Phillip Margolin - Sleeping Beauty

Joshua Maxfield wore his reddish-brown hair stylishly long and had emerald-green eyes. He was lanky, a little less than six feet tall, and looked trim and fit. Ashley would not have been surprised if someone told her that Maxfield had played tennis in college or ran for exercise.

“Joshua!” Casey said with an enthusiastic smile. “I want you to meet Terri and Ashley Spencer. Ashley is a junior at Eisenhower High School and a top soccer player. We’re hoping that she’ll attend the Academy for her senior year.

“Terri, Ashley, this is Joshua Maxfield. He’s our writer-in-residence and he teaches creative writing. He’ll be your instructor if you take the course.”

“Joshua Maxfield,” Terri said, half to herself. Then she asked, “Did you write A Tourist in Babylon?”

Maxfield beamed. “Guilty as charged.”

“I thought it was terrific. I’m a big fan.”

“Well, thank you.”

“I remember Babylon so well. When Marion died from the overdose I cried. That scene was so powerful. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s music to my ears, Mrs. Spencer. A writer tries to create real emotions in his readers but we rarely know if we succeed.”

“Well, I did cry and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was a very moving book. Are you working on another?”

Ashley thought that Maxfield looked uncomfortable, but it was only for a fraction of a second. Then he was smiling modestly.

“Actually, I am.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’d rather not say at this point. I’ve just started it. I will tell you that it’s a departure from my previous books.”

“I won’t press you. I’m working on my own novel and I don’t like talking about it, either.”

Ashley hid her surprise while she watched this exchange. Her mother was usually so businesslike. Now she was gushing the way some of Ashley’s friends did when they talked about a hunky TV teen idol.

“How far along are you?” Maxfield asked.

“About halfway. I’m a reporter for the The Oregonian. They keep me pretty busy. I grab a few hours here and there to work on it. Weekends mostly. It must be great to write full-time.”

“I’m very fortunate. You know, when you feel that you’re well enough along, I do critique manuscripts for a small fee.” Then he paused and pointed a finger at Terri. “Better yet, this summer I’m running a writing group on campus. It’s for serious writers who haven’t published yet but are working on something.” Maxfield fished out his wallet and handed Terri his card. “That’s my number, if you’re interested. I’m trying to keep the group small. Two people have signed up already so don’t wait too long to decide. I’d hate to have to turn you away.”

“Thanks,” Terri said, as she put the card in her purse.

“Joshua, what did you want to ask me?” Casey asked. Ashley thought she sounded a little sharp.

Maxfield smiled at the dean. “Nothing that won’t keep. I’ll catch you later.” The author turned to Terri. “It was nice meeting you.” Then he focused on Ashley. “I hope you’re thinking seriously about the Academy. It’s an excellent place to go to school.” He paused and his smile widened. “Maybe I’ll get you in my class.”

Maxfield walked off and Casey led Terri and Ashley across the street to the science building.

“Joshua Maxfield,” Terri said, smiling. “Have you read his books?” she asked Casey Van Meter.

“Of course.”

“A Tourist in Babylon was so great.” She paused. “How long has it been since it came out?”

“About ten years,” Casey answered.

“That’s what I thought. And The Wishing Well was published the next year. I wonder why he’s taken so long to write his third?”

“You can ask him if you decide to join his group. That sounds like a great opportunity for someone working on a novel, to get advice from a published writer.”

Casey turned to Ashley. “That’s why we asked Joshua to join our faculty. We want our students to have opportunities they don’t get in public school. He lives on campus. If you develop an interest in writing, like your mother, you’d be able to consult with him whenever you wanted to. Joshua is very approachable. He loves working with our students.”

Terri Spencer parked in the visitors’ lot of the Oregon Academy. It was the second week in June, and the weather was as sunny as her mood. Ashley had decided to attend the Academy in the fall and the decision had started the process of healing. During the summer she was living in the dorm and working as a counselor in the school’s nationally respected soccer clinic. Terri was going to have lunch with her at noon, but she had something important to do first.

Joshua Maxfield’s writing group was going to start in two weeks, and Terri had joined it. The members were supposed to submit a writing sample that Maxfield and the group would critique. Terri had brought her partially written manuscript for Maxfield to read. She still could not believe that the author of one of her favorite books was going to help her with her writing.

The Academy had a building for pre-school through fifth grade, another for the middle school program, and two buildings-one for science and the other for liberal arts-for the high school. Joshua Maxfield’s office was in the middle of the hall on the third floor of the liberal arts building. The door was closed. Terri knocked.

“Enter,” Maxfield said.

This was the first time she had been in a published novelist’s work-place, and Terri was uncharacteristically nervous. She opened the door and took a quick look around. Maxfield’s office surprised her. A mug of coffee, a half-eaten doughnut, and a neatly stacked manuscript were the only things on his desk. There were no family photographs, no literary journals or books, not even an ashtray.

The rest of the office also had the feel of temporary occupancy. A bare coatrack hid in a corner, and a glass-fronted bookshelf, with very few books, stood near it. The four walls were devoid of decoration except for framed covers of Joshua’s two novels, a favorable review of A Tourist in Babylon from the New York Times, and framed awards that the book had garnered. Other than Maxfield’s desk, the bookshelves, and some chairs, the only other furniture in the room was a small table upon which sat a coffee pot. A few mugs, packets of powdered creamer and sugar, and an open box of doughnuts kept the pot company.

Maxfield was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a tight black T-shirt that stretched across his chest and showed off his well-defined biceps. He looked amused.

“If you’re searching for the tools of my trade-the quill pen, the parchment, my smoking jacket-they’re in my cottage. That’s where I create my masterpieces. I’d never get anything accomplished if I tried to write here. Too many interruptions and distractions.”

Terri looked embarrassed.

“Don’t worry. You’re not the first person to have that reaction. I’ve never felt comfortable in an office. Makes me feel like an accountant. You’d like my cottage. It’s on the school grounds down by the river. I don’t have any animal head trophies hanging from the walls à la Papa Hemingway but the cottage is much closer to the stereotype of a writer’s digs, very cluttered and untidy. Maybe I can show it to you someday.”

That sounded like a pass, and Terri hid her surprise. If Maxfield noticed her discomfort he didn’t show it. Instead, he pointed at the manila envelope Terri was clutching with both hands.

“Is that your magnum opus?”

Terri blushed. “Yes.”

Maxfield flicked his fingers, beckoning for the manuscript.

“Let’s have it.”

Terri handed over the envelope. “It’s hard to part with,” she said. “Especially when you know that strangers are going to rip it apart.”