Strangewood Read Free Page A

or an actress.
    He observed her. Writers are like stalkers in that way, he
thought self-consciously, and not for the first time. He was watching her too
closely, too carefully. And so he forced himself to look away.
    His gaze drifted around the small restaurant area, perhaps a
dozen unsteady tables in use by employees . That's how Thomas always
thought of them. They weren't his employees of course, or the restaurants, but
they were somebody's. Manhattan at one P.M. on a weekday was little more than
one huge business lunch. Find a hip yet cheap place to eat, all the better.
    Live Bait fit the bill. The little Cajun restaurant was at
Twenty-Third Street and Madison, a neighborhood with more than its share of
publishing houses. A trendy spot for editors, agents, and writers to run into
one another, by accident or design.
    Past a bar crowded with people drinking lunch, and probably
not there on business, was a wide glass picture window ornamented with reversed
neon beer signs. Reversed to Thomas, of course. They were perfectly readable
from the steaming, sun-drenched sidewalk of Twenty- Third Street.
    Thomas watched people walking by, ties loosened, jackets
off. Those who didn't have such dress codes wore as little as legally possible.
One woman walking her dog had on a bikini top and what seemed to be a silk
scarf instead of a skirt. Thomas didn't even blink, and only the tourists
turned to see her as she walked by. It was Manhattan, after all.
    It was a hot Friday in July and not even the lightest breeze
stirred the stagnant air in the canyons of New York City. When the sun dropped
behind the Flatiron Building, long, cool shadows would insinuate themselves
across the sidewalks, stretching fingers into the street itself.
    For now, there was only the glare.
    Then, blocking the glare, a silhouette, a shape, a woman.
    "I hope you haven't been waiting long."
    Thomas blinked several times, forced his eyes to adjust. The
silhouette resolved into his agent, Francesca Cavallaro. Attractive, yet
diminutive, she was possessed of an immutable resolve and an air of confidence
that gave her a much larger presence than her size would warrant.
    She had fire, Thomas always thought. He'd liked that in her
from the first. It had served both of them well.
    "Nope, waited for you before ordering," Thomas
revealed. "But I know what I want. The jambalaya is excellent here, you
should try it."
    "I'm in the mood for fish, actually," Francesca
said. "If they have blackened catfish, I'm sold."
    "You may be in luck," he told her as she picked up
a menu. Then, after a moment, "I don't want to rush you, but we're going
to have to be fairly quick. I've got to pick Nathan up from school."
    Francesca's blue eyes rose over the top of the menu to
regard him tenderly. She had long hair, dyed an almost natural red, and blue
eyes that reminded Thomas of a marble he'd had as a boy; just one, and he'd
lost it the spring he'd turned seven. But he never forgot.
    "How's that going, anyway?" she asked.
    "Seems to be working out," Thomas replied. "I
get my work done during the week, and play with Nathan on the weekend. The best
of both worlds, actually, considering how Emily and I get along these days. Which
is to say, not at all."
    This answer seemed to satisfy Francesca, for she glanced
idly around in search of the waitress.
    "How's the new one coming? What's it called?"
    " Fly Away to Strangewood ," he reminded her.
"It's the one where Grumbler and Feathertop finally come home."
    Francesca brightened with that.
    "God, TJ," she said. "The kids have been
screaming for that for about three years, right? That'll make you a mint."
    "Us," Thomas reminded her, brushing his fingers
through his thick scrub of short dark hair. "It'll make us a mint. And
please, Frankie, don't call me TJ. You know I hate that."
    "Sorry," she lied. Then the waitress came, and
when he glanced at her tag, Thomas realized he'd forgotten her name. In the
space of less than five minutes, it had been lost