A Stiff Critique (3 page)

He complained about the food for a good ten minutes more, both generally and specifically, with insults for each individual dish. At least his tirade gave me a chance to sample the dishes he was criticizing.

“Maybe if the food was better,” he finished up, “Vicky might consider eating it.”

Vicky clutched her plate of green salad so hard that the veins stood out on her thin arms. But she didn’t say anything. I wasn’t too surprised, though. I had yet to hear her utter a word.

“Speaking of better food,” Nan said. “What’s for dessert?”

“Coconut-honey-date bars,” said Russell Wu, his mild, soothing voice a welcome change from Slade Skinner’s loud haranguing one.

The coconut-honey-date bars were good, too. Even Slade didn’t criticize them. Once they were gone, Nan licked the last crumbs from her fingertips and got up from her chair.

“Past four o’clock, time to toddle on home,” she said, reaching for her purse. “A friend and I are going to that fabulous new Japanese place on Morton for dinner tonight. And I have to get up hideously early tomorrow to sell some red-hot real estate.”

One by one, everyone began to stand then, shuffling, stretching and reaching for belongings. Travis and Donna turned toward the kitchen.

“The next group meeting will be at my house on Saturday afternoon,” Carrie told us before anyone could leave the room. “We will be reviewing Slade’s and Donna’s manuscripts. Everyone should have received copies at the last meeting.” She looked around. No one contradicted her. “And if each of you would please prepare to tell Kate a little about your own work at the next meeting, it would be appreciated.”

I watched people nodding, wondering if I should speak up. I wasn’t at all sure I was actually coming to the next meeting, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to say so. And then it was too late. Everyone was moving and talking again.

“Mave, I brought you those pamphlets from the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,” Travis said as he trailed the older woman into the kitchen.

“Need a ride?” Russell asked Joyce.

“No, I’ll take the bus,” she answered.

“You’ll be wanting a copy of my manuscript,” a voice whispered, very close behind me.

I jumped and turned to see Slade, less than a foot away, smiling down at me. He shoved a sheaf of white paper in my direction. I caught it as it connected with my chest.

“
Cool Fallout
” he said with a wink.

“What?” I said back.

“
Cool Fallout,
it’s my newest manuscript. Not many people get to see it in this form, Kate. You’ll enjoy it. See how a real writer works.”

“Oh, thanks.” I turned to look for Carrie.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Doing?” I repeated, looking back at him. The smile was still on his weasely face. The man wasn’t asking me out, was he?

“Know a great place for a late dinner,” he said. God, he
was
asking me out. I wouldn’t have thought short, dark and A-line would be his type. “California cuisine—”

“I have to work tonight,” I cut in.

“But you’re your own boss—”

“We’re the worse kind,” I assured him, looking around for Carrie in earnest now.

She came striding over from the direction of the kitchen, Tupperware in hand. And I was glad to see her. But before we could leave, Slade asked
her
out to dinner. Right in front of me. And he kept on talking after Carrie had politely refused his offer.

“I had a little talk with my agent about your sci-fi novel,” he told her. “She might be interested in shopping it around. I thought we could talk about it over dinner.”

I waited for Carrie to tell him off. But she didn’t.

“Perhaps, since everyone else is gone, Kate and I could stay a little longer. Then you and I could discuss the idea,” she suggested quietly.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Why was she so compliant? This wasn’t Carrie.

“Sorry,” Slade told her, not looking sorry at all. “You can’t stay. I’ve got a secret meeting at five. It’s with someone in the group. Wouldn’t you like to know who?”

“It wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?” Carrie replied sharply.

Finally, the smile left Slade’s face.

“But I do appreciate the trouble you have taken to speak to your agent on my behalf,” Carrie backpedaled quickly. I could tell by the way her fingers were wiggling what an effort the courteous words were for her. “Perhaps I could visit for a short time after your other meeting is over.”

“Come back at six-thirty,” Slade ordered. He was smiling again.

