“Listen, what did I tell you about this book? Didn’t I tell you that it was you, a reflection of what you are?”
“You’re sweet, but—”
“Turn it down. Listen, Laura. You’re thinking that scorning a hundred K is like spitting in the faces of all the gods of good fortune; it’s like inviting that lightning you’ve spoken about. But you earned this payoff, and fate isn’t going to cheat you out of it.”
She called Spencer Keene and told him her decision.
Excited, nervous, already missing the hundred thousand dollars, she returned to the den and sat at her typewriter and stared at the unfinished short story for a while until she became aware of the odor of chicken soup and remembered she had left it on the stove. She hurried into the kitchen and found that all but half an inch of soup had boiled away; burnt noodles were stuck to the bottom of the pot.
At two-ten, which was five-ten New York time, Spencer called again to say that Viking had agreed to let the hundred thousand stand as a floor bid. “Now, that’s the very least you make from Shadrach — a hundred grand. I think I’ll set September twenty-sixth as the auction date. It’s going to be a big one, Laura. I feel it.”
She spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to be elated but unable to shake off her anxiety. Shadrach was already a big success, no matter what happened in the auction. She had no reason for her anxiety, but it held her in a tight grip.
Danny came home from work that day with a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of roses, and a box of Godiva chocolates. They sat on the sofa, nibbling chocolates, sipping champagne, and talking about the future, which seemed entirely bright; yet her anxiety lingered.
Finally she said, “I don’t want chocolates or champagne or roses or a hundred thousand dollars. I want you. Take me to bed.”
They made love for a long time. The late summer sun ebbed from the windows and the tide of night rolled in before they parted with a sweet, aching reluctance. Lying at her side in the darkness, Danny tenderly kissed her breasts, her throat, her eyes, and finally her lips. She realized that her anxiety had at last faded. It was not sexual release that expelled her fear. Intimacy, total surrender of self, and the sense of snared hopes and dreams and destinies had been the true medicines; the great, good feeling of family that she had with was a talisman that effectively warded off cold fate.
On Wednesday, September 26, Danny took the day off from •or! to be at Laura’s side as the news came in from
At seven-thirty in the morning, ten-thirty New York time, 1 Spencer Keene called to report that Random House had made the first offer above the auction floor. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand, and we’re on our way.”
Two hours later Spencer called again. “Everyone’s off to lunch, * so there’ll be a lull. Right now, we’re up to three hundred and fifty | thousand and six houses are still in the bidding.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand?” Laura repeated.
At the kitchen sink where he was rinsing the breakfast dishes, Danny dropped a plate.
When she hung up and looked at Danny, he grinned and said, “Am I mistaken, or is this the book you were afraid might be mule puke?”
Four and a half hours later, as they were sitting at the dinette ! table pretending to be concentrating on a game of five-hundred rummy, their inattention betrayed by their mutual inability to keep score with any degree of mathematical accuracy whatsoever, Spencer Keene called again. Danny followed her into the kitchen to listen to her side of the conversation.
Spencer said, “You sitting down, honey?”
“I’m ready, Spencer. I don’t need a chair. Tell me.”
“It’s over. Simon & Schuster. One million, two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Weak with shock, shaky, she spoke with Spencer for another ten minutes, and when she hung up, she wasn’t sure of a thing that had been said after he had told her the price. Danny was staring at her expectantly, and she realized that he didn’t know what had happened. She told him the name of the buyer and the figure.