It was December and the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. And through the woods behind his place was a path around Spy Pond. He liked its frozen bleakness, so he broke up the keyboard hours with long walks to open his mind to any inspiration that might wing by. Yet he returned with nothing but a chill.
He spent the next several days teaching his classes and reading student stories. On Thursday he received a voice message at his work number. “Hi, Professor, this is Lauren Grant. It’s been nearly a week. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought over my proposal.”
Proposal. The word jumped out at him. Talk about paranoid, she was probably afraid he’d steal the idea, so she had refused to reveal the story line until he signed a contract. Even if he wanted to, it was ridiculous strategy since you couldn’t copyright ideas, only their execution. Instead of getting back to her, he stopped by the office of his chairman, Lloyd Harrington. “You know a student by the name of Lauren Grant?”
“Lauren Grant? Yeah. She’s a part-timer, auditing courses here and there. What about her?”
“She came to me the other day asking if I’d ghost a story for her.”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been shopping that around for weeks, asking anyone in Greater Boston who’s ever published a thriller to take her on.”
Geoff felt his stomach leak acid. The little bitch. She had come on to him as if he were the one author in creation born to pen her tale.
“When she came in, I suggested you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.” But he did mind.
“Did she say what the idea was?”
“Not really. Something about a ghost.”
“Whoopie,” Lloyd said. “If it’s something you’re interest in pursuing, that’s your business not the university’s.”
“Okay, thanks.” Geoff started out the door.
“In case you’re interested,” Lloyd added, “I think she comes from money.”
For the rest of the day, that phrase echoed and reechoed in Geoff’s brain. That evening, while sitting at his desk at home, he sent her a brief e-mail to say he was interested and wanted to hear more. The curtness implied that out of politeness he’d suffer her another meeting before outright rejection. He suggested they meet in the student center, wondering just how much money she came from.
The food hall was a large open space filled with tables and chairs and flanked with several fast-food takeouts. Because it was midmorning, the place was half-empty. He bought them each a coffee, and they took a table in a quiet corner. “Okay, but before we get to the story, I think we should discuss the ugly stuff.”
“Ugly stuff?”
“Writer’s fee.”
That caught her off guard. “Sure, of course.” Then from her briefcase, she pulled out a manila envelope. “If you don’t mind, I contacted a literary agent and had a contract drawn up.”
“You’re way ahead of the game.”
“Because I want everything to be aboveboard.”
“Then let’s be straight—you’ve been to other writers with this, right?” He didn’t want to betray Lloyd’s confidence. “I mean, there are dozens of published thriller and horror writers in Greater Boston.”
She studied his expression for a moment, and her eye did an involuntary twitch as she rummaged for a response. “I considered others, but decided that the quality and style of your writing best fits my story idea.”
Bullshit! he thought. She’s saying that none of the others were interested, and she bottomed-out with you. “Okay.”
“If you agree, you will be paid a flat fee—twenty percent up front, the balance upon acceptance.”
“Acceptance by whom?”
“By me.”
“So, there’s no stipulation that it has to be placed with a publisher first.”
“No, just to write an acceptable synopsis and then an acceptable book.”
“A synopsis?”
“Yes, I know from other students and your own Web site that you’re big on writing a synopsis—that you don’t start a novel until you’ve got a ‘slam dunk’ summary as you say. This way I’ll see how everything fits into place and how it ends. When that’s done to my liking, you’ll be paid the advance.”
He let that sink in, humiliating as it was.
“Okay, and if I write the book and it sells, what about royalties?”
“Well, actually, no royalties, just the flat fee, which I hope you’ll accept.”
“But your name on the book.”
“Yes, and the copyright under my name.”
He could hear the advice of her agent cutting through her nervousness. “And what if you don’t like it?”
“I will because I will be reading it as you go along.”
Jesus! This was like his workshops in reverse: he writes installments and submits them to a student for approval. “And what if you like it and your agent can’t place it?”
She smiled self-consciously. “First, that won’t happen since you’re too talented for the book not to sell. Second, selling it is his problem. You will still be paid, no matter what.”
He wondered about her agent. “You’d be putting a lot of trust in me.”
“That’s right.” She nodded and smiled warmly.
He wished she’d stop that. The Geoffrey Dane she kept fawning over was all but dead. “How long a synopsis?”
“Ten pages.”
What he suggested as maximum on his Web site. “And what exactly do you have in mind for a total fee?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Jesus! Where do I sign? he thought, trying to contain his astonishment. “That’s a lot of money.” The advance alone could get him out of hock with his creditors and Maggie for months. Ten pages! He couldn’t write a decent novel anymore, but if her story line was viable, he could crank out a synopsis in a week.
“My grandparents were generous when I graduated from college.” From the envelope she removed a multipage contract with his name on it and the breakdown of payment. There was a lot of legal jargon, but the important details were there: an advance of twenty thousand dollars, payable upon the completion of an acceptable synopsis. The balance to be paid upon acceptance by her of a completed manuscript.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it showed—like the throat of a bullfrog.
“Seem fair enough?”
The light in her eyes said that she was enjoying this, probably because she knew how destitute he was. It also crossed his mind that it might be interesting working with her. She was good-looking and clearly passionate. In a flash he saw her naked and in bed with him between chapters.
“Okay, so what’s the story line?” He took a sip of his coffee and settled back.
“It’s quite simple,” she began. “It’s the story of a vengeful ghost returned to kill her fiancé, who abandoned her.” She paused for a moment as if to gauge his reaction.
It sounded corny, but he nodded her on. “Okay.”
“What I’m imagining is a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl who’s been dating this older boy for months. She’s crazy about him and they talk of getting married someday. Then a few months before he’s to go to college, she discovers she’s pregnant. As the due date approaches, the boy abandons her—goes off to school hundreds of miles away and drops out of her life for good.”
Again she glared at him with a strange expectancy. And a stir of discomfort registered in his gut. “Then what?”
“Well, she’s very upset that he left her flat and wasn’t there for the birth, not even moral support. Her parents are disgusted with her, but forbid her to have an abortion. Of course, her own plans for college are dashed.
“So she has the child. But a few days later, she dies from complications of childbirth. The daughter is raised by her grandparents. Meanwhile, the boy finishes college, never making contact with the girl’s family, never learning what happened to the girl or his child. We jump ahead twentysomething years—the boy’s a man, successful in his profession and happy with his life.”