned against me to steady himself as we walked. At one point he stopped and pulled me to him, kissing me with his open mouth and wet lips and thick rancid beer breath. His left hand pawed at the front of me but couldn’t get past the armor of my coat.

Not here, you animal, I said to him and he laughed because he thought I was joking.

We lumbered along, trying to match our steps. There was no one on the street but an occasional rat skittering among the garbage cans. Soon we turned up the front stairs to his building and through the dingy foyer with its soiled carpeting and then up one flight where he struggled to get his key in the lock. Here I thought that if I wanted to leave I should do it now. Once I got inside, I knew I would not be able to stop myself. I was already thinking about a certain sunny meadow off a winding backcountry road on a beautiful spring day—the first really warm day of the year—and what was taken from me.

* * * *

His apartment is a pair of rooms that are small and cave-like and untidy. There are dirty clothes everywhere. Dishes with food encrusted on them are stacked in the sink. I imagine that his sheets haven’t been changed for weeks. A vaguely sour odor pervades the air. I tell myself to ignore these unpleasant details. I won’t be here long.

He tosses his jacket onto a chair and looks at me standing in the middle of his living room.

Take off your coat, he says. Stay a while.

There’s that wit of his again.

You take it off, I say.

Grinning, Tooth-boy unzips the down jacket slowly from my neck to my toes and peels it off backwards so that it falls in a heap behind me. He unbuttons my blouse and discovers that I am not wearing a brassiere. Without asking, he leans over and sucks at one nipple and then the other until those tender buds are red and swollen. I am not surprised that he leaves my blouse on and takes off my skirt and then my underpants. It is his pattern, after all. I know him well, although he hasn’t recognized me yet. He’s too intent on his conquest. Too drunk.

What about the boots? he asks.

The boots stay on, I reply.

He is so wonderfully arrogant. He imagines that I want him terribly, that I would gladly suffer small indignities to be possessed by him. His five-fingered appendage travels up the inside of my leg with all the grace of a burrowing mammal. He thinks he will penetrate me with his finger, but I stop him.

Your turn to get undressed, I say.

Tooth-boy grins again. He is quite happy when I peel off his T-shirt, revealing a chest whose muscles are ill-defined and a belly that is soft and spreading. There are wisps of brown hair between his flabby pectorals and around his belly button. I undo his pants next; let them drop to the floor with a thud, then pull down his boxers as the grand finale. He has an above-average penis that is well on the way to tumescence. He seems proud of this, too.

He wants to step out of his pants, but I don’t let him. Smiling, I put my hands on his shoulders and push him down, allowing his tongue to leave a wet trail down my chest and across my stomach like the path of a slug. When his mouth reaches my pubic hair I push him gently backward, meeting his quizzical gaze, never letting on how much I hate him.

I guide him slowly onto his back. I straddle his legs and touch his fully erect penis modestly, as though it were an object of great beauty. His breathing is rushed.

Slow down, I say.

He obeys.

I am his leader now. It is simply a matter of time.

I glide forward and am strangely gratified that he gasps as he enters me while I feel nothing. I may as well be a plastic mannequin. A nerveless receptacle.

Don’t pity me!

I move my hips with exquisite skill and he gasps again. Soon his breathing reaches a rhythm matching the movement of my body on top of his. It is a rhythm that carries him away to a new place. His eyelids flutter closed as he concentrates on the pleasure that I am causing to well up inside, ready to explode. And when his moment arrives and my anger can no longer be contained, I remove the knife that was hidden inside my leather boot and the blade strikes past his naked ribs to his heart, buried to the hilt in his muscle, bone and blood.

Sorry, I say. Did that hurt?

His eyes open, displaying disbelief. And pain, of course.

Remember me now?

But no sound comes from his gaping mouth. Death follows quickly, instantaneously, it seems, although I hope with all my heart that the instant of agony is long enough for him to understand that he has been tricked, and to experience the same gaping loneliness and fear that I once did.

I dress myself calmly and stand above him. The wound is like a red flower pinned to his chest. His eyes are open and unseeing. His arrogance is finally gone. I let the image sink into my mind, set against another of a woman’s pale legs, awkwardly posed, motionless in a field of tall grass, on the first warm day of spring. Quickly it fades away, replaced by darkness, the lapping of river water against a pier. I shudder.

Steeled to my task, I yank the knife from his chest; then the razor-sharp blade severs that part of him that most defined him in life, leaving blood oozing between his legs.

Only then do I fasten my coat, pull the wool cap over my head, and stop to draw my sign upon one bare wall before leaving down the empty halls and into the cool, deserted street.

I am the huntress. Already I am looking for my next trophy.

