Roll with the Punches (2 page)

" … The number of adjectives on his first page is staggering, but with some work …" she rattled on.

Adjectives? I'd give her adjectives. Mean. Nasty. Presumptuous. Tiny. Six-legged.

"Raise your hand if you agree?" Yvette said.

It was just like third grade. Except, unlike the teacher, Yvette was standing next to me and she couldn't see the faces I was making.

Marian Olsen, knitting at the end of the table, was amused. Jackie Shawn, our hostess, listening in from the kitchen, was snickering. And George Bonner, ogling Yvette from across the table, was bald.

Yvette held forth. " … so you see …" The group had listened way too long.

"Yvette, you want me to kill my first two chapters?" James finally got in edgewise.

Yvette's green eyes glowed. "Oh, James, don't get me wrong. I really love your premise, but if we picked up the action in chapter two or three, put the reader right in the story, Rhonda wouldn't be falling asleep by page ten.”

Grrrr. "I wasn't—"

"Falling asleep?" James turned wounded blue eyes on me—lagoon-blue eyes that made him both vulnerable and edible amidst the warm woods and elegant furniture in Jackie's newly renovated house.

"No, I—rough day. It’s not his fault," I said.

Yvette took his hand. "I know it's hard to hear this, but trust me, James." Was she batting her lashes? This dining room just wasn't big enough for the both of us.

See, I have this uncanny ability to take one look at a person and know their deepest desire. Of course, at age twelve, my sister wouldn't admit it when I'd revealed her desire to kiss Tom Selleck silly, and my best friend Harley called me a "fortune killer." But right now, I knew what Little Miss Spider had her sights on, besides control of our writers' group, and she couldn't have him. Ever.

"I didn't fall asleep the first time I read it." My chin went up. "In fact, I think James's first page—actually, his whole first draft—is a terrific effort for a beginning writer. And he's very brave for reading tonight after an absence of what? Three months?"

"Absolutely." Marian agreed, pushing her short, sassy gray hair back. Her gray eyes sparkled. Author of a successful series, she had recently switched from writing mystery and suspense to writing non-fiction when her novel research had turned up more intriguing things to write about in real life. Her secret wish was to paraglide with Colin Firth on her sixtieth birthday.

"I liked the hors d'oeuvres shaped like breasts." Jackie's words floated in on a waft of coffee and pastry smells from the stove. She wrote erotica that made me blush. Her deepest desire: a gold Porsche, a villa in Nice, and a firmer butt.

George finked out on me. "The party scene was fun, but James needs to clarify his character motivation." George wrote and published sexy mysteries with a female detective named Marta. I really didn't want to know his innermost desires.

James smiled his thanks at us. A lock of brown hair curled on his wide forehead, a yummy lock that would look fantastic in the portrait I planned to paint for the hallway of our first house. Oh, yes. I had plans for that noble forehead and the spark in those vivid blue eyes. Plans that included many years of hot, sweaty nights, cool romantic days and travel to exotic realms.

Unfortunately, we hadn’t really dated. Yet. We'd attended the odd sports event together, like buddies. He'd been attached and I'd been burned by other guys. But I'd known him for ten months now, and this morning, he'd finally emailed me and asked me for a lunch date for tomorrow. Now, just the sight of the man flipped my lust switch to
OVERDRIVE
. Hell, I might just jump the gun after this meeting tonight and ask that cute lock of hair out to coffee again, and this time I'd reach out and pull it close and kiss that strong, perturbed mouth underneath for an eternity or two. If Yvette ever stopped trying to slash and burn his manuscript.

I cleared my throat and butted in. "People. Without James's first two chapters, you'll need a bunch of dreaded flashbacks to show the murder."

Marian said to no one in particular, "I love flashbacks.”

I went on, "I mean (A) Chapter one clearly shows that awkward period after two people meet and feel some kind of pull, but aren't sure what to do about it. And (B) it makes the main character, Charlie, human with all that depression and the bad hair." I looked up. "And (C) How will James's readers feel if Ariel completely disregards Charlie's problems and just throws herself at him right there on the kitchen island at her parents' thirtieth anniversary party?"

Yvette picked up James's chapter. "Who's Charlie? This says Fabiolino."

