“Did you sleep well?”
“Very. But I’m afraid I didn’t finish it. I’m where Eddie found the radio station’s address in-”
“Next time,” Wentworth said.
“Next time?”
“When you come back, you can finish it.”
“You’d like me to come back?”
Instead of answering, Wentworth said, “I’ve given your problem a great deal of thought. Before I tell you my decision, I want you to tell me what you think of my manuscript so far.”
“I love it.”
“And? If I were your author, is that all you’d say to me as an editor? Is there nothing you want changed?”
“The sentences are wonderful. Your style’s so consistent, it would be difficult to change anything without causing problems in other places.”
“Does that imply a few sections would benefit from changes?”
“Just a few cuts.”
“A few? Why so hesitant? Are you overwhelmed by the great man’s talent? Do you know how Sam and I worked as editor and author? We fought over every page. He wasn’t satisfied until he made me justify every word in every sentence. Some authors wouldn’t have put up with it. But I loved the experience. He challenged me. He made me try harder and reach deeper. If you were my editor, what would you say to challenge me?”
“You really want an answer?” I took a breath. “I meant what I said. This is a terrific book. It’s moving and dramatic and funny when it needs to be and. . I love it.”
“But. .”
“The boy in The Architecture of Snow struggles through a blizzard to save his father. Eddie in this novel struggles to get out of a slum and find a father. You’re running variations on a theme. An important theme, granted. But the same one as in The Sand Castle.”
“Continue.”
“That may be why the critics turned against your last book. Because it was a variation on The Sand Castle, also.”
“Maybe some writers only have one theme.”
“Perhaps that’s true. But if I were your editor, I’d push you to learn if that were the case.”
Wentworth considered me with those clear probing eyes. “My father molested me when I was eight.”
I felt as if I’d been hit.
“My mother found out and divorced him. We moved to another city. I never saw my father again. She never remarried. Fathers and sons. A powerful need when a boy’s growing up. That’s why I became a grade-school teacher: to be a surrogate father for the children who needed one. It’s the reason I became a writer: to understand the hollowness in me. I lied to you. I told you that when I heard you coming across the yard, when I saw your desperate features, I pulled my gun from a drawer to protect myself. In fact, the gun was already in my hand. Friday. The day you crawled over the fence. Do you know what date it was?”
“No.”
“October 15.”
“October 15?” The date sounded vaguely familiar. Then it hit me. “Oh. . The day your family died in the accident.”
For the first time, Wentworth started to look his true age, his cheeks shrinking, his eyes clouding. “I deceive myself by blaming my work. I trick myself into thinking that, if I hadn’t sold ‘The Fortune Teller’ to Hollywood, we wouldn’t have driven to New York to see the damned movie. But the movie didn’t kill my family. The movie wasn’t driving the car when it flipped.”
“The weather turned bad. It was an accident.”
“So I tell myself. But every time I write another novel about a father and a son, I think about my two boys crushed in a heap of steel. Each year, it seems easier to handle. But some anniversaries. . Even after all these years. .”
“The gun was in your hand?”
“In my mouth. I want to save you because you saved me. I’ll sign a contract for The Architecture of Snow.”
Throughout the long drive back to Manhattan, I felt a familiar heaviness creep over me. I reached my apartment around midnight, but as Wentworth predicted, I slept poorly.
“Terrific!” My boss slapped my back when I gave him the news Monday morning. “Outstanding! I won’t forget this!”
After the magic of the compound, the office was depressing. “But Wentworth has three conditions,” I said.
“Fine, fine. Just give me the contract you took up there to get signed.”
“He didn’t sign it.”
“What? But you said-”
“That contract’s made out to R. J. Wentworth. He wants another contract, one made out to Peter Thomas.”
“The pseudonym on the manuscript?”
“That’s the first condition. The second is that the book needs to be published with the name Peter Thomas on the cover.”
The head of marketing gasped.
“The third condition is that Wentworth won’t do interviews.”
Now the head of marketing turned red, as if choking on something. “We’ll lose CNN and the Today show and the magazine covers and — ”
“No interviews? That makes it worthless,” my CEO complained. “Who the hell’s going to buy a book about a kid in a snowstorm when its author’s a nobody?”
“Those are his conditions.”
“Couldn’t you talk him out of that?”
“He wants the book to speak for itself. He says part of the reason he’s famous is that his family died. He won’t capitalize on that, and he won’t allow himself to be asked about it.”
“Worthless,” my boss moaned. “How can I tell the Gladstone executives we won’t have a million seller? I’ll lose my job. You’ve already lost yours.”
“There’s a way to get around Wentworth’s conditions,” a voice said.
Everyone looked in that direction, toward the person next to me: my assistant, who wore his usual black turtleneck and black sports jacket.
“Make out the contract to Peter Thomas,” my assistant continued. “Put in clauses guaranteeing that the book will be published under that name and that there won’t be any interviews.”
“Weren’t you listening? An unknown author. No interviews. No serial killer or global conspiracy in the plot. We’ll be lucky to sell ten copies.”
“A million. You’ll get the million,” my assistant promised.
“Will you please start making sense.”
“The Internet will take care of everything. A month from pub date, I’ll leak rumors to hundreds of chat groups. I’ll put up a fan website. On the social networks, I’ll spread the word that Wentworth’s the actual author. I’ll point out parallels between his early work and this one. I’ll talk about the mysterious arrival of the manuscript just as his editor died. I’ll mention that a March and Sons editor, Robert Neal, had a weekend conference at Wentworth’s home in October, something that can be verified by checking with the motel where Mr. Neal stayed. I’ll juice it up until everyone buys the rumor. Believe me, the Internet thrives on gossip. It’ll get out of control fast. Since what passes for news these days is half speculation, reporters and TV commentators will do pieces about the rumors. After a week, it’ll be taken for granted that Peter Thomas is R. J. Wentworth. People will want to be the first to buy the book to see what all the fuss is about. Believe me, you’ll sell a million copies.”
I was too stunned to say anything.
So were the others.
Finally my boss opened his mouth. “I love the way this guy thinks.” He gave me a dismissive glance. “Take the new contract back to Wentworth. Tell him he’ll get everything he wants.”
So, on Tuesday, I drove back to Tipton. Because I was now familiar with the route, I made excellent time and arrived at four in the afternoon. Indeed, I often broke the speed limit, eager to see Wentworth again and warn him how March amp; Sons intended to betray him.
I saw the smoke before I got to town. As I approached the main street, I found it deserted. With a terrible premonition, I stopped at the park. The smoke shrouded Wentworth’s compound. His fence was down. A fire engine rumbled next to it. Running through the leaves, I saw townspeople gathered in shock. I saw the waitress from Meg’s Pantry, the waiter from the Tipton Tavern, Jonathan Wade from the book store, the barber who was the town constable, and Becky. I raced toward her.