The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

covered with long sleeves instead of the short or rolled sleeves she favored. Ugh, she thought, I look like I’ve squeezed into a stranger’s skin.

She’d first met Mr. Ashworth at his Harper office four years ago, just before she and her mother sailed for the West Indies. He’d expressed enthusiasm for the project she and her mother proposed then, a report on her island adventures, but then she’d failed to produce the manuscript, and he’d rejected Helen’s rendering of the trip. Still, he was an established editor at a major publishing house, and he was familiar with her reputation.

Six months earlier, she’d telephoned him and reported she was revising a new novel, a tale of adventure. Would it be of any interest? Yes, he’d love to consider it, so she’d worked feverishly on the revision. As arranged, just last month, her knees nearly clacking with trepidation, she’d handed Lost Island over to him.

Imagining him reading her novel left her jittery as jello. She’d only shared a few chapters with Ethan and Alice. They liked it, but then they grasped the spirit behind it. Mr. Ashworth only knew her through her previous work, and he might expect something similar—whimsical and airy. But he must understand she’d surpassed the age of mere child’s fancy. And Lost Island pleased in a different way—with its playful, frank romance and sobering commentary on greed and the emptiness of pointless work.

Nevertheless, turning it over to him left her feeling as vulnerable as a cast-off kitten. She’d considered showing it to her father first—to get his advice on whether it was ready for submission—but quickly rejected that strategy. How could she trust him after he’d steered her wrong on “Poppy Island”? And succumbed to an utterly fool-headed romance?

She arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria ten minutes before one. Certainly, the hostess told her, Herbert Ashworth had made a reservation. Would she like to be seated? Yes. She selected the seat facing the entrance, arranged her skirt over her knees, and crossed her ankles. The menu spread open before her, but she couldn’t absorb the words. She glanced at the entrance and, self-conscious of showing her anxiety, looked away. She forced herself to study the menu. No, not a sandwich. She’d have to eat with her hands, and she didn’t want to be so informal. Lasagna might do. Or would it be too heavy on her gurgling stomach? She really should choose something lighter. She didn’t want to look at the door again, but she couldn’t stop herself. And there he was, striding toward her, with that charming cockeyed smile of his.

“Ah, Barbara, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Oh, no,” Barbara said, offering her hand. “I only just arrived.”

Mr. Ashworth, a hefty man with a top-heavy build, shook her hand and levered himself into the chair opposite her. “How’s that lovely mother of yours?”

“She’s fine. Busy arranging radio interviews now that the book’s out.” Barbara had at first hesitated to mention Magic Portholes, knowing he’d rejected it, but then he had inquired about Helen. And it certainly couldn’t hurt to allude to the accomplishment of another Follett.

“Well, good for her. I hope it’ll be a shining success.” He planted a finger on the menu. “Let’s see what today’s fare is. Anything in particular appeal to you?”

“I believe I’ll have today’s special, the filet of sole.”

He glanced up and down the columns as if he were relaxing over the Sunday supplement. How could he be so nonchalant? She wanted to blurt out: Just tell me, are you going to publish Lost Island?

He closed the menu. “Good choice. I think I’ll have the same.”

Barbara cupped her hands together on her lap and smiled at him. Soft murmuring conversation surrounded them, muffled by the thick carpet and scattered palm plants. Keep quiet, she commanded herself, let him bring up the manuscript. He’s the one who called the meeting.

“I didn’t have time for the morning newspaper.” He braced an elbow on the chair arm, assuming a jaunty posture. “Anything new on the Lindbergh case?”

“No.” Barbara had only glanced at the front page, but since everyone was talking about nothing else, she feared revealing her ignorance of the details. “I can hardly believe the kidnappers killed Little Lindy. How despicable.”

“With any luck, the police will track down the savages and wring the truth out of them.”

The waiter took their orders and breezed off. They chatted: He asked if she’d noticed all the ladies in the news lately and if she’d read The Good Earth. Yes, she said, Pearl Buck certainly deserved the Pulitzer. And what an amazing woman that Amelia Earhart was, he intoned, flying across the Atlantic entirely on her own.

Barbara’s heart wasn’t in this small talk. She shifted in her chair.

Perhaps he took her cue. Leaning in, he folded his hands on the table, revealing clean, squared-off nails. “Shall we attend to our business?”

“Yes, let’s.” Her stomach clenched. “I suppose every author is nervous to hear an editor’s opinion.”

He had a narrow, stern nose and brown eyes that sat at an angle below his ridged brow as if he were perpetually skeptical. “Yes, it’s terrible—the power we editors have.”

“Well, I’m ready to hear the verdict.” She gripped the chair arms.

“This work’s quite different from Magic Portholes. Not that I expected it to bear any resemblance.”

“No, it wasn’t intended to be a travel chronicle.”

“You obviously meant it as a novel in its own right.”

“Yes, I used much of what I learned on the voyage, but that’s the extent of any connection.”

He smoothed a finger over his chin. “Tell me, who did you target as readers when you were writing?”

Barbara’s heart galumphed against her ribs. “I don’t think about that when I write. I just write the story I want to tell.”

“Yes, that’s what you writers do, isn’t it?”

Barbara nodded. Her arms and legs felt twitchy. She wriggled and released her toes, trying to work out the jitters. Couldn’t he just tell her if he liked it, if he’d publish it? While she tried