Praise her, praise Diana.

Chapter Two

On the sidewalk across from the Bloomingdale’s on Lexington Avenue, Judith Frazier sat in a folding chair behind the card table she had set up that Friday morning. She had done this three times a week since her grad school classes had finished for the summer in May. As always, she was wearing old faded jeans, ripped at the knees and tattered at the bottoms of the legs; a wide leather belt, a flannel shirt and over-the-ankle work boots. Her somewhat frizzy, dark hair was held back with a rubber band. Her face was not unattractive, although it showed every one of her 37 years. Whatever. At this stage of her life, no make-up touched her skin, and it never would again.

Wake up, ladies! she yelled in a voice that a friend had once compared to the sound gravel makes when caught between concrete and the treads of a bulldozer. She liked the description. But after an hour and half, she was getting hoarse. Fight back!

On the card table was a stack of literature and a small plastic container for contributions. Taped to the front of the table was a large piece of poster board to which Judith had pasted a montage of pictures gleaned from various books, magazines and newspapers. On the viewer’s right were works of so-called art in which a woman posed naked or semi-naked: the Venus de Milo, Manet’s Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, Rubens’ Rape of the Sabine Women, and scores more by Renoir, Matisse, and Picasso—all of the highest pedigree. As the eye traveled from right to left, these well-known images were mixed with advertisements for perfumes and shoes and makeup and lingerie in which the models wore next to nothing and in most instances were far more suggestive than the naked women in those works of art. Next was a selection of little girls from kindergarten on, dressed up like tarts with short skirts, tight tops, lipstick, eyeliner and blush. Toward the center of the poster board were pictures from men’s magazines, beginning with photographs from early Playboy of women lounging invitingly but demurely on a bed or in a chair with shirts unbuttoned, gowns unzipped, skirts raised over abundant pink flesh, breasts exposed but not a trace of pubic hair. Moving the gaze further left, pictures appeared from more recent publications where nothing was left to be imagined: legs open wide, buttocks spread; all orifices gaping, dripping, some filled with objects of various degrees of creativity. Next were the hard-core shots of women bound with ropes, chains, wire, or pieces of their clothing; women blindfolded or gagged; women tied to beds, to chairs, to trees. Finally, there were the headlines, some yellowed with age, others much more recent, from newspapers all over the country and around the world, attesting to rape, torture, clitoral removal, untreated fistulas, ruined youth, wasted beauty, murder.

Fight back, Ladies! Judith screamed, and took a sip from a bottle of water.

She spotted a woman in her late twenties walking past the table. It wasn’t the first time Judith had seen her in the past several weeks; no doubt, she worked in a nearby office. Today, she was wearing a crisp white blouse and a red silk skirt that was so skintight Judith could see the outline of her legs and pubic area through it as she approached, and every contour of her rear end as she walked by on six-inch heels. Despite her appearance of grossly exaggerated sexuality, Judith was sure a glimmer of understanding existed deep inside her to be nurtured and awakened, and that she could be saved from the ranks of the robotons who sashayed by every hour, caught in the abyss of male domination.

You’re a victim, lady! Wake up! Judith yelled at her.

The woman turned her head slightly and sneered at Judith over her shoulder.

Fuck you, you crazy bitch.

"You think I’m crazy! Judith retorted, her voice rising in pitch and making her throat feel as though it were being rubbed with sandpaper. You’re the one wearing six-inch heels, honey!"

The woman raised her middle finger over her shoulder.

And thong underwear! For Christ’s sake, I can see the dimples on your ass and so can every Mr. Pig on this street.

Judith heard laughter and turned her head swiftly in its direction. Smiles disappeared on the lips of two women and a man.

None of them had the right to laugh at a lost sister. There was nothing funny about this.

Wake up, Ladies! You’re all oppressed! You’re all just little wind-up dolls for the Mr. Pigs in your pathetic lives. Wake up!

She took another sip of water and swallowed hard. She would have to quit soon, or she wouldn’t be able to teach her section of Women’s Studies 1001 later that afternoon. She was working on her Master’s thesis under the tutelage of Professor Sheila Majors at Columbia and had defrayed the exorbitant costs of that education by teaching two sections. Before starting that summer, Sheila had made her promise not to get on a soapbox in her classes, and so far Judith had been able to stop herself from saying all that she felt. But in her heart she was sure that her message should be heard, and would be some day. A few of her students had approached her after class for coffee or a beer, to talk. They knew what she represented and also wanted action, not just words.

Suddenly, Judith noticed the woman in a shapeless dress now standing beside her. She was an older woman by the name of Rose who had stopped to chat before. It was difficult to tell her age. Over the course of their meetings, Judith noticed that she wore a wig and applied an inordinate amount of eyeliner and lipstick and a thick layer of foundation. White gloves covered her hands. Was she trying to look young?

