Exasperation returned in a heartbeat. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. She’s been doing that since her days at the DU law school, and she won’t give it up. Suddenly she’s tired of law. Now what rings her bell is lit-tra-ture. She’s even been writing a novel, God help her, in her spare time.”
“I can’t imagine she’s got any time to spare.”
“She works by day and drives by night, writes when she can. Are you interested, Cliff?”
“I don’t know—would you want me to be?”
Miranda gave me a long, wistful look. “You’re a good guy, Janeway, and I mean that. But I’m afraid you’d only reinforce all her bad ideas.”
The woman she had invited as my opposite was certainly nice enough—a ravishing redhead named Bonnie Conrad—and we spent much of the evening, when we weren’t listening to Archer, in a pleasant exchange of views on world events. But my eyes kept drifting back to Erin d’Angelo, who provided such a cool presence at Archer’s side. Once she caught me looking and her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she had picked up a whiff of my thought and found it as welcome as a fresh dose of herpes. Then she must have seen the beauty of my inner self, for she smiled, and in the heat of that moment all I could think was, Oh, mother, what a wonderful face.
Rounding out our party were Judge Arlene Weston and her husband, Phil, a plastic surgeon who had carved up some famous Hollywood noses before moving to Denver in the sixties. It was Phil who brought up the Supreme Court. “Arlene says you had an interview with Reagan.”
“You’re not supposed to talk about that, sweetheart,” Arlene said. “It’s bad luck to bring it up before the fact.”
“I don’t think it matters much,” Lee said. “It was just a visit, certainly not what I’d call an interview. Tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what started it all.”
“Somebody gave him your name, that’s pretty clear. Must’ve been a hell of a recommendation from one who’s very close to that inner circle.”
“Maybe he’s looking for a pal to come in on slow afternoons and keep him company while he watches his old movies,” Phil said, joshing.
“All his afternoons are slow,” said Archer.
“Whatever it was, it’s pretty hard for me to take it seriously at this point,” Lee said.
“I don’t see why,” said Bonnie. “You’d make a great justice.”
“That’s not how they choose them,” Archer said. “Politics is what counts in that game, not legal acumen.”
“Hal’s right about that,” Lee said. “I imagine it’s the same in academia. The good teachers get lost in the shuffle, while those who play the game get ahead.”
“And the same in books,” Archer said. “Them that sits up and barks gets the awards.”
“I never saw you barking for anybody.”
“Maybe the Pulitzer committee’s above all that,” Archer said. “Or maybe I just got lucky.”
“Maybe you’ll both get lucky,” Arlene said. “Wouldn’t that be something? A Pulitzer prize winner and a Supreme Court justice from that one graduating class in college.”
“High school, actually,” Archer said. “Lee and I have known each other forever.”
“We graduated from a tiny high school in Virginia,” Lee said. “Our graduating class had twenty-two boys and twenty-two girls.”
“Isn’t that romantic?” Miranda said. “I just love that.”
“That’s because you got somebody’s guy,” Arlene said. “You’re so evil, Miranda.”
“Yep. I love to think of the poor, weeping wench, doomed to a life without Lee.”
I said nothing during this light exchange, and it went on for a while before the inevitable swing to books came, at around ten-thirty. “So,” Miranda asked privately at one point, “how do you like Mr. Archer?” I told her I had always loved his books and prepared to let it go at that. The Westons left in the next hour, and then we were six. Miranda had sensed the spontaneous hostility between Archer and me, and now she did her heroic best to overcome it. “Cliff has been a big, big fan of your books forever, Hal,” she said, but this only made things worse. Archer’s comment, “How very, very nice of him,” was a startling breach of etiquette, too pointed and caustic even for him. He barely saved himself with a weasely “of course I’m kidding” smile, but the private look that passed between us told the real story. How dare I pass judgment, good, bad, or indifferent, and who the hell needed my approval anyway?
Normally at this point I would take off my kid gloves and bring up my own verbal brass knucks. I almost said, And listen, Hal, that was even before I knew what an accomplished asshole you are …now I’ve got two things to admire you for. I would have said this with my pleasantest smiling-cobra demeanor, and then, into the shocked silence, I’d have had to say, Yes siree, Hal, you’re way up there on my list of favs, right between Danielle Steel and Robin Cook. Damn, I wanted to say that. I wanted to say it so badly that I came this close to really saying it. In my younger days I’d have let it rip instantly, in any crowd. I caught the eyes of Erin d’Angelo, who still seemed to be reading my mind from afar with a look of real mischief on her face. Go ahead, say it, I dare you, her look said. But I had my host to consider. I gave a little shake of my head, and Erin rewarded me with a soft laugh that no one could hear and only I could see.
Then she mouthed a single word and pulled me into the screwiest, most extended repartee I have ever had with a stranger. I couldn’t be sure, but the word looked like coward.
I gave her my Tarzan look, the one that said, A lot you know, sister, I eat guys like him for breakfast.
She made a show of her indifference. Glanced at her nails. Looked away at nothing.
I stood up straight, my face fierce with my savage cavemanhood.
I had the feeling she was laughing at that; I couldn’t be sure. In another moment, people would begin noticing what idiots we were, and I looked away, cursing the darkness.
Round one to her, on points.
We were in the library by then and Bonnie was ogling the books. Suddenly Archer said, “My goodness, Lee, don’t you ever show anyone your real books?” Lee seemed reluctant, as if this would be much too much ostentation for one evening, but the cat was out of the bag and down the stairs we all went. We came into a smaller room that was also shelved all around, the shelves glassed and containing books that were clearly from another time. Archer stood back while the rest of us marveled at pristine runs of Dickens, Twain, Kipling, Harte, Hawthorne, Melville, so many eminent Victorians that my head began to spin as I looked at them. There wasn’t a trumped-up leather binding in the room, and the sight of so much unfaded original cloth was gorgeous, inspiring, truly sensual.
“This is how my book fetish started,” Lee said. “I inherited these.”
“From his good old grandma Betts,” Archer said. “Ah yes, I remember her well, what a dear old gal. Show them the Burtons, Lee.”
And there they were, the greatest works of their day. With Lee’s permission, I took each book down and handled it carefully. Archer talked about Burton as we looked, and his own zeal lit a fire that spread to us all. He seemed to know everything about Burton’s life, and at some point I figured out, at least in a general sense, what the new Archer book was going to be. You can always tell with a writer: he gets that madness in his eyes whenever his subject comes up.
The room had gone quiet. Then I heard Erin’s soft voice.