And Rachel's eyes grew wide with a mixture of shock and surprise as Emily's agent explained what was happening between Mick Devlin and Emily.
"But he's a ladies' man," Rachel said when he had finished. "Mick never struck me as a man who was going to marry and settle down. But then, I never saw a man in Emily's life either. She's too much of a writer."
Dr. Sam chuckled at this observation. "She can't be a writer and a wife too?" he asked quietly. "She's in love."
"But what about Mick?" Rachel asked.
"According to my Rina, he's in love with Emily," Dr. Sam replied.
"From your lips to God's ears," Aaron Fischer said. "I wouldn't admit this in Rina's hearing, because I would never hear the end of it, but she does have an instinct for these things. The problem is, he's been a bachelor for forty years. Can he find the chutzpah to propose?"
"Christmas is coming," Dr. Sam said. "Hanukkah's coming. It's a season of miracles, my friends."
"It's going to take a miracle," Rachel Wainwright said. "But why not?"
And the three men in the room nodded in agreement.
Chapter 10
It was the first week in December, and The Defiant Duchess was finished at last. Caro and her duke had been reunited and would live happily ever after. The duchess had gained her revenge by finally trusting in her husband to aid her. It was a good story with fully developed and likable characters both major and minor. The villains were deliciously evil and got their proper comeuppance, because good must always triumph over evil. And, most important, there was lots of steamy sex. Emily was surprised at how easily a more sensual story line had been incorporated into her novel. It really hadn't spoiled a thing, once she had learned from delicious experience what real love, both emotional and physical, was all about.
She had gone over the chapters in her computer, making small corrections: adding a line here, deleting one there. Finally satisfied, she burned two CDs and printed out five paper copies of the five-hundred-page manuscript. Normally she would have printed out only four. Putting two large rubber bands about the first copy, she taped a small Post-it note to it that read, Dear J.P., I know how patiently you have waited for the final manuscript of The Defiant Duchess, so here is an early Christma present. As ever, Emilie Shann. Then, placing the manuscript in a box, she wrapped it in Christmas paper decorated with fat dancing Santas, and tied it with a large red silk ribbon. She kept a paper copy for herself, sent one to Aaron, and directed the last two along with a CD to Devlin's assistant, Sally. She had been e-mailing Michael Devlin at Stratford's London offices the final pages as she completed them. The entire finished manuscript would be awaiting him upon his return to the States.
Some authors celebrated the successful completion of a manuscript by going out to dinner. Some went off on little vacations planned weeks before. Emily Shanski cracked open a bottle of her favorite wine and opened a double box of Mallomars. Then, sitting in her den before a roaring fire, she listened to Mozart and unwound. Christmas was coming, and she had a great number of things to do. There were Christmas cards, both personal and business, to write. There were presents to buy. There was a very special Christmas dinner to plan for, as Devlin had missed Thanksgiving.
Already the village of Egret Pointe was in the holiday spirit. There were little pine trees with white lights in round red wooden tubs along Main Street. And all the shop windows were beautifully decorated. This year each had a miniature scene of a country Christmas in a past era. Egret Pointe's shop windows all followed a single theme each year in imitation of the store windows on Fifth Avenue in New York.
The weather was cold, but so far there was no snow, and for that Emily was grateful. She far preferred a green Christmas. She thought the composer of "White Christmas" should have been boiled with his own Christmas pudding, as Mr. Scrooge had once declared regarding the whole holiday. Emily loved Christmas, however. She just didn't like snow. For some reason it depressed her and always had. No one understood it, least of all Emily. Sure, snow was magical when it was falling. And the next day, when it sparkled on all the eaves and roofs in the bright sunshine, it was pretty. But the day after, when it wasn't gone and it sometimes stayed for weeks-oh, how she hated that! So every year Emily hoped for an El Nino and a mild winter that would lead into an early spring. Nothing was nicer than daffodils in bloom on St. Patrick's Day.
Several days after she had sent off the manuscripts, her office phone rang. As she was writing Christmas cards at her desk, she answered it.
"Ms. Shann? One moment for J. P. Woods," a young voice said.
There was a click. Another click.
"Emily? Sweetie, I was up all night reading! It's a triumph," J. P. Woods crowed. "Mick said it was, but we've invested so much into promoting this book I couldn't rest easy until I had read it myself. You've outdone yourself! I am so pleased." Emphasis on the last sentence. "And Aaron has probably told you that we've worked out a wonderful contract. Stratford isn't about to lose its brightest star."
"Thank you, J.P." Emily said. She really didn't like the woman, but this wasn't personal, after all. It was, to quote a certain megamillionaire, business.
"And you're happy working with Mick Devlin? We want you one hundred percent happy, Emily."
"He's a wonderful editor, J.P. I will admit to being upset when Rachel retired, but even I have to admit Devlin is a better editor. Yes. I am happy working with him. I hope to do many more good books for Stratford with him," Emily replied. "I want to thank you for putting me with him." Even if you did have an ulterior motive, you bitch. You didn't care whose career you destroyed in your pitiful attempt to get even with Devlin for turning you down all those years ago. I wonder what you would think, bitch, if you knew I've been fucking him for months. And he is good!
"I thought long about it," J.P. said. "But editors like Mick Devlin are few and far between. Martin and I felt you deserved the absolute best. And I was right," she crowed. "I just knew you could change your direction and produce a hotter book."
Emily gritted her teeth listening to J. P. Woods. Then she said, "Savannah Banning is willing to give me a quote, J.P."
"Wonderful! I was thinking of asking her. You're friends, aren't you?"
"Yes," Emily answered.
"And did she give you some advice on how to do a sexier novel?" J.P. tittered.
"As a matter of fact, she did," Emily said. She suggested I seduce my editor, and I did, and we all see how well that worked out.
"I don't suppose you'd share her secrets with me?" J.P. said coyly.
Emily forced a laugh. "Now, now, J.P. Trade secrets have to remain secret."
"Of course they do, and as long as they produce the results they did, Emily, I am more than satisfied," J.P. replied, all business once again. "Now, Emily, Stratford is having its Christmas party on December twenty-third, and we want you to come. The heads of several important book distributors will be here. We want you to present them with some rather special ARCs we're putting together now. Martin is sending a car for you. Sally or my girl will e-mail you all the details."
She didn't want to go into New York, especially two days before Christmas. The traffic would be horrendous. But this was a command performance, and Emily knew it. "I'll look forward to it," she told J. P. Woods. "And thank you for calling me. I'm so glad you enjoyed the book, J.P."
"I did, Emily. Good work! I'm now looking forward to what you'll do next for us. Good-bye." There was a click, and J. P. Woods was gone.