Rose liked to argue that art had value even with its sexist elements, which enraged Judith. But in deference to Rose’s age, Judith had managed to contain her anger so far. The old woman could be forgiven for being hopelessly out of touch.

Good morning, Judith, Rose said. I brought you something I thought you would find interesting.

It annoyed Judith when people assumed they knew what she would find interesting. But then she saw Rose place on the table a copy of The Portal, opened to the new section called Femme, where the first chapter of Diana had been printed.

I have no interest in what Maggie Edwards writes, Judith said, turning away from Rose and toward the passersby. "Getting There was pornography and demeaning to women. And the same goes for Staying There, I’m very sure. Wake up, Ladies!"

But this is not the book that the newspaper has been promising for the past two months, Rose continued with an unusual sense of urgency to her sweet, grandmotherly voice. Marissa isn’t even in it. And the rumor is that someone at the magazine snuck it in without Harry Lesdock even knowing. It’s very exciting. You must read it.

The day I patronize a publication of Harry Lesdock’s is the day the Mr. Pigs of this world start to fly down Lexington Avenue by flapping their arms. I’ll be a salesperson behind the counter of Victoria’s Secret on that day also, Rose. Wake up, Females! You’re oppressed and you haven’t a clue!!

I’ll just leave the paper for you, Rose said gently. She was always giving Judith things to read, like some grade school librarian. Maybe you’ll look at it later.

Rose reached into her handbag and pulled out a five-dollar bill folded up to the size of a quarter. She dropped it into the contribution box, which was even emptier than usual that day.

Thank you, Rose, Judith said gently. She had a soft spot for the old girl.

It looks like someone left you a note, Rose said, pointing.

In the box, Judith saw an index card bent in half. It was the third time this had happened, and she felt her heart begin to beat faster.

I’ll read it later. Thanks.

Rose hesitated, head cocked to the side in apparent disappointment, as though it were only right that Judith share the note’s contents with her. Then she started walking away and Judith followed her progress down the street.

The first note had said simply, Courage! Your time will come. The second was longer—"Watch for the first Gospel to arrive in The Portal. Both had been signed with a large letter D."

When Rose was out of sight, Judith picked up the new note and opened it. Her hands shook with a joy she seldom felt as she imagined what Sheila would say—what she would think—when she heard.

The day has come, the note said. A new beginning beckons. Blood will be spilled. Praise her, praise Diana.

Wake up, Ladies! Judith screamed now, louder and more raucous than ever. Wake up!

She placed the note in her pants pocket, wrapped around the few dollars and loose change that comprised the last two hours’ contributions. Then she folded the copy of The Portal that Rose had left and put it into a folder inside her shoulder bag. She would not have told Rose or anyone else this, but she had already read that exact piece three times and looked forward to a fourth later, in the privacy of her room, in that pre-sleep twilight when all fantasies are free to leap into being.

Effortlessly, Judith could summon up the face that she would substitute for the doomed young man in Maggie’s story. It was a familiar face that she had known for years—a face that smiled down into hers even as he did the unthinkable.

Praise her, praise Diana.

Chapter Three

Jane Larson had promised to meet Maggie at 11:00, but it was past 11:30 by the time she got to the coffee shop on 55th street where her new client waited. That morning’s hearing in Family Court had not gone as planned. At the last possible minute, the husband a/k/a ‘Jerk’ had refused to consent to a protective order which would have barred him from coming anywhere near his girlfriend, the mother of his young child, for 90 days.

Why should I agree? he had said, looking soulfully across the room at Jane’s client, Mariana Morales, a slight, pretty woman with short black hair and light brown skin who seemed to shrink visibly as his voice rose. I didn’t do nothin’.

I guess she gave herself that black eye then, Mr. Torres? Jane retorted with no attempt to disguise her disgust, stepping forward slightly to keep herself physically in line between him and her client. She wasn’t afraid that he would actually attack Mariana, since the court clerk would have knocked him to the floor in a heartbeat. But it seemed that his words, together with his gaze, served as a kind of assault. Her client’s will to proceed was slowly withering. And did she put those thumb marks on her throat, too? I know the bruises have faded but we took photos, and the photos don’t lie, Your Honor.

"She lies, Your Honor, the man said, pointing one blunt finger at Jane. Ask my Mariana. She don’t want to go ahead with this."

Your Honor, he’s scaring her now. It’s obvious.

I beg you, Your Honor! the man had said. Ask Mariana. I am a police officer of ten years’ standing. I don’t hit women.

And on and on.