James's perfect brows drew together, but then he smiled, showing delicious dimples three deep. "Oh. I—uh—changed it, Rhonda. Doesn't Fabiolino sound better?"

Marian nodded.

"Fabiolino?" I winced.

George muttered, "He learned that from you, Rhonda—changing all the character names just when we get used to them.”

These were good people. I just smiled at their needling because my mind had snagged on the idea of kitchen island sex. Perfect. Tonight, after the meeting, I'd bypass the coffee shop. I'd lure James to my place and throw myself at him. I was nearly thirty-five years old, for God's sake, the same as James. My mother wanted grandchildren. If this damned editorial insect would just stop buzzing between me and my future children's father.

Yvette said, "What if they'd met before the book started? And do we really need depression in a hero? Don't you think Fabiolino might be on Zoloft for that, or maybe have some other problem?"

"Like what? A bad back? An ulcer? Gingivitis?" George's new diamond pinky ring sparkled.

Yvette looked pained. "That way, the sexual tension could already be thick and they could start right off with finding the body.”

"Gingivitis?" I said. Who had asked Yvette here anyway? She was making all the men crazy. So she was a published author with editing experience. And so she was probably right about this one scene. But surely James didn't need such a complete and painful rewrite after all the help I'd—we'd—already given him.

George's dark-rimmed glasses drooped. "Be careful prescribing Zoloft to your characters, James. Those antidepressants do their job so well that you're too happy to chase girls. And your libido … trashed." He reddened and cleared his throat. "Um, rough draft, Rhonda. He needs to hone it.”

"But not destroy it," I said. How dare George aid and abet the insect? And why was he even talking tonight? Usually, George's muse kicked in at meetings, and he wrote half of his work sitting right in front of us. But tonight, he just sat and memorized Yvette's fuzzy pink chest.

"It doesn’t need as much honing as your second drafts, George." Marian said.

"Break time!" Jackie Shawn, our curvaceous hostess, breezed in with a tray full of cookies, pumpkin bread, coffee and tea. Amber eyes gleamed above her generous mouth, and her low, breathy Southern drawl rivaled Marilyn Monroe's in sex appeal.

"Wait, I have something to read," I said. "In case we haphazard chatterboxes don't get back on track after break."

Marian smirked at her knitting.

I pulled out four new pages of my work in progress and read them aloud while the cookie munching began. Then I looked up for comments.

"Clarify your character's motivations," George said, inhaling pumpkin bread.

"I got lost somewhere after the lab explosion," Marian said, "But I liked that cute lab tech.”

"More sex, honey," said Jackie. "Make 'em sweat."

"I think it's great." James's boyish smile made my insides go all squishy.

Yvette smiled painfully. "Oh dear. The scene's a total madhouse. Too many characters.”

My hackles rose. Nobody got near my characters without my permission.

"Well. If there's no other comment for Rhonda," Yvette turned to James and touched his pages. "James, I have an idea. Editing's dead easy for me. What say we nip out to Nick's for lunch Thursday, maybe work on your book? And since you're a novice, I'll skip the consulting fee." She trilled this last. "This time."

My fingers itched to snap a tiny wrist or two. My reading had gotten roughly two seconds of discussion while James got a free consult? And she'd wormed more charmed and confused looks out of him in one evening than I'd managed in the ten months since he'd joined our group.

"Hey, Rhonda. Want to come, too?" James's hair lock bobbed invitingly before Yvette leaned forward to block our line of vision.

"Sure, Rhonda," Yvette said before I could go all warm and squishy again. "We can thin out your cast of subordinate characters down from seven to three or four. Trim the fat."

Was she eyeing my midsection? I'd just lost ten pounds. I checked my pockets for matches to set her hair on fire.

She continued, "I mean, take your nerdy chem-lab sidekick with the four Ping-Pong tables, the pet gerbils, and the fear of nitrogen and spandex—not very 3-D. Is he necessary, Rhonda?"

"Joe Chemlab?" I thumped the thick paper manuscript that Jackie had just returned to me. "In my first book,
Memory Serves,
he was the guy who found the cure. And in this new book, which is a sequel to that, he's a victim. Hey, everyone, cross your fingers. The whole
Memory Serves
manuscript went off to four interested agents on Friday.”

