Steven Womack - By Blood Written

She climbed the flight of wide brick and concrete steps up to the heavy wooden double doors and rang the bell. A few moments later, the tarnished brass doorknob turned and Brett Silverman pulled the door open.

“Hey girl!” Brett called, reaching out and taking Taylor’s arm. “C’mon in.”

“Hi,” Taylor said, stepping into the entrance foyer. Taylor set down her briefcase, shrugged off her overcoat, and handed it to Brett. Brett hung the coat on the hook of a large, ornately carved antique oak hall tree, then turned and opened her arms. Brett and Taylor hugged briefly, then Brett led the way into the large living room of the three-story brownstone.

“C’mon, let’s have a quick glass of wine, then we’ll walk down the street to the restaurant. It won’t get crowded for another hour so anyway.”

Brett Silverman had decorated her home in the style of a turn-of-the-century New York matron. Red velvet drapes covered the front window; thick Oriental rugs covered polished oak floors. Her furniture was Victorian and heavy. It didn’t suit Taylor’s tastes, but it was a welcome change from her recent surroundings. The past couple of weeks, Taylor had shuttled between her apartment and office and seen little else.

Taylor followed Brett through the house and into a large kitchen that was as modern as the rest of the house was Victorian. A large Garland stove dominated one wall, with an institutional-size stainless-steel refrigerator across from it on the other wall. Brett stepped over, opened one of the two large doors on the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay.

“This okay?” she asked.

“Perfect,” Taylor answered. She pulled a stool over and sat down behind a counter.

“So how’s it going?” Brett asked. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

“Been kind of crazy,” Taylor offered. “Prosperity’s going to be the death of us all.”

“Where’ve I heard that before?” Brett joked as she pulled two wineglasses out of the cabinet next to the refrigerator and poured each of them a full glass of the buttery, cold white wine. She handed one to Taylor across the counter, and the two women clinked glasses.

“So tell me, what’s the word from our favorite best-selling author on the end of his tour?”

“Well,” Taylor said, pausing to take another sip of the wine. “He’s bushed, but I think he’s happy. The end of the tour went really well. I think he’s real tired of being cooped up in a car with Carol Gee. I don’t think they’re getting along together very well.”

Brett Silverman leaned down on the counter and placed both her elbows on the ceramic surface. “I can back you up there,” she said. “Carol said they’re about to drive each other crazy. I don’t really know what’s been going on, but apparently it hasn’t been very pleasant. In fact, I think Carol’s probably going to ask for a transfer when she gets back.”

“Oh my God,” Taylor said. “I had no idea it was that bad.

Michael doesn’t talk about it much. It’s just that whenever her name comes up, I can hear his teeth clench over the phone.”

“When she called last night, she was so upset I told her to take a week off. The tour ends tomorrow in San Diego, she’s got friends in L.A. What the hell, take some time off, lie in the sun, decompress, let go of it all.”

“Good idea,” Taylor said. “At least give her a chance to think things over.”

Brett turned, opened the cabinet door behind her, and took out a box of gourmet crackers. She spread some on a plate, then slid the plate across the counter to Taylor. “Here, something to munch on.”

Taylor bit into one of the crackers, realizing that she was getting hungry. It had been a long day, and at that moment she couldn’t remember if she ever ate lunch.

Three sips of wine , she thought, and it’s going to my head .

“Thanks,” she said.

Brett stared across the counter at her friend, studying her face intently for a few moments. Taylor looked up from the plate she’d been staring at.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Brett said.

Taylor frowned. “What? What are you looking at?”

Brett straightened from where she’d been leaning over the counter and fingered the stem of her wineglass. “It’s none of my business, but you really do look tired. What’s going on?

You can’t be working that hard.”

Taylor paused a moment before answering, as if trying to decide how much to say. “I’m not sleeping well. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she admitted.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

Taylor turned away, uncomfortable. “Not really.”

“You know, when you called today I got the feeling something was the matter. I also figured it was kind of weird your being willing to come to my house. You almost always want to meet somewhere in the midtown area close to your office.”

Taylor sighed, took another long sip of wine, and set the glass down on the counter. “Well, there is something …”

Brett nervously pulled her long hair over her shoulders into a ponytail and grasped it with her right hand. Her left hand drummed on the countertop. “I think I’m beginning to understand. Something tells me there’s a man involved in this story somewhere.”

“There is,” Taylor confessed. “And if I don’t talk to somebody soon, I’m going to go nuts. One thing though …”

Brett let go of her hair. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got to swear,” Taylor said, her voice somber. “I mean it, Brett, this can’t go any further than this kitchen.”

“Whoa, girl,” Brett said. “This does sound serious. What is he? Some famous actor or, let me see, the head of a major publishing house? Is that it? You’re afraid of being accused of sleeping your way into book deals, right?”

Taylor wearily rubbed her eyes, then squinted and focused on the woman across from her. “Worse than that, I’m afraid.”

Brett’s forehead wrinkled. “Good heavens, Robinson, who the hell is it?”

“You’ve got to promise,” Taylor insisted. “This is top secret. For your ears only.”

“You got it,” Brett said. “I swear. No further. But who is it?”

Taylor hesitated a few more moments, still agonizing over whether to say anything. But then, she realized, she had to talk to somebody or she was going to go crazy.

“It’s a certain best-selling author we both know,” Taylor said softly.

Brett focused on a midair space halfway between her nose and Taylor’s. “Best-selling author,” she mumbled. And then, as if a burst of light had gone off inside her head like an explosion, her mouth opened and her eyes seemed to quiver in their sockets.

“No!” she gasped.

Taylor nodded her head.

“It can’t be,” Brett whispered.

“It is, dear heart. Believe it.”

“You’re sleeping with a client?” Brett asked, aghast.

Taylor leaned forward, rested her forehead on the counter, and moaned.

“Oh my God, is it serious?”

Taylor raised her head. “He’s moving here after the tour.

And he wants to go on vacation together. The Caribbean …”

Brett walked around the counter and sat on a stool next to Taylor, then put an arm around her shoulder.

“I mean, Taylor-” she stammered. “How did it happen?”

Taylor wearily let her head fall onto Brett’s shoulder. “Oh, God, he was staying at my apartment. We’d been working so closely together for so long and we went out to celebrate the night he signed the contract and had that great signing at the Barnes amp; Noble. There was a lot of brandy and hand-holding, and then we went back to my place and one thing just kind of led to another.”

“But sweetie, that night of the party he had that blond bimbo up in the guest bedroom.”