Words Unspoken (19 page)

Ted lowered his voice. “What is this foundation? Stash Green Cash? Kind of strange. Seven million bucks, and she controls it all? You think it’s legit?”

Edmond Clouse sat back in his chair and folded his big hands behind his head. “I think that it’s none of our business. My business is to give the novel the best marketing plan possible, and yours is to take good care of her money. She can spend it however she wishes. But you reassure her, you hear? That’s your job while we make sure the marketing plan is working and we keep enough books in stock to supply the demand.”

They talked strategy, looked over her accounts, then Edmond gave him a tour of the offices. By noon the meeting was over.

“Can I buy lunch for you, Ted?”

“Thank you for the offer, but actually I’m having lunch with one of your editors. Silvano Rossi.”

“
Assistant
editors,” Edmond said, and Ted noted the slightest irritation in his voice. “Why did Silvano ask you to lunch?”

“Something about an article he’s writing on authors and the stock market—how to help your midlist authors choose a broker and make wise investments with their money.”

“Really? I had no idea he was working on something like that. Well, good for him.”

They shook hands, and Edmond called his secretary on his intercom. “Leah, can you please take Mr. Draper to Silvano’s office? Oh, and pick up copies of the S. A. Green novels for Mr. Draper, please.”

________

Silvano took Ted Draper to Emile’s, a popular French restaurant among Atlantans, only two blocks from the Youngblood offices. He certainly didn’t want Edmond Clouse or Leah spying on their conversation. They needed privacy.

One thing was immediately apparent. Ted Draper was dressed for success. Good taste in clothes. Gregarious personality that doubtless helped him garner clients.

The restaurant was crowded, but the tables were well spaced, making it an appropriate setting for informal business meetings where conversations could be exchanged without having to shout to be heard.

“Your boss is an interesting man,” Ted offered, after drinks had been served and they had both ordered the lunch special.

“Very. And persuasive.”

“Overly so?”

“No. No, Edmond Clouse knows the publishing world. He’s as good as it gets.”

No need to say anything negative about the boss. Put Ted at ease.

“He’s worked with the best in the business. I’ve handled some of the bigwigs for him—you know, lunch with Conroy, drinks with Wolfe. Updike has stopped by on occasion to chat. We’re a medium-sized publishing house, but only because Clouse wants to keep it that way. We’ve earned the respect of the larger houses, that’s for sure. And the finest authors. And Clouse is careful about whom he hires.”

Ted looked sufficiently impressed.

“So where are you from, Ted?”

“Born and raised up East. Boston. Went to MIT, met my wife there. We both went to business school at Columbia. Best offer after business school was way down here in Atlanta.”

“I thought your accent was nothing like the Southern drawl. And have you acclimated to Atlanta?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, and his dimples spread across his face.

Silvano imagined he had success not only with stocks and bonds but with the ladies too, even if he was married.

“Yeah. We like it a lot. Atlanta’s a great place to raise a family. Good private schools, good sports, the mountains and the sea not too far in either direction. And it’s becoming more cosmopolitan by the year. We do take a trip north once or twice a year just to see old friends. And what about you? There’s an accent I perceive that certainly isn’t Southern— maybe not quite American?”

“I’m from Rome. Rome, Italy—not Rome, Georgia.”

They both chuckled.

“Rome. Wow. Okay. So what brought you to Atlanta, Silvano?”

“I received a scholarship to study here, and my family saw this as an excellent opportunity.” This was not the whole truth, but the story always sounded impressive. “I came to the States at the beginning of ninth grade, lived with my father’s sister in Decatur throughout high school, then worked my way through Emory University with a degree in journalism. Landed my first job here eighteen months ago.”

“So you came to the States and learned English and put yourself through college—a good school, no less. Not bad. Do you ever get back to Rome?”

“Oh, yeah. My mother couldn’t handle not seeing me at least once a year. In August. The hottest time of the year is when I go home.”

And help them sell postcards, rosary beads, and gelato.

“Last summer, while I was in the Holy City, I hosted a small affair for Armani and Gucci.”