Finally, Jane had convinced the judge to put the matter over for a week and continue the temporary protective order so she could line up her witnesses. She had spent more precious minutes persuading Mariana that she needed to follow through with the case or the abuse would never end. Afterward, Jane had run over to the N train on Broadway and then hurried again from the 55th Street N train stop to the coffee shop where Maggie was sitting at a corner table. At noon they were supposed to be at the offices of The Portal, the New York tabloid that had agreed to serialize Maggie’s book.

This was not the way Jane had hoped that their first in-person client/lawyer meeting would start. She was anxious to impress Maggie. She had met her once briefly when her mother, Martha, had represented her and also knew her tangentially from her recent activities with WPW—Women Protecting Women—the group Martha had formed, but Jane had never personally represented her as a client. She saw this case as an opportunity to branch out into a different area of the law. Since taking over her mother’s practice a year ago, she’d been bogged down in the matrimonial cases that had been Martha’s bread and butter and was beginning to find them suffocating.

Now, with Maggie across from her at a cramped table, Jane tried to project competence and calm, aware of the minutes passing and the noon hour approaching. That morning she had deliberately pulled on her most businesslike gray Brooks Brothers suit, along with a conservative eggshell-colored blouse. Maggie also was well turned out for the event in a dark maroon dress that dipped across her chest and favored her long legs. Her hair was held back in a large barrette decorated with colored rhinestones that matched her eyes. She attracted the gaze of every man who came into the coffee shop.

Jane looked again at the letter that Maggie had received by messenger 24 hours before, imperiously summoning her to the offices of The Portal for a meeting. Her editor, Anthony Paola, would be there; along with the publisher, Harry Lesdock; and Daniel Meyers, the in-house lawyer who had actually written the letter. They were all waiting to hear Maggie explain why she had breached her contract and what she was going to do to remedy the default. They’d flat-out refused Jane’s request that The Portal postpone the meeting, even for an hour.

Self-important assholes, Jane muttered.

With a frown, she glanced at the legal pad on which she had been taking notes, then tossed the letter and pad onto the table in front of her.

Okay, let me see if I have this straight, Jane said. Although, frankly, it isn’t that complicated. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table, pushing her short blond hair back behind her ears. Complementing her Brooks Brothers suit, a pair of large diamonds sparkled in the lobes of her ears and Cole Hahn loafers graced her feet. She’d kept all the trappings of a Wall Street lawyer at a mega firm, although she had left that job description behind to take over her mother’s practice when Martha died. "You entered into a contract with these bastards to serialize a book they wanted to publish in their new weekly magazine, Femme. She glanced at her notes again, and then back toward Maggie. For a brief moment, when she seemed to wince slightly in sympathy, Jane’s facial resemblance to her late mother Martha was apparent. The book was supposed to be a follow-up to your earlier book, Getting There. Which is why the new book’s title was Staying There."

Correct.

Which is a terrible title, I think.

"I know. But Anthony and Harry wanted the connection to be clear. Getting There was a pretty big success."

And Hiroshima was a pretty big explosion.

Jane glanced at her legal pad again.

I googled you last night and got ‘findingmaggie.com.’ Is that your web site?

"No, not mine. Some gay guy set it up a few years ago. Gay men seem to love Getting There. I’ve met him. He’s okay. I post there sometimes."

"It said you haven’t written anything since Getting There. Is that right?"

That’s right, Maggie replied. She shifted in her chair. Is that important?

It was a question and a statement. She clearly did not want to defend or explain her life right now.

"Well, it explains why The Portal made that deal with you for such a hefty advance, I suppose. They knew your fans had been waiting for something from you for years. It was a no-brainer for Harry Lesdock. I mean, even the women in my classes at Columbia Law School read Getting There, although they may have hid their copies. They all wanted to be Marissa—to have guilt-free sex the way a man does, without a second thought."

I’m glad you liked it, Maggie replied, seeming to count as she breathed in an apparent effort to stay calm.

Jane remembered first seeing Maggie on the back cover of Getting There, addressing the camera boldly in a white shirt knotted at the waist and khaki shorts. How could a woman as sexy and talented as Maggie ever be rattled?

The point is, Jane continued, They weren’t looking for just any book from you. They wanted the sequel, the long-awaited sequel. Lots of people commented about it on that web site.

And I tried to tell them it might not happen, Maggie said.

I saw that too.

Maggie took another deep breath and held it, then let the air out in a series of short quiet bursts. Her hands rested on the corners of the table and her leg jiggled beneath. She seemed like she had something she wanted to tell Jane but wasn’t yet sure if she could be trusted.

"I could not write Staying There, Jane. I tried in good faith, but I couldn’t.