Page 63 of Flirting with Forever

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Cam shook her head and gazed out her office window. This couldn’t be happening. “What are you saying, Julie?”

“I’m saying they checked the outline. They can’t buy it.”

“They already bought it. We signed a contract. It’s been announced.”

“They want out.”

“I ain’t gonna let ’em.”

“You’ll have to.”

“Why? What could have happened to an outline they loved so much they asked me to finish it by January fifteenth?”

“It’s not your plot.”

“If it’s not the plot, what is it? The title? For God’s sake, they can change it.”

“No, I mean, it’s not your plot. It’s the plot of another story.”

“What?”

“In the executive meeting, a new editor read the outline and said, ‘Well, I hope she has Molière listed as a cowriter, because this is the plot of The School for Wives.’”

Cam’s heart jumped into her throat.

Julie added, “I, of course, pooh-poohed it when the publisher called, but then she started listing the parallels. Orphanage girl named Agnes. Lecherous old man who waits until she’s grown to bed her. Triangle love interest named Horace. Cam, the entire love story is exactly like the play, and some of the phrases you use in the outline…my God! They’re practically word for word.”

Cam felt like she’d been punched. She’d been had. Oh boy, had she been had. Peter fed her a line. He’d fed her more than a line. He’d fed her an entire goddamned play! It couldn’t be a coincidence. But why would he do it? Things were starting to add up in an ugly way. Peter had worked his magic to get her to pose, then he’d done his brooding leading-man imitation to get her into bed, and then he’d carefully fed her the plot, characters, and lines of a play instead of a story about Van Dyck.

She didn’t know why or how, but it felt like the most manipulative thing a man had ever done to her. She was breathless with hurt and fury.

“Hang on.” She went to Wikipedia, typed in “School for Wives” and hit Enter.

“Molière’s masterpiece, The School for Wives, was first staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She scanned the plot.

Shit.

“Cam?”

“Yep. Got it. Pull the book. We’re sunk.”

Twenty-five

The Afterlife, artists’ section

Mertons waved away the proffered ball politely and shaded his eyes from the sun. He’d never been a fan of bocce. Too much rolling. Not enough cracking. Give him cricket any day. He even liked that odd American version. And though he’d only seen it twice, long ago, the sound of the ball connecting with the hardwood had stayed with him.

“Thank you, no. I’m just here for a few minutes, though the espresso smells delicious. I’d love a cup of that if you have one to spare.”

“Certainly,” Rembrandt said, lifting the pot. “’Tis excellent today.”

“Where’s Peter?”

Rembrandt, who was waiting for Velazquez to align his shot, tilted his head toward the rise beyond the end of the path. “At the canvas. Always at the canvas.”

Even at this distance, Mertons could see Peter’s drawn face. “I take it he’s not glad to be back.”