“Ye gods and goddesses, that man is arrogant,” Carrie fumed as she pulled away from the curb into the wide, tree-lined street.

Slade Skinner was lucky enough to live in Hutton, the most expensive town in Marin County. And that’s saying a lot. Hutton’s streets were not only wide and tree-lined, they were quiet. I couldn’t see another car or person in either direction. Not even a cat or a dog.

“Sometimes I find it very difficult to treat Slade as a fellow human being,” Carrie went on. “Sometimes I wonder if he
is
a fellow human being. Do you believe the man actually writes in red ink with a quill-tipped pen? From a crystal ink well, no less?”

“Then why did you agree to see him?” I demanded as I snapped on my seat belt.

“His agent is Hildegarde Tucker,” Carrie answered in a whisper.

“And?”

“Hildegarde Tucker is one of the best agents in New York. If she agrees to represent me, I’ll probably have a real career in writing. If not…” She took one hand off the steering wheel and waved it dismissively.

“Can this woman really make such a big difference in your career?” I asked.

“Yes,” Carrie answered simply.

She drove a few more scenic blocks in silence, then added, “Hildegarde Tucker only represents the best writers. And the best-selling ones. Kate, it could mean everything.”

I looked at her round, freckled face. Her brows were puckered into an expression that looked serious now, even desperate. My chest ached as I saw that expression. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter who Slade’s agent was. That she shouldn’t kowtow to him. That she would do just fine on her own. But I didn’t really know any of that.

“Is Slade a good writer?” I asked instead.

“Yes, he is. Actually he is a
very
good writer. His thrillers are literally thrilling, real page-turners.
Cool Fallout
is an extremely well-crafted and engrossing novel. But Slade himself—” She sighed and shrugged in one elegant gesture.

“If he’s such a big-deal writer,” I demanded, “then why’s he in the critique group?”

“I believe he’s lonely,” Carrie answered after a moment’s thought. “I would guess that he doesn’t have very many friends, if any. And he is always on the lookout for women.” She rolled her eyes. “Slade Skinner is such a Lothario. Sometimes I think his chief interest in our writers’ group is to seduce its members. He’s already seduced Nan. And he isn’t interested in men. Or anyone over fifty. So that leaves Joyce, Donna, Vicky and myself. And he thinks Vicky is too thin.”

“Vicky
is
too thin,” I put in.

“Well,
I’m
certainly not too thin,” Carrie said with a smile. “I almost wish that I were. That damn fool man asks me to have dinner with him every time I see him. And each time I say no, he acts completely surprised—completely astounded— that I don’t want that kind of relationship with him.” She waved a hand. “If I were going to be in a relationship, it wouldn’t be with Slade Skinner. And I haven’t been in a relationship for years, anyway. My kids keep telling me to get a life.”

“How are your kids?” I asked on cue. I was tired of talking about Slade Skinner.

“They’re doing well.” Her deep voice grew warm and relaxed. Even her hands seemed to relax on the wheel as she pulled onto the highway. “Thank the divine powers that be, Cyril Junior only has two more years of school. Then I’m free from the supporting role of Bank of Mom.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Thank you, Ms. Jasper.” She flashed me a smile. Then her face grew serious again. “Kate, do you suppose you could come with me to Slade’s tonight?”

“Well…” I considered the idea. “It might be a little weird. I already told him I was busy working tonight.”

“Never mind,” she murmured.

“Hold on,” I told her. “I’m not saying no. I just have to think of some excuse—”

“Perhaps you could pretend you left the casserole dish behind that you brought your noodles in?”

“Damn, I
did
leave my casserole dish!”

It took us less than two minutes to come up with a plan. I would drive back to Hutton in time to reach Slade’s at six-forty, looking for my Corning Ware. Carrie assured me she couldn’t get in too much trouble in ten minutes. Then I’d sit in on her discussion with Slade. Afterwards, Carrie and I would go out to dinner. Her treat, she insisted. Once that was settled, she asked after Wayne, a fond smile gentling her face.

