this time of year I’ve got no idea where I’m going—maybe somewhere remote.
They say life begins at forty. I think it’s true, but some days I’m not sure. My goal most days is to try to make it through until bedtime, without wine, a joint or Welbutrin—subject to change.
My name’s Jessica Winslow and I work as a literary agent for Henson Literary in New York. Am I happy? Ask me on a good day and I’ll tell you about my latest client or some celebrity I’ve wined and dined.
Ask me on a bad day and I’ll dissolve like a love letter left out in the rain.
Lately, I’ve been feeling more and more conflicted. It all started with two new clients I inherited from Paul Herbert who passed away unexpectedly and bequeathed his agency file to me.
I was able to place most of the writers with other agents, but was left with two authors—Paul Fletcher and Pablo Vasquez.
I knew nothing of either and frankly could care less—still, I had a responsibility to fulfill and unfortunately, a most promising weekend to sacrifice. There was no avoiding it—I’d spend two days going through manuscripts before deciding which one to pitch.
On Friday evening, I retired to bed with Fishers of the Dawn and Bohemian Nights.
As usual, Paula my assistant had botched the job and I had absolutely no idea which writer belonged to which manuscript—not that it mattered really, because in the end, it would be the text and not the man I’d pitch to land a publisher.
Fishers was just dreadful—a filthy novel filled with tawdry characters and a poorly executed plot.
Bohemian Nights, on the other hand, was a lyrical romance that fairly swept me off my feet—and would have, had I not been propped up on several pillows, glass of Yellow Tail in one hand and lots of Swiss dark chocolate on my night table to see me through.
There was one beautiful part in the novel where Luis, the hero, was making a lover’s complaint: “She allowed a stranger to unravel her dreams and touch her breasts—but then, love’s tenderness is nothing—another reason to despair.”
What passion and sense of indignity! Where were the men who could speak such lines?
There was a knock on my door. I groaned. I could ignore it, but it might be Paula with some important paper to sign.
I wrapped my robe around me, fluffed up my hair and padded out to the door.
A dark haired young man was standing in the hallway looking sheepish and contrite.
“I am so sorry to disturb you Ms. Winslow, but I have to return to Spain and was wondering if you had a chance to read my manuscript?”
“Which one are you—Fishers or Bohemian?”
“Bohemian,” he whispered, as if admitting to his part in a conspiracy.
“Ah!” My eyes brightened and suddenly, before I realized it, my hand reached to catch his arm and pull him in. He looked shocked at the impropriety.
“I was just reading your manuscript, Pablo and it’s magnificent. Beautiful writing—very soulful and perceptive.”
His dark eyes lit up and he broke into a beautiful smile. “You honor me, Ms. Winslow.”
“Won’t you sit down, Pablo? –And please—call me Jessica—Ms. Winslow sounds so formal.”
“Very well, Jessica. It’s a lovely name.”
He sat opposite me on the couch—I was on the sofa chair.
“I’m so happy you liked my writing—it’s about my homeland, Spain and the countryside around Cordoba.”
He was beautiful—shiny dark hair, olive skin and the whitest teeth I had ever seen—and when he smiled the room lit up.
“I could feel your soul,” I gushed—I don’t gush, but I was definitely gushing.
He looked uncomfortable and shifted on the couch. Before I knew it, I was beside him, staring into his deep, dark eyes.
He tried to engage me in conversation. “Have you been to Spain, Jessica?”
I think he asked the question more from discomfort than interest. I took his hand—I couldn’t help myself.
“Tell me about your country,” I implored.
He talked for several minutes, describing the hills outside Cordoba, the long grass that bent in the wind and rolled in waves to the horizon.
The moon he described was a pale wanderer in the skies and we were on horseback riding through the countryside.
The cold wind flowed around me and my heart leapt at the beauty of the wild night.
Clouds were racing and waves were crashing on pebbled shores.
We had black olives in the saddlebags and the pony’s thundering hooves and the rushing mane transported me on a wave of ecstasy.
I wanted the sea—the cold arms and lonely white waves of the sea—but most of all I wanted his lips and hungered for his dark mouth…
He was off the couch and out the door, leaving me, a madwoman calling after him.
"Pablo, my Love, come back to me."
I was cold and trembling and exhausted from the excitement.
I lay down on the couch and fell into a deep sleep.
It was after ten when Paula phoned. “Pablo Vasquez left a strange voicemail—he’s withdrawing his manuscript and returning to Spain—I thought I’d let you know before you invested any effort into it.”
I thanked her and clicked off. What did I do?
Horror filled me, and an unholy fear. I was shaking—strange tremors pulsed through my body. I stared at my reflection in the foyer mirror—I looked like Medusa—I felt like her too.
Well, that’s my strange tale. I have no idea why it happened or what it means.
I quit my job the next day and ended up selling my New York condo. I’ve got no idea where I’m going—maybe somewhere remote.
I always wanted to live in a small fishing village like Haven or Jessica Fletcher’s town on Murder She Wrote.
They also tell me Cordoba is lovely this time of year.
https://goo.gl/images/I4dGsc, https://goo.gl/images/PK2Cls, https://goo.gl/images/USs5Y1