Spanish Disco. Erica Orloff

opened the French doors leading to my balcony, and then turned around and raced to the phone. I found my Daytimer, pulled out my calling card and dialed. Lou answered on the first ring.

      “Well?”

      “Lou, how much money do you think Simple Simon brings in?”

      “I don’t know. A lot. It’s required reading in every high school in America. Why?”

      “You wouldn’t believe this house, Lou. I was sort of expecting some rundown place inhabited by a hermit. But it’s sunny and beautiful and huge! Right now, I am looking out on my own private balcony. The Gulf of Mexico is rolling in. And he has gardens. Beautiful gardens with orchids and ponds and waterfalls and jasmine. It reminds me of Turkey. The scent of jasmine in the air. And everything is custom-built. The staircase is made of teak. The closet—” I walked over and smelled “—I was right, is cedar. The kitchen—not that I cook—but if I did, I would love it. All restaurant-quality stuff. The stove had eight burners.”

      “What is he expecting? An army? The guy doesn’t see anyone. What’s he need eight burners for?”

      “What does anybody need excess for? Why do you have seven fishing rods and three sets of custom golf clubs? To have it.”

      “Well?”

      “Well what?”

      “How does he seem after all these years?”

      “Nice. Kind of odd. The other half of the story is he’s got more pets and plants than a zoo and botanical garden put together.”

      “Pets?”

      “Loose rabbits hopping through the house.”

      “Just so long as you don’t tell me he has a Push-Me-Pull-You or whatever that thing is called.”

      “He has cats. And a parrot. And potato bonsai.”

      “Potato what?”

      “Don’t ask.”

      “Have you seen the book?”

      “No.”

      “Have you talked about it?” I heard the anxiety in his voice.

      “Only to have him say he’d like us to spend a few days getting to know each other first.”

      “Jesus Christ!”

      “What?”

      “No offense, Cassie, but you are hardly the poster child for Miss Congeniality. What if he’s expecting someone different?”

      “Well, he’s got me. And except for that prick Jack Holloway, I’ve gotten along with every author I have ever had.”

      “What about Gussbaum?”

      “Okay. Except for Holloway and Gussbaum—”

      “And Daisy Jones…”

      “Look, trust me, he’s nice enough. I can get along with Roland Riggs.”

      “Let’s hope so.”

      “You want to hear something else weird?”

      “Of course.”

      “His housekeeper is from Mexico. She cooks all this food. I mean for lunch she cooked enough enchiladas to feed Mazatlan. And spicy. Burn your mouth out, eyes water, nose-running spicy. I was afraid my nose was going to drip right in my food, for God’s sake.”

      “A little less detail, please.”

      “But get this. Roland Riggs hates hot food. He carries Tums with him around the house. Isn’t that weird? Why not tell her to cook something else?”

      “Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Remember how your dad used to hate those German dishes what’s-her-name cooked?”

      “Mrs. Honish?”

      “Yeah. He hated all that shit.”

      “Me, too.”

      “But she was a good housekeeper except for the food.”

      “Yeah. Maybe. She’s beautiful by the way. The housekeeper. She is take-your-breath-away beautiful. Anyway, let me get going. I have to check my e-mail. Anything earth-shattering on your end?”

      “Nothing. It’s Saturday. I didn’t even go in to the office.”

      “Okay. Well, I’m just going to take in my view here. Make some coffee.”

      “Call me tomorrow.”

      “Or later if I have something to tell you.”

      “Later, kid.”

      “Later.”

      I hung up and unzipped my huge carry-on bag, pulling out my coffeemaker. I plugged it in and set it on my desk and went about preparing a pot. My chest burned. I unwrapped a Tums and chewed on it. Next I plugged in my laptop and dialed up my e-mail.