I was pretty sure that fondness was as much for Wayne as it was for myself. Carrie was one of the few people I knew who was able to instantly engage my shy significant other in conversation. Extended conversation. The last time Carrie had visited us, she and Wayne had discussed the relationship of body chemistry, self-determination, virtue, angst, prescription drugs and reincarnation until two in the morning. I had lost the thread somewhere around midnight.

“Wayne’s fine,” I told her. “He’s visiting with his uncle for a couple of weeks. He wants to work on some of his ‘childhood issues’ before we get married.”

“But I thought he was eager to marry you,” Carrie objected.

“Now he thinks he’s unworthy,” I told her. “You know Wayne.” I leaned back in my seat, seeing his kind, homely face in my mind’s eye. And his muscular body. I let out an involuntary sigh, then sat up straight again. “Now that I’ve finally agreed to marry him, he’s going through these fits of self-consciousness and worthlessness.”

“And you?”

“I love him more than ever,” I admitted. I could feel my face redden as I said it, much as I told myself that love was nothing to be embarrassed about. But after Nan’s reading—

“Anyway,” I went on quickly. “Now my ex-husband’s heard that we might get married, and he’s trying to win me over again. He thinks he’s being subtle, but he’s not—”

“But Craig instigated the divorce!” Carrie interrupted indignantly. It was just as well Craig wasn’t in the car with us subject to that indignation, I decided.

“Craig left me all right. But then he decided he shouldn’t have. Which was too bad. We were actually friends for a while after we separated. But now he’s determined to get romantic again.” I stuck my finger down my throat and made gagging sounds.

Carrie threw her head back and laughed. The conversation got lighter after that. By the time she pulled into my driveway, she was talking about her kids again, bragging really, not that she’d ever admit it.

I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and climbed out of the car.

“See you at six-forty,” I told her.

She shot me a grin and a salute before backing out of the driveway, popping gravel.

I clumped up my front stairs, smiling.

My cat, C.C., greeted me with a deep-throated yowl of displeasure when I opened the front door. Then she tilted her head to stare at me. C.C. was a black, overstuffed sausage of a cat with beret-and goatee-shaped white spots that gave her face a certain rakish charm. Especially when she tilted her head. She untilted it and began yowling even louder. So much for charm.

I picked C.C. up with one hand and with the other dropped my purse and Slade’s manuscript on the nearest pinball machine. Then I crossed the entryway to the dining room, which served as my office, rubbing my chin against C.C.’s silky fur on the way.

At least there was nothing on my answering machine from the Jest Gifts crew. Saturday or not, I had expected another call. We were having an employee crisis at Jest Gifts. The parents of my second warehousewoman, Jean, were getting a divorce. That might not sound like an employee crisis, but it was. Jean wasn’t upset about the divorce, she was devastated. On Friday, she had cried all day and sent out two dozen hollow-tooth mugs to an opthalmologist instead of the eyeball mugs he had ordered. Among other things.

I gave silent thanks that there were no messages, then sat down at my desk and let C.C. get comfortable in my lap. Once she was blissfully purring and clawing my thighs, I took a deep breath and pulled out the file folder of poetry I had hidden beneath my desk blotter.

“‘We return home like magpies,’“ I read. “‘Each of us bearing a brightly colored scrap of conversation. He said, she said, I said—’“

Damn. That was awful! And I wasn’t even sure if magpies were the right kind of birds. Why had I believed I could write poetry? I could just imagine Slade Skinner’s sneering critique. I shoved the folder back under the blotter with a shiver. It was time to get back to gag gifts.

Design or paperwork? I ran my eye over the towering stacks of paperwork on my desk. Then I got out a pencil and began to sketch.

It was just six-thirty when I remembered my promise to interrupt Carrie and Slade’s tête-à-tête.