Miracle On 5th Avenue

Reflecting on what his life would look like if he didn’t have his career, Lucas reached for the phone and finally returned the call to his agent.

“Lucas!” Jason’s voice came down the phone, jovial and energetic. There were sounds of revelry in the background, laughter and Christmas music. “I was starting to think you were buried under a snowdrift. How are the snowy wastelands of Vermont?”

Lucas stared out across the Manhattan skyline, the sharp edges of the city muted by falling snow. “Vermont is beautiful.”

It was the truth. Assuming it hadn’t altered since his last visit, which had been a year ago.

“TIME magazine has just named you the most exciting crime writer of the decade. Did you see the piece?”

Lucas glanced at the towering pile of unopened mail. “Haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”

“That’s why you’re at the top of your game. No distractions. With you, it’s all about the book. Your fans are excited about this one, Lucas.”

The book.

Dread stirred inside him. Dark thoughts were eclipsed by sweaty panic. He hadn’t written a word. His mind was empty, but that was something he hadn’t confessed to his agent or his publisher. He was still hoping for a miracle, some spark of inspiration that would allow him to wriggle free from the poisonous tentacles of Christmas and lose himself in a fictional world. It was ironic that the twisted, sick minds of his complex characters provided a preferable alternative to the dark reality of his own.

He eyed the knife that lay on the table close by. The blade glinted, taunting him.

He’d been staring at it for the best part of a week, even though he knew it wasn’t the answer. He was better than that.

“That’s why you’ve been calling? To ask about the book?”

“I know you hate to be disturbed when you’re writing, but production is hounding me. Sales of your last book exceeded even our expectations,” Jason said gleefully. “Your publisher is tripling the print run for the next. Are you going to give me any clues about the story?”

“I can’t.” If he knew what the book was about, he’d be writing it.

Instead, his mind was terrifyingly blank.

He didn’t have a crime. Worse, he didn’t have a murderer.

For him, every book started with the character. He was known for his unpredictable twists, for being able to deliver a shock that even the most perceptive reader failed to anticipate.

Right now the shock would be the blank page.

It was worse this year than it had been the year before. Then, the process had been long and painful, but he’d managed to somehow drag each word from inside him by November, before memories had paralyzed him. It was like trying to get to the top of Everest before the winds hit. Timing was everything. This year he hadn’t managed it and he was beginning to think he’d left it too late. He was going to need an extension on his deadline, something he’d never had to ask for before. That was bad enough, but worse were the questions that would follow. The sympathetic looks and the nods of understanding.

“I’d love to see a few pages. First chapter?”

“I’ll let you know,” Lucas said, before proffering the season’s greetings that were expected of him and ending the call.

Lucas rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t have a first chapter. He didn’t have a first line. So far the only thing that had been murdered was his inspiration. It was lying inert, the life squeezed out of it. Could it be resurrected? He wasn’t sure.

He’d sat at his open laptop hour after hour and not a single word had emerged. The only thing in his head was Sallyanne. She filled his head, his thoughts and his heart. His bruised, damaged heart.

It was on this day, three years ago, that he’d had the phone call that had derailed his seemingly charmed life. It had been like a scene from one of his books, except this time it had been fact not fiction. He’d been the one identifying the body in the morgue, not one of his characters. He no longer had to put himself in their shoes and imagine what they were feeling because he was feeling it himself.

Since then he’d struggled through every day, dragging himself from minute to minute, while outwardly doing what was needed to make people believe that he was doing fine. He’d learned early on that people needed to see that. They didn’t want to witness his grief. They wanted to believe he’d handled it and “moved on.” Mostly, he managed to meet their expectations, except for this time of year, when the anniversary of her death came around.

Eventually he was going to have to confess to his agent and his publisher that he hadn’t written a single word of the book his fans so eagerly awaited.

This book wasn’t going to make his publisher a fortune. It didn’t exist.

He had no idea how to conjure the magic that had sent him soaring to the top of the bestseller charts in more than fifty countries.

All he could do was carry on doing what he’d been doing for the past month. He’d sit in front of the blank screen and hope that somewhere in the depths of his tortured brain an idea might emerge.

He kept hoping for a miracle.

It was the season for it, wasn’t it?

* * *

“This is it?” Eva peered out of the window of the cab. “It’s incredible. He has a view of Central Park. What I wouldn’t give to live this close to Tiffany’s.”

The cabdriver glanced in his mirror. “Do you need help with all those bags?”

“I’ll manage, thanks,” Eva said as she handed over her fare.

It was bitterly cold and the snow was falling heavily, thick swirling flakes that reduced visibility and settled on her coat. A few flakes found the small, unprotected section of her neck and slid like icy fingers under her coat. Within moments the bags were covered and so was she. Worse was the sidewalk. Her feet slithered on the deep carpet of ice and snow, and finally lost traction.

“Agh—” Her arms windmilled and the doorman stepped forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

“Steady. It’s lethal underfoot.”

“You’re not kidding.” She clutched his arm, waiting for her heart rate to slow. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas in the hospital. I hear the food is terrible.”

“We’ll help you with those bags.” He lifted a hand and two uniformed guys appeared and loaded her bags and boxes onto a luggage cart.

“Thank you. I’m taking it all to the top floor. The penthouse. You should be expecting me. I’m staying a few days to decorate an apartment for a client who is out of town. Lucas Blade.”

He was a crime writer with a dozen global bestsellers to his name.

Eva had never read a single one of them.

She hated crime, both real and fictional. She preferred to focus on the positive side of people and life. And she preferred to sleep at night.

The warmth of the apartment building wrapped itself around her as she stepped inside, comforting after the chill of the blizzard swirling on Fifth Avenue. Her cheeks stung and despite wearing gloves her fingertips were numb with cold. Even the wool hat she’d pulled over her ears had done nothing to keep out the savage bite of a New York winter.

“I’m going to need to see ID.” The doorman was brisk and businesslike. “We’ve had a spate of break-ins in this area. What’s the company name?”

“Urban Genie.” It was still new enough that saying it brought a rush of pride. It was her company. She’d set it up with her friends. She handed over her ID. “We’ve not been around long, but we’re taking New York by storm.” She shook snow off her gloves and smiled. “Well, it’s maybe more of a light wind than a storm, given what’s happening outside the window, but we’re hopeful for the future. I have Mr. Blade’s key.” She waved it as evidence and his gaze warmed as he looked first at it and then at the ID she’d handed him.

“You’re on my list. All I need is for you to sign in.”

“Could you do me a favor?” Eva signed with a flourish. “When Lucas Blade shows up, don’t tell him I was here. It’s supposed to be a surprise. He’s going to open his front door and find his apartment all ready for the holidays. It’ll be like walking in on a surprise birthday party.”

It occurred to her that not everyone liked surprise birthday parties, but who was she to argue with his family? His grandmother, who had been one of their first clients and was now a good friend, had given her a clear brief. Prepare the apartment and make it ready for Christmas. Apparently Lucas Blade was in Vermont, deep in a book and on a deadline; the world around him had ceased to exist. As well as decorating, her job was to cook and fill his freezer and she had the whole weekend to do it because he wasn’t due home until the following week.