The Last Cheerleader

I grabbed her hand and the robe she’d never put on and pulled her, naked, out onto the deck and down the wooden steps to the beach.

“Mary Beth, wait! Where are we going? I need my clothes!”

I ignored her cries and pulled her along the sand—away from the usual floodlights that people who live here shine on the waves—and into the shadows.

“Put this on,” I said. “Hurry!”

While she shrugged into the dark blue robe, I kept tugging at her, wanting only to get as far away from the house as I could. I’ll admit I was panicked. Never in my life had I been shot at, nor had I ever had a break-in. I didn’t know where I was going, and was running on instinct, just trying to put distance between us and my house.

Then it hit me—Patrick. Patrick Llewellen, who used to be one of my authors, lived only five houses down from mine. I dragged the half-clothed Lindy up along the sand toward the modern three-story house. She kept stumbling, and I just hoped she could make it up the stairs.

Still pulling her, I raced up the stairs to Patrick’s deck, with its potted palms that were set off by colorful Malibu lights.

Damn. I’d forgotten that he kept these lights on all night, every night, without fail. We should have gone around to the front.

But I hadn’t had time to think clearly, and this would have to do. I began to pound on one of Patrick’s three sliding glass doors, then the other and the other, hoping I could rouse him from his sleep. He didn’t answer, though.

God, what if he’d stayed overnight somewhere? What if we couldn’t get in?

“Mary Beth, look!”

I looked back to where Lindy pointed, and saw a dark figure running toward us on the beach. It was less than three houses away. I ran over to another door and pounded on it. “Patrick!” I yelled. “If you’re there, let me in! It’s Mary Beth!”

The wait seemed endless, but finally a light came on inside. A drape was pulled back. “For God’s sake, Mary Beth, what are you doing here!” Patrick said as he slid open the door.

“Just let us in. Hurry!”

I didn’t waste time on the niceties, pushing by him with Lindy in tow. Once inside, I pulled the door closed and locked it, yanking the drapes shut.

“Someone broke into my house,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “They shot at us. He’s right out there, Patrick! I need to call the sheriff.”

Patrick wasn’t in pajamas, and didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping. He wore a forest-green silk robe over his trousers and an open-collared white shirt, looking for all the world like a screen idol—except for his nose, which was a bit on the large side. I liked that about him; it kept him from looking too pretty.

His jaw, however, had dropped in shock. “I can’t believe it! Who on earth would do that?”

He glanced at Lindy.

“She’s a friend,” I said, still gasping. “Could you—look, it’s too bright in here.” The light was coming from a Tiffany lamp next to a leather armchair. I leaned over and turned it off. There was only a dim glow left from the kitchen, on the other side of his dining room.

“Patrick, I’m truly sorry. I know this is an imposition. But I need to call the sheriff. While I’m doing that, could you fix Lindy some tea? Anything, really. I think she’s in shock.”

“I’ll put a shot of bourbon in it,” he said, nodding. “And the phone’s over here. Next to the light you just turned off.” He shook his head. “You always were the type to take over.”

“Sorry. But before you go, are your doors all locked?”

“Yes. And, Mary Beth, I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I was downstairs in the cave, working.”

Patrick’s “cave,” I’d learned years ago, was a dark enclosed room in the basement—the only place he could write in this house, as the magnificent views from every other room distracted him.

I picked up the phone and punched in 911. My breath had slowed a bit, but my side hurt, and Lindy sat huddled in a chair, her head down, twisting her hands. She was breathing heavily, and I remembered that she’d had a long walk earlier to get to my place. The poor thing must be totaled.

When the dispatcher answered, I told her what had happened, and asked that a car come around and check the house out before my friend and I went back there. She said they’d send someone right away, and we should wait where we were until the sheriff’s deputy came to tell us it was safe to go back.

Hanging up, I walked to the sliding glass door and pulled back the heavy brocade drapes a crack, to see if anyone was out there. The outside lights would have revealed anyone on the deck, and a quick glance showed that it was empty. I couldn’t tell about the beach.

