carved
wainscoting, the complex ceiling moldings. “I think this is probably
Henrietta’s influence. I spent a lot of time with her when I was younger, and
she instilled an appreciation in me for the beauty of craftsmanship, the care
of creating something that will last.”
“I know,” Emily said softly. “That’s how I
feel about the books we represent at the agency.”
“Even today? Hasn’t the art of publishing
given way to the allure of big business? Haven’t you all gone to a best-seller
model? Here today, gone tomorrow?”
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Emily said,
impressed that Derian even thought about what the world of publishing was like.
She never appeared at the agency, never attended any of the business meetings,
but she clearly knew the direction of change in recent years. “That’s what I
love about our agency. We don’t just look for the kinds of works that will sell
the most. We look for the kinds of works that will live on, that will add something
to the understanding of our times or provoke thought, or simply be a beautiful
example of the art.”
Derian smiled. “I can see that Henrietta has
had an influence on you too, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Perhaps she
chose you because you’re a kindred soul.”
“If that were true, I would be incredibly
honored.”
Derian walked to the far end of the big room,
skirted behind a waist-high bar, and opened a tall mahogany cabinet to reveal a
hidden refrigerator. She chuckled. “When I sent my luggage ahead, someone
decided to stock in some supplies.” She took out a platter of cheese and other
appetizers and set a bottle of champagne next to it. “Help yourself while I
shower. I did promise you dinner and no more than a fifteen-minute wait.”
As she spoke, Derian opened the bottle of
champagne, pulled two fluted glasses from a glass-fronted cabinet over the
counter, and poured the frothing wine. She picked up hers and held the other
out to Emily. “Do you drink?”
“On occasion.” And never anything with a label like that. Emily took the glass and sipped. The bubbles played across her tongue like
sunshine. “Oh. That’s…nice.”
Derian grinned. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Emily said, watching Derian
move with smooth grace toward the hall. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”
Derian glanced back over her shoulder, a dark
glint in her eyes. “Good. Neither do I, and I’m enjoying the company.”
Chapter Seven
Derian leaned on her outstretched arms, palms to
the smooth tile wall, dropped her head, and closed her eyes as warm water
sluiced over her shoulders and back. The long hours of the endless day and
previous sleepless night settled into her bones with a soul-sapping weariness.
Nothing new, really. Just another stopover on the merry-go-round of her life, aimlessly
moving, never slowing, never stopping, not even when she was in one place. Some
days, she had to concentrate to remember where she’d just been—the glaring
casino lights, the roar of the crowds pressing close to the track, the urgent
whispers in the dark of women she barely touched and remembered even less
blurred and faded into indistinguishable links on a chain, tugging her along.
And here she was, back at the beginning, like an ouroboros, a snake chasing its
own tail while consuming itself in its never-ending rush to escape its fate.
“Man,” she muttered, “I must be tired.”
Straightening with an aggravated snort, she
reached blindly for the shampoo, finding it where she’d left it who knew how
long ago. She wondered idly as she soaped her body and washed her hair if the
cleaning people replaced the products on a regular basis. She suspected they
did. One of those little things she rarely gave any thought to. She was so used
to living in hotels that her own home felt like one and was maintained in the same
way as all the other elegant places she frequented. The Dakota, for all its
history and charm,
wainscoting, the complex ceiling moldings. “I think this is probably
Henrietta’s influence. I spent a lot of time with her when I was younger, and
she instilled an appreciation in me for the beauty of craftsmanship, the care
of creating something that will last.”
“I know,” Emily said softly. “That’s how I
feel about the books we represent at the agency.”
“Even today? Hasn’t the art of publishing
given way to the allure of big business? Haven’t you all gone to a best-seller
model? Here today, gone tomorrow?”
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Emily said,
impressed that Derian even thought about what the world of publishing was like.
She never appeared at the agency, never attended any of the business meetings,
but she clearly knew the direction of change in recent years. “That’s what I
love about our agency. We don’t just look for the kinds of works that will sell
the most. We look for the kinds of works that will live on, that will add something
to the understanding of our times or provoke thought, or simply be a beautiful
example of the art.”
Derian smiled. “I can see that Henrietta has
had an influence on you too, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Perhaps she
chose you because you’re a kindred soul.”
“If that were true, I would be incredibly
honored.”
Derian walked to the far end of the big room,
skirted behind a waist-high bar, and opened a tall mahogany cabinet to reveal a
hidden refrigerator. She chuckled. “When I sent my luggage ahead, someone
decided to stock in some supplies.” She took out a platter of cheese and other
appetizers and set a bottle of champagne next to it. “Help yourself while I
shower. I did promise you dinner and no more than a fifteen-minute wait.”
As she spoke, Derian opened the bottle of
champagne, pulled two fluted glasses from a glass-fronted cabinet over the
counter, and poured the frothing wine. She picked up hers and held the other
out to Emily. “Do you drink?”
“On occasion.” And never anything with a label like that. Emily took the glass and sipped. The bubbles played across her tongue like
sunshine. “Oh. That’s…nice.”
Derian grinned. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Emily said, watching Derian
move with smooth grace toward the hall. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”
Derian glanced back over her shoulder, a dark
glint in her eyes. “Good. Neither do I, and I’m enjoying the company.”
Chapter Seven
Derian leaned on her outstretched arms, palms to
the smooth tile wall, dropped her head, and closed her eyes as warm water
sluiced over her shoulders and back. The long hours of the endless day and
previous sleepless night settled into her bones with a soul-sapping weariness.
Nothing new, really. Just another stopover on the merry-go-round of her life, aimlessly
moving, never slowing, never stopping, not even when she was in one place. Some
days, she had to concentrate to remember where she’d just been—the glaring
casino lights, the roar of the crowds pressing close to the track, the urgent
whispers in the dark of women she barely touched and remembered even less
blurred and faded into indistinguishable links on a chain, tugging her along.
And here she was, back at the beginning, like an ouroboros, a snake chasing its
own tail while consuming itself in its never-ending rush to escape its fate.
“Man,” she muttered, “I must be tired.”
Straightening with an aggravated snort, she
reached blindly for the shampoo, finding it where she’d left it who knew how
long ago. She wondered idly as she soaped her body and washed her hair if the
cleaning people replaced the products on a regular basis. She suspected they
did. One of those little things she rarely gave any thought to. She was so used
to living in hotels that her own home felt like one and was maintained in the same
way as all the other elegant places she frequented. The Dakota, for all its
history and charm,
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