Elizabeth Stewart: Harm’s Way

“The End.”

“Well?”

The woman let the final page of the manuscript fall shut and looked across her large, glass-topped desk.

“Beautiful,” she whispered. “Just beautiful.” She dabbed at her red eyes with the remnants of a wadded tissue, honked once and deposited it in the wastebasket behind her.

“I’m glad you approve, Sheila,” the woman on the other side laughed. “I worried about this one.”

“I’m sure,” Sheila grinned, tapping the pages in front of her with a perfectly manicured crimson fingernail. “You always do, although why is beyond me.”

“Because I’m a writer and we’re all basically insecure.”

“Well having published all six of your previous books, I can say without fear of contradiction that this is the best one yet. You’ve really outdone yourself, Ellie.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “Not only is Jill a strong heroine and Ted to die for as a hero, but the story itself is so tender…so romantic.” The grin got bigger and a malicious gleam appeared in her hazel eyes. “Not to mention it’s so hot I thought I’d singe my eyebrows off by the third chapter.”

“Well, you keep telling me sex sells.”

“Lord, Ellie,” Sheila rolled her eyes, “this will fly out of the stores by itself. We’ll have to print it on asbestos and slap an ‘extremely flammable’ warning on the cover. Maybe we should give away a certificate for a free gallon of ice water with every purchase.”

“I think you’re getting a little carried away,” Elgin joked.

“I mean it, El. That part where Jill and Ted are stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge in that limo and he’s giving her oral sex and the cop car pulls up on the passenger side…I thought I’d wet my pants, literally. When they sneak away for a quickie while they’re touring that redwood forest with his family and end up in a hollow tree… And don’t even get me started about the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace at the ski lodge. Trust me, no one who reads this book will ever think of chocolate dipped strawberries and champagne the same way again.”

“You know Gillian Shelby’s readers always expect something out of the ordinary.”

“Well they’re going to get it,” Sheila agreed emphatically, “in spades. From the first read, I’d say we ought to be able to get this out for the Christmas trade. With A World of Surprise out this summer, it’ll be a sure double winner.

“Which reminds me. We’re launching World with all the hype Fantasy Publishing can drum up and then we’ll sit back and wait for all those women on summer vacation to trample themselves getting to the bookstores. In fact, I want to arrange a short book signing tour for you to hit some of the vacation resorts.”

“Uh-unh,” Elgin shook her head. “This summer I’ve promised myself three full months at the retreat. Rest and recuperate. No television, radio, newspapers, computers or writing. Period.”

“You’ve been saying that since you bought that forest shack,” Sheila shot back. “And in the three years you’ve owned it, as far as I know, you’ve spent exactly four weekends up there. Let’s face it, El. You’re a city girl and a writer. Three whole months of fresh air and no e-mail and they’ll have to cart you away with a butterfly net.”

“Fine,” she sniffed. “But when you can’t find me from the first of June to Labor Day, don’t bother to look ‘cause you can’t find this place unless I give you directions and that’s not going to happen.”

“Just make sure you’re around for the re-writes on this one. And give me an outline on your next project, ASAP.”

“Sheila Forbes,” Elgin pretended to grump, “you are nothing but a money-grubbing pimp preying on my fragile artistic nature for your own gain. You treat me like a literary vending machine.”

“And you, Elgin Collier, AKA Gillian Shelby, are a hack, prostituting your God-given gift for words into piles of money. So if I’m a pimp, I guess we know what that makes you.”

Both women laughed. They had this conversation often, in one form or another.

“Well, I’ve got to be running along,” Elgin said, gathering up her purse and rising. “I’ve got a hundred things to do still and my e-mail’s probably backed up to New Jersey by now.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go on-line like you do,” Sheila told her seriously. “There are an awful lot of weird people running around in cyberspace.”

Elgin laughed, reached out and patted her friend’s arm. “I have news for you, Sheila, there are an awful lot of weird people running around in the so-called ‘real’ world too.”

“I worry about you.”

“You worry about Fantasy Publishing’s biggest asset.”

“Only asset,” Sheila corrected, “but that’s not the point. You and I have been friends since way before we both started out in this whacko business. I sometimes wonder who’s crazier…you for trying to make a living writing, or me for trying to make a living publishing. I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Elgin assured her friend. “My e-mail is under my pen name and I never go on-line to chat except through the respectable writers’ boards and only at designated times. After all, one of the reasons readers buy my books is because I’ve tried to make Gillian Shelby accessible to them. Made her a friend. Someone they can care about. The Internet has been a big help there. Besides, I’m a big girl and I know how to take care of myself.”

“All right. I’m taking your Magnus Opus home with me tonight so I can start hacking away at it with my little blue pencil. I should have the rough cut to you the first of next week.”

“Good. Give my poor overworked fingers a chance to cool down.”

“Yeah, well, I have no problem with your fingers cooling down. Just make sure nothing else does.”

They laughed again and shared a hug.

At the door, the two women paused and Sheila stared into Elgin’s face. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said seriously.

“Always. Bye Sheila.”

“Bye El.”

Elgin hated elevators, especially crowded ones like this, packed with eager souls escaping their cubicles for their mid-day hour’s parole. She didn’t have any particularly claustrophobic problems; small places had never bothered her. Something, though, about being in such close contact with other people, strangers, made her uneasy although she’d never been able to pinpoint exactly why. Perhaps its very irrationality made it all the more disconcerting.

Stepping in, Elgin instantly found herself crammed backward, finally ending up in the center of the car. Carefully, she raised her briefcase to her chest and pulled her shoulder bag to her front, trying to make room for two burly executive types in matching black power suits. Jostling for position, one of them stepped momentarily on her toe, never glancing at her or offering an apology.

Jerk, she thought disdainfully, I wonder how you’d like a three-inch stiletto heel in your expensive Italian loafers? Accidentally, of course.

As the elevator doors closed and the box continued down, something brushed against her ass. Automatically, she moved her body fractionally forward. There were obviously too many people in too little space. She felt a slight pressure then, like a hand laid lightly on the swell of her cheeks. Again, she shifted her position, but this time, the pressure remained.