Brett confessed, “he had ‘em wrapped around his little finger tonight.”
The two women turned at the sound of laughter across the room. At the signing table, Michael had just said something to a middle-aged woman carrying a sack of books to be signed that had caused her to break out cackling. Several other patrons were laughing and smiling as well, and the broad grin on Michael’s face was an indication of just how good a time he was having.
“You know, I think he’s learning how to do this,” Taylor said. “I was worried. In his own way, he’s quite shy, you know.”
“He does seem to be in a good mood,” Brett offered.
Taylor reached into her briefcase and pulled out the stack of signed contracts. “Maybe it’s the things he’s been signing lately besides books. Here, consider these hand-delivered.”
Brett took the contracts from Taylor. “I guess this would put just about anybody in a good mood.”
“Don’t worry,” Taylor said. “He’s worth every penny and you know it.”
“I heard him say he’s finished the first draft of six. Have you talked to him about it?”
Taylor closed her briefcase. “He’d have it turned in already if you guys hadn’t added another twelve cities to the tour,”
she said teasingly.
“Yeah, well,” Brett said, “that was upper management.
Personally, I’d rather have him home writing.”
“He will be, and soon.”
Brett yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’m beat,” she said.
“It’s been about a fourteen-hour day for me. I was going to stop and chat with him for a while, but I think his legions of adoring fans would lynch me if I broke in line.”
“I’ll tell him you said hi,” Taylor said. “Go on, grab a cab home. Have a glass of wine on me.”
“Hah,” Brett said wearily, turning toward the staircase. “A hot bath and bedtime is all I want.”
“The glamorous life of an editor,” Taylor called.
“Hah!” Brett said again, for emphasis.
It was quarter past ten by the time Taylor and Michael stepped out onto the icy sidewalk on Broadway near Eighty-second. The snow had shifted gears and was now a slow, grainy drizzle. Michael stepped out into the street and raised his hand with an index finger pointed up. Almost instantly, a cab appeared and braked to a stop next to him.
“Your karma’s incredible tonight,” Taylor said as she ran out from under a canopy over the sidewalk. Michael held the door open for her. “You don’t even have to wait for cabs.”
Michael slid in next to her and shut the door. “When you’re hot, you’re hot …”
The cab driver-a turbaned Sikh with a ponderous black beard-turned to them. “V’ere to?”
“Let’s stop for a drink somewhere,” Michael said.
Taylor looked at him. “You have to be at Rockefeller Center in roughly”-she looked at her watch-”seven hours.
Remember, that little Today show gig?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Michael said, mock-begging. “There’s no way I can get to sleep now anyway. I’m too pumped. Let’s stop, please?”
Taylor shook her head from side to side. “What am I going to do with you? All right, we’ll stop at N’s,” she said. “It’s just around the corner from my place. One drink and then it’s bedtime, okay?”
“Yes, mommie dearest,” Michael answered.
Taylor raised her voice to be heard through the Plexiglas shield. “Crosby Street, down in SoHo, between Grande and Broome.”
The driver turned, shrugged.
“Jeez,” Taylor whispered, then raised her voice again.
“Just stay on Broadway-” She pointed out the windshield.
“Down Broadway just before Canal? Okay?”
“Okay,” the driver said, smiling and nodding.
The cab jerked out into traffic and began speeding down Broadway as Taylor settled back for the long ride. The trip down Broadway from the Upper West Side to SoHo was a long one by Manhattan standards.
“Brett was there,” Taylor said. “She left when you started signing.”
“That’s too bad,” Michael answered. “We could have asked her to join us.”
“Not a chance. She was exhausted. Even looked tired, which is not like her.”
“She’s got a lot going on,” Michael said absentmindedly as he stared out the window. Then he turned back to Taylor.
“Did you give her the contracts?”
“Yes,” Taylor said softly. “It’s a done deal.”
Michael smiled at her. “Well, it’s not a completely done deal until they countersign and we see a check.”
“I know,” Taylor agreed. “But there’s nothing in the way.
It’s going to happen. I expect the paper back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Great,” Michael said. So subtle as to be almost imperceptible, he relaxed his body and moved closer to Taylor as the driver slowly negotiated the Broadway traffic tie-up north of Lincoln Center. His left shoulder brushed against her right as he turned to her.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” he said. “It’s been a tough few years. I appreciate you hanging in with me.”
Taylor met his gaze. “I’ve enjoyed it,” she said. “We’ve had a good run at it.”
“We make a good team,” he said, then, looking down at his lap, he seemed to hesitate for a second before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about making some changes.”
“What kinds of changes?”
The cabbie swerved to avoid a collision with a car that had cut in front of him, swearing loudly and rapidly in a language Taylor didn’t recognize. The motion caused her to slide across the seat even farther, pressing against Michael hard. He laid his hand on her arm and made no effort to move or ease the pressure.
“I’ve lost touch with so many friends over the years,” he said. “I’ve just been so buried in work. I don’t know that many people in Cleveland anymore. And I need a change.
I’m thinking about moving here, to the city.”
Taylor felt the slightest tension high in her chest, nearly in her throat. The sensation surprised her.
“Well,” she said cautiously. “That would be nice, Michael.”
“I seem to know more people in publishing than anything else these days,” he went on. “And I know the city. I love being here. I’ve always thought that if I could afford it, I’d love to live here.”
She smiled. “And now you can afford it.”
Michael smiled back at her and squeezed her arm. “Yeah,”
he said. “Thanks to you, I can afford it.”
Michael moved his hand down her arm and touched her hand. “Your hands are cold,” he said, his voice low, soft.
“It’s cold tonight,” Taylor said. He took her hand in both of his. His hands were warm, strong. Almost without realizing it, she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder.
An hour later, Taylor finished off her third and last brandy of the night as Michael stood up and held her coat open for her.
They had stopped off at N’s, a warm, cozy bar that was hip and trendy and yet had somehow managed to remain reasonably civilized, which was no small feat in the never-ending struggle for domination in the Manhattan bar scene. It was narrow and dark, with rich leather couches and candles and soft music playing from speakers discreetly hidden in the corners. They sat and talked and held hands and sipped brandy until they relaxed and fatigue caught up with them.
As Taylor stood up, holding her arm out for her coat, she swayed a bit.
“You okay?” Michael asked, smiling.
“Just tired,” she answered. Then, as her arm went through the sleeve and she spun to put the other in: “Okay, so I’m a little tipsy.”
“Good thing we don’t have too far to go,” Michael said.
He took three twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table, then picked up Taylor’s briefcase.
“I can take that,” she said.
“Let me. I’m glad to.” He took her arm and led her toward the door. Taylor looked back over her shoulder at the table they’d just left.
“Kind of a big tip, isn’t it?”
Michael smiled. “I’m feeling generous tonight. Besides, we can afford it.”