Well, not exactly hosted—a waiter at the restaurant, helping out a friend of his mother’s.

Ted raised his eyebrows and nodded, again sufficiently impressed. “Wow. So tell me what you’re thinking, Silvano. You said you’re writing an article on authors and investments?”

“Exactly.” He plunged into his list of questions, careful to avoid any reference to S. A. Green for the first fifteen minutes. Eventually he ventured into that territory as they discussed the different ways to invest: stocks, bonds, CDs, mutual funds, and, for more speculative accounts, options.

Cautiously, Silvano probed. “Of course, Miss Green is not your usual author. She’s guaranteed a huge sales figure for her books. What do you advise for most of our authors—midlisters whose books sell between ten thousand and thirty-five thousand?”

“Honestly, Silvano, S. A. Green is my first author client. I stumbled on to her by good fortune. So maybe you should talk to Jerry Steinman. But for what it’s worth, I’ll give you my gut feeling—the way I handle all my clients. You have to
know
them first. Have to understand their personalities. And do what they say. I don’t believe in pushing too hard. If they’re risk takers, then by all means go for it. But if they are blue chip conservative, like Miss Green, well, you honor that.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the terminology.”

“Some clients like to take big risks with stocks that aren’t as stable. If they invest and it goes up, they make big bucks fast.”

“But Miss Green isn’t like that?”

“No. Very protective of her foundation …” Ted’s face paled. He fiddled with a fork, twirling it on his fingers. “What are your other questions?”

Silvano pretended not to notice. “So could you explain the procedure in procuring a broker?”

“Often the broker makes the initial contact. But I also receive calls from a potential client, and best of all, referrals from a present client. We talk over the phone and then I arrange a meeting. Face-to-face if at all possible. As I said, my job is to know my clients.”

“And you know Miss Green? You’ve met her in person?”

“We’ve met, yes.”

“Lucky you.”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

“Pretty odd bird, isn’t she?”

Ted frowned. “Silvano, we are not here to talk about Miss Green.”

“No, of course not. All right. Just a few more questions. How about a quote or two—something along the line of what a brokerage firm could offer an author? Something to use as bait.”

“Bait? I’d prefer to have clients who want to be investing with me. Completely aboveboard.”

“Of course. Of course. Now, about that quote …”

________

Ted didn’t much care for Silvano Rossi. An opportunist was his evaluation. Those beady black eyes, the slicked-back black hair, the top-of-themark suit, probably something Italian. He looked like an actor wannabe or an advertisement for Gucci or some other fashion designer whose name he had dropped during the conversation. And he looked hungry—overeager. In fact, Silvano’s constant name-dropping was annoying.

Ted tossed his briefcase, now filled with three novels by S. A. Green, into the back of his Mercedes, got in, and drove out of the parking lot onto Peachtree Street. Something was bothering him. He did not like this feeling, especially since he could not put his finger on it. The meeting with Edmond Clouse had gone exceptionally well. They would work well together. The interview with Silvano might get him a few new clients too. Maybe not another S. A. Green, but still, it could prove profitable.

But why did the Italian get under his skin so? Why did he suddenly feel so deflated?

The answer came at once.

Because you’re staring at a younger
you
—Silvano Rossi doesn’t have your natural graces, but you see through him. You see through him straight to your heart.

That unpleasant thought flashed across his mind like ticker tape. And like ticker tape, within a few seconds it was off the screen, removed. Gone.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6

Silvano brought his steaming cup of espresso to the little table at the back of the bookstore. Surrounded by the smell of old leather and musty books, he read the last pages of S. A. Green’s fourth novel,
Passage from Nowhere.
He closed the novel, satisfied. The lady sure could write!

Silvano could have spent all day every day huddled in the back of The Sixth Declension. It was a small private bookstore, a relic of sorts in this part of Atlanta. The people frequenting the store were Latin teachers and lovers of Greece and Italy and ancient history. The shelves were stuffed with histories of the Roman Empire by Herodotus, Plutarch, and Livy; Greek classics by Homer, Euripides, and Sophocles; stories of the Renaissance; old art books with beautifully reproduced photos of the works of Da Vinci and Raphael and Tintoretto and Caravaggio and Carracci. Some of the same reproductions lined the walls of the shop, so that he could look around the room and be back in Rome, standing in front of St. Peter’s or staring up at the Sistine Chapel and complimenting Michelangelo.

He had discovered the little bookstore years ago when he was in high school. Well, actually, his aunt had recommended it to him. Tucked between other little shops on Church Street in downtown Decatur, a stone’s throw from Atlanta, Silvano had claimed his spot. When the horrible tentacles of homesickness strangled him, he slipped inside the store, greeted owner Evan Jones—who, in spite of his vanilla name, knew more about Latin and ancient Rome than the pope himself—and found a seat in the corner to study literature and political science.

Evan and The Sixth Declension deserved a lot of credit for the fact that Silvano Rossi had stayed in America, stayed in Atlanta, Georgia, when every fiber in him had wanted to return to Rome. To
Italia
. With Evan, he spoke Italian and even read week-old copies of the Italian newspaper
Il Corriere della Sera
, to which Evan subscribed.

Today, as Silvano smoked his Italian Diana and sipped the espresso that Evan made expressly for him—their little pun—he composed a letter to Miss S. A. Green. Ted Draper had managed a face-to-face meeting with the eccentric novelist. By gosh, he would too. He would.

________

“Dad, Mrs. Gruder invited me to drive with her to Atlanta on Saturday. We want to check out a bookstore there—the one I used to go to when I was in all the Latin competitions. She’s taking three students to the regionals, and asked if I could help her get some books to prepare them.”

“Mrs. Gruder. I remember her. Sounds like a great idea, Liss. I know how much you like that little store. It’ll do you good to go to Atlanta.”

“And I’ve asked her to drive me out to see Caleb on our way back to Chattanooga.” She said it quickly, throwing out the information before he could protest. “And she’s fine with that too. So I won’t be getting home until late Saturday evening.”

For a moment the tempest held at bay; the storm in Dad’s eyes brewed, but she thought it might not erupt. She was wrong.

He cursed. “Melissa! Are you just plain deaf? I’ve told you not to go see him! It is too dangerous. I forbid it!” His fist thundered onto the table, and a plate sitting too close to the edge fell off and shattered.

Lissa ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, and slammed her door. She felt the perspiration above her lip, the trembling of her hands. She wished Mr. MacAllister were there to calm her. As it was, she huddled on the needlepoint rug near the bed, where she did her sit-ups. Only today she held herself tightly, rocking back and forth and crying and sucking in deep gulps of air. She hated him! Hated him!

That thought punctured the panic attack, and she grabbed the spiral notebook and began to write.

My life is separated into two parts and only two parts: before the accident and Now. Now is a curse, Now is an endless black spiral into despair. Now is condemnation.

I try to look around the Now, the accusation. I think of the horse shows, or Momma singing in the church choir, or of the Latin competitions—but then I hear the whisper. I can’t think of that because it propels me to Now. Now without her.

I try to lose myself in a novel, but the strangest things bring me back to Now, without her. Any word, any reference can do it—the mention of a mother or a happy family. I am back to Now.

At the library, sometimes, when I’m with children who are lost in their little worlds, I get lost too—before or after, but not the present. That is what I live for. Away from Now.

Away from Dad. I cannot help it. If I cannot escape the guilt, the haunting voices, I will drag him into the hole with me. This is what I hear. This is what I tell myself.

Why did it have to be her? Why not him? If he had died in that grisly accident, Momma and I would have sobbed for days, holding on to each other for strength, for life. Cried until no tears were left and then slept and cried again. We loved him!

But eventually, eventually, we would have talked. We would have sat silently and then cried and then talked, remembering the good times, maybe even giggling, so worn out from grief that the silliness of fatigue would settle on us. Crying and giggling and holding and mourning, and it would all have been healthy and right and horrible and necessary.

But with him, it is silence and fury!

I used to love him. I know I used to love him. But once the past is lost, what does it take to reinvent a life?