"Yay!" they all sang, tea cups clinking. "Here's to Rhonda's bestseller!"

Little pink talons glommed onto my copy of
Memory Serves
and Yvette stuck her nose inside. Hah. She'd see just how much our group could do without a "leader.”

Memory Serves
had been so easy to write. Although I knew a vast majority of books never made it to print, I could feel in my bones that this would be my breakout book, the real start of my paid writing career. My first two books, paranormal romances, hadn't been published. No editor or agent five years before had wanted a love story between a vampire and a mermaid, even if the hero became a shrimp-lover to please the fish-lady and she resigned herself to his guano trailing around the house. My first published book, a children's adventure about a warrior bat and his feisty female fish friend, sort of a
Stellaluna Meets Nemo
, was still finding its audience.

But my latest book idea,
Memory Serves
, was so great that I'd gone against my parents' advice and taken a month off work this last summer to finish it, and was now hawking it widely to agents and editors. Synchronicity had found four agents asking me for full manuscripts, all this very week. It had been a bit naughty to send all four at the same time, as most agents preferred not to waste their time on reading a manuscript when another agent might snap it up, but I was desperate. My work hours had been cut in half when I had returned to work from my month off, and now my savings were almost gone. I needed this book to sell, and quickly. Besides, how would the agents know I'd sent it to other agents? They were rivals, not friends.

"Well, I'm not asking for a bestseller right off the bat," I said. "I just want a little book contract to help me with mortgage payments.”

"On your half-million-dollar condo in Rancho Santa Margarita," George mumbled.

Okay. So I
was
hoping for a bestseller. But even if this book had mild success, I could build on that and some day maybe live my dream: to write full-time.

"Still dreaming about writing full-time?" George asked.

I went red. "If I have to get some seventy-hour-a-week job, I'll never have time to write another word."

Yvette looked up smugly. "The true writer cannot be stopped. He writes anywhere—in the lift or in the loo, if necessary."

Marian nodded. "On paper towels and napkins."

Jackie said, "I once wrote a poem on a sanitary napkin."

Marian said, "And we sweat over this stuff for years and get thirty-nine cents per paperback and have to pay taxes and Medicare out of that. Only the big guns can make a living off it.”

"James Patterson and Nora Roberts," agreed Jackie. "I've had several book contracts, but I still can't quit my day job or go live in Bel Air." Jackie sold solar heaters, and from the looks of her house, business was good. "But the point is we still do it because we love it."

James changed the subject, making eye contact with me again around Yvette. "Come on, Rhonda. Lunch'll be fun,"

What a sly dude, acting all innocent, like he hadn't emailed me that very morning, telling me he was lonely since his last breakup and asking me for a lunch date at Darya Delhi tomorrow, a full day before this proposed meeting with Yvette. Well, after what I had planned for this evening, James would only have lunch dates with me, anyway.

I winked at him. "I don't know. Nick's is so far from the library. And I've already had three long lunches this month. Marla will take me off the reference desk and put me back in filing if I'm late again." Oops. Open mouth, insert foot.

"Three long lunches?" Jackie said, bringing in fresh muffins.

"Blueberry. Mmmm." I reached for one, but she pulled the tray away.

Brushing cookie crumbs off her low-necked sweater, Jackie plunked her ample fake-blond self down between me and the food. She gazed at me over her reading glasses. "I need details, Rhonda. Who? What? When? Where? And what did you wear?"

Deflect, deflect. "Are those new dishes, Jackie?" I pointed at the gold-rimmed fantasia of dishes displayed in a new cherry china cabinet.

"Faberge Anais Palace," she breathed, like she'd just kissed someone. "Thirteen hundred dollars per place setting. My dream-ware.”

"Where'd you get the new china cabinet?" I said, reaching around her toward a muffin.

She slapped my hand away. "Good try, dear, but you got no details, you get no muffins."

"Work it, Jackie." George grinned like a hyena. "You know how long it's been since that Peter episode. Rhonda's gotta be desperate for a boyfriend. Is this bread homemade? Mmm."

Okay. It was true. I had been loved and left so many times that there were now neon
ARRIVAL
and
DEPARTURE
boards posted outside my condo. But since when was George authorized to keep track of all the trains leaving my station?