Page 36 of Gold Mine (The Diamond Trilogy 2)
Finally I spy my shoe hiding underneath a tall bookshelf. I fish it out and slide it on, then I’m out the door. Then back inside again as I’ve forgotten my laptop bag.
“Coming,” I say into the phone, breathless as I press the elevator button.
“Good,” she says, her voice tinny. “This mermaid book is going to be big. I can feel it.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m heading into the elevator. I’ll shoot the shit with Trinity for half an hour, then we’ll meet you at the cafe down the street for lunch.”
“See you soon!”
Despite the number of books I’ve written, I haven’t actually met my editor that many times. There were a few awards ceremonies, a panel at an author convention.
Once, I received an official invitation to visit the publishing house, but from what I could gather, the main purpose was to snap photos for their Instagram account.
They had a sheet cake with my book cover on the top, the castle of teeth artwork even more startling on something meant to be eaten.
The elevator begins to close, but someone slides his hand between the doors.
Only distantly I realize that I don’t know the man wearing a hoodie and jeans, who steps onto the car and stands in front of me. I can’t see much of him from this angle, but I would remember those broad shoulders if I’d seen them around here. Then again, a lot has changed in a year.
Maybe some of the tenants I knew have left.
Hopefully the guy who plays oboe is one of them.
I’m digging through my purse, looking for some lip gloss to swipe over my lips. It’s been so long since I got ready to go out that I’ve lost the hang of it. But I’m determined to fit into my old life, so when my agent suggested we have lunch with my editor, I accepted. We’ll discuss my proposal for the new book and hopefully get a contract.
The elevator car slides down the ten floors and opens at the ground. We’re immediately swarmed by a young woman with three small children in tow, and I have to step carefully to avoid getting trampled by a boy with an action figure.
The man who was on the elevator disappears in the direction of the parking garage, but like most New Yorkers, I don’t have a car. Instead I head toward the street exit, where I’ll take the subway to the publishing house offices.
The same flickering neon latte hangs in front of my favorite coffee shop.
I glance at my phone. There’s just enough time to grab a mocha frappe if I hurry. Sure enough, there’s no line. I step right up to the counter, where the same barista turns the pages of a science fiction book.
He glances up at me and grins. “You’re back.”
“It feels so good to be back,” I say, which is not entirely a lie. Certain things feel good. Like having an endless stream of boiling hot water for my shower. Wearing my super comfy pajamas to sleep. Other things feel… different. As if I’ve changed while I’ve been gone and don’t quite fit into my old places. “I’ll have my usual.”
He nods and turns to begin making my mocha frappe. It’s been years of coming here. I don’t even know his name; this isn’t a nametag kind of place. And he doesn’t know mine. But I know what series he’s on, and he knows my drink. There’s comfort in that.
“So,” he says, pouring the syrup in, heavy handed the way I like. “Where did you go? I figured you must’ve moved away or something.”
How to explain? I certainly can’t tell the truth. This is a conversation I’ll have to have a hundred times—starting at lunch with my agent and editor. “I decided I needed to see the world,” I say, which narrowly avoids being a lie. “So I flew to Paris and then took a tour in the countryside. Ended up in Italy, and now I’m home.”
He whistles. “Very nice. And impulsive. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
That makes me laugh. “I didn’t think I had it in me, either.”
And that part, at least, is the truth. I survived a kidnapping and imprisonment in a French church. I escaped a high-security appartamente in Paris. I evaded ex-military forces and confronted an international thug. That’s the reason why I don’t quite fit into my life here; I’ve become someone else, someone who can do those things.
Bemused, I pay for my mocha frappe and head outside.
A man sits on the corner stroking a guitar. The sound filters through the bustle and honking.
Sunlight bounces off cars that zoom around each other on the busy street, a rush of yellow taxis and black Ubers. A few delivery trucks and vans break up the color.