I carefully put the drape back in place and turned on the lamp again, looking now at Lindy. I’d just heard a teakettle whistle, and knew Patrick would be back with tea soon. Before he returned, I wanted to find out a few things from my old friend Lindy Lou.

“Why did you think that might be Roger?” I demanded, standing over her with my arms crossed, in no mood to be gentle about this.

“I don’t know,” she said, shivering, her teeth chattering. “I guess I’ve been so afraid of him for so long, that’s the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Why have you been afraid of Roger?” I asked.

“Mary Beth, I told you what he did! He threw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Why wouldn’t I be afraid of what he might do next?”

I didn’t say anything, but when she’d used the words afraid for so long, I’d gotten the distinct impression she might have been abused by Roger over the course of their marriage. I had good cause to wonder about that.

I reached for a faux-fur throw cover on Patrick’s sofa and put it over Lindy. “Here, this should warm you up.”

Patrick came in with our tea then, and there was no more time to talk confidentially. Besides the tea tray, he carried a cashmere sweater, and after setting the tray down he placed it around my shoulders, tying the sleeves under my neck.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling a bit awkwardly. It seemed so strange to be taken care of.

I watched as he took a cup of tea over to Lindy. She smiled, said, “Thank you,” in a small voice like a little girl’s, and sipped the tea. There was a large stone fireplace on one wall, and Patrick went over to it and clicked a switch. The gas fire blazed up around fake logs. I imagined I could already feel the heat from it.

Patrick brushed both hands together as if he’d just stirred the logs with a poker. Coming back, he sat in a chair across from me and sighed. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

He put his feet up on an ottoman, and I saw that he wasn’t wearing shoes, just argyle socks, which made me smile. I’d forgotten about Patrick’s love for argyle socks.

Glancing over at Lindy, I saw that she’d set her teacup on the table beside her and seemed fast asleep. Good. She must really need to rest.

Leaning back in the chair with my cup, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us in, Patrick. You know, I haven’t been sure you’d still want to talk to me.”

One essential facet of being a literary agent—at least, for me—is cheering on my authors, helping them to believe they can succeed. A lot of good writers go down the drain after one or two rejection letters, and never write again. They need to learn to let the rejections roll off their backs and just keep going.

In Patrick’s case, however, it was I who had rejected his latest book several months ago, not an editor. It was a dark book with serial rapes in it—too dark for me. I’d reached a financial point where I could turn down manuscripts that bothered me personally, and though I hated to let Patrick go, he had insisted on writing In Peril. We had clearly reached an impasse, and I finally had to let him go.

Patrick had been bitter at first, but then I’d heard that he was with another agent and his book was being picked up for almost seven figures. He’d been seen around town, dining in all the best restaurants with a smile on his face.

Now that I’d lost Tony and Craig, I almost wished I had gotten Patrick that deal. But oh well. Water under the bridge.

“Don’t be silly, Mary Beth,” he said now. “Of course I still want to talk to you. I’ll admit I was pretty upset at first, but that’s just because I felt set adrift without a canoe. And now things are going really great. Did you hear that I’m with Nolan-Frey?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. They’re quite a big agency, on a level now with CAA. And I heard that they got you a great deal.”

“Yes, well, it’s…Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s still in the negotiation phase, nothing certain. It’s going well, though.”

Agencies like Nolan-Frey took on someone on the basis of liking their work, then helped them to polish and even rewrite it if they thought that was necessary. Like a book doctor, except that they didn’t charge until after the book was sold, hopefully with a movie option. Usually they got significant options, with big money and stars attached, while the ordinary writer going through an agent who wasn’t as top-flight might get only two thousand five hundred for the option, and the movie would never be made. The paybacks are often better, then, with the big agencies like CAA and Nolan-Frey, but they’re harder for an author to get into. I was guessing they had taken on Patrick partly for his talent, and partly because I was his former agent.