Since his earliest inklings, Max had written on legal pads with a Pilot, fine point, black pen. Nothing else could satisfy him, but the feel of those words flowing beneath his hand, the scratching sound of the pen against paper.

Hell, how could he tell Ruth and Cynthia that this was the only way it worked for him? More than anyone knew, he hated having to depend on others to put his books into a format accepted by the publishing world.

He hated needing them. Need in human relationships always led to compromises he felt he couldn’t make.

But the process only happened one way. He had to write, then had to edit, by hand. It was the only way. Like a baseball player who put his clothes on in the exact order before each game, this was his superstition.

“No. I can’t try typing the book myself.”

Ruth sighed, looking at him with worried eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to try again to give me the pages you’ve handwritten. I can get them transcribed and bring the text back to you?”

It was Max’s turn to sigh roughly. “You know what happened last time we tried that. No one can read my damned handwriting. I need to be in the vicinity when the typing is being done.”

“That’s the problem. You don’t like your typists and they then prefer not to be in the ‘vicinity’ where you are.” After a momentary pause, he said suddenly, “You, Ruth. You could do it.”

“Max, I can’t be your typist. I have a job, a family. Clients, believe it or not, who aren’t you. I cannot be your typist. Besides, I can’t read your writing, either!”

His gaze dropped from hers in silent acknowledgment of her point.

His joy had always come from his words, from the pure, clean crafting of sentence after sentence. He also enjoyed running through the park, drinking endless cups of strong coffee and, of course, having sex with women. There were pleasant moments to be had in this life, but his greatest peace came when falling asleep after a day of upending his visions onto paper.

Ruth shuffled through a stack of phone messages. “Oh. Pete called yesterday after I left.”

It had always seemed ironic to Max that he and his brother shared the same literary agent. As writers, they were most divergent in their work. Actually, the two were divergent in every significant way, and always had been.

They hadn’t spoken in several years. He wished he could miss him, but how could he miss a brother with whom he’d never really connected?

Not once in the last five years had his brother called him, but who would expect him to, considering everything. Still, there was that unshakeable sense of loss that made no sense to Max. He and Pete had never been particularly close.

“Have you talked to him lately?” Ruth asked.

“What?”

“Your brother. Have you talked to him recently?”

The concern in her voice sandpapered a tender spot he’d long avoided.

“What an interesting question,” he said gently. “What do you think?”

Ruth was slow in answering. “I think you’re too isolated, Max. You’re great with my family, and Cynthia’s. Won’t you, at least, try connecting to your own? This feud between you and Pete has gone on long enough. He is your only family, after all.”

Max’s laugh clanked in his own ears, the bone-deep sound of a harsh, cold pain. “I should have remembered that little point, shouldn’t I, Ruth?”

“People make mistakes.”

Her voice was matter-of-fact. If she’d offered him sympathy, he’d have succumbed to the urge to snap back at her. But there was no vestige of pity in her words. Ruth knew him too well after all these years.

“Yeah. Mistakes.” Max kept his own words dry and bored. “One of these days I’ll send Pete a greeting card and mention that.”

“His latest book is doing well. Some people really care about pampering African Violets.”

Max swallowed at the tightness in his throat. “Well, I’m glad. Pete has to eat. It’s good for you, too. More than one string to your bow.”

“Don’t you think Pete misses you, too?”

“I think not.” He turning the conversation back to his principle concern. “How many typist imbeciles to interview tomorrow?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve arranged for job candidates from two different agencies to come by in the morning. But you better find someone you can tolerate, Max. We’re running out of options and, most importantly, out of time.”

“Yes.” His anxiety conjured up the hallucinations that kept him pacing the nights away. Failure. No manuscript to turn in to Cynthia. No words. No world all his own to engulf him, wrap him securely in its silken web.

Max moved to get up. “Well, I’ll be leaving and let you get on with returning your phone calls.”

“Wait.” Ruth looked at him, indecision in her face. “You know Pete has been divorced for almost four years. You ought to call him.”

Max turned toward the door. “I’ll be expecting the typists at ten this morning.”

He didn’t need this now, the reminder of Pete. While he wrestled with the blank space in his head, his random demons—particularly the godawful mess he’d made of things with his brother—could only confuse matters. Now wasn’t the time to think about Pete.

“He’s raising Ryan by himself, you know,” Ruth persisted. His hand clenched on the door, Max fought the image that sprung up in his head. The anger on Pete’s face, quickly replaced by bitterness. It was still so fresh in his mind. Damn his visual memory. It was his penance.

“It’s not like my brother wants my help in raising his son. My guess is he doesn’t want my help with anything less than a kidney. Let me know if he needs one.”

“I know you care about your brother.” Ruth was obviously picking her words carefully. “You and Pete are all you’ve got. With both your parents dead….”

Max glanced back over his shoulder, his smile feeling crooked on his face. “Thanks, Ruth. You’re terrific. I’ll try and pick a typist I can live with…,for your sake, if nothing else.”

“I appreciate it. Remember! Dinner tomorrow night. Don’t disappoint the boys by canceling again.”

“No…. I’ll be there.”

Max walked down the hall to the elevator. Ruth and Cynthia were necessary to get his books out to the public. He liked them both and they were surprisingly tolerant of him. They were pivotal parts of his professional life and, between the two of them and their families, they constituted the only social circle he wanted. For their sakes, as well as for his own, he had to get his shit together and start writing again.

* * *

“I’m going to make Max Tucker drop his lawsuit. I’m here in Manhattan until he sees me,” Nicole Miller said into the phone.

“That could be a long time,” her friend, Claire, warned.

“I don’t think so,” she disagreed, feeling confidant. “I’m going to inform him about this situation, one way or the other.”

“If you carried a handgun, I’d be worried. Are you sure this isn’t becoming a tad too personal?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s not personal,” Nicole responded. “This is about my dad not having to face financial devastation in his declining years. Max Tucker just doesn’t have all the facts.”

“How are you going to convince him of that? Tucker is one of the biggest authors in this decade. I read an article on him in People. He’s had bestseller after bestseller. He won a Pulitzer when he was eighteen, for God’s sake. His latest three books have held the New York Times list hostage for months. The man has to be worth millions. People wait in lines to get his books when they first come out. How are you going to get him to ignore your father’s mistake?”

“Dad did plagiarize some of his work, even if we are only talking about a few hundred copies of a ‘business manual’ Dad got my cousin to put on the internet. But we didn’t really get any money out of it and a lawsuit is insane.”

“Your dad can get a lawyer to write him a letter