The Last Cheerleader. Meg O'Brien

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.

      Not that Patrick’s books didn’t pull in good numbers. But at the time he left me, he was more or less starting out fresh again after three years with no book out, which meant that in his genre, which was mysteries, Nolan-Frey might have had a hard time selling him again to a publisher.

      “I heard they got you a high six figures,” I said. “I’m so happy for you, Patrick. I really am. And I’m sorry things turned out for us the way they did.”

      He made a doleful face. “Me, too. I miss you, Mary Beth. But I understood about the book. When you liked my work, you were the best agent in the world for me, and if you just couldn’t handle that last one, well…” He shrugged. “I guess it was for the best that we both moved on.”

      “I’m sure you’re right. And as I said, I’m happy that you’re with someone who’s doing well for you.”

      “So if my book is made into a billion-dollar movie, you won’t be sorry for missing out?” he asked with a grin.

      “Sorry as all get out!” I laughed. “But I’ll be here with bells on at your celebration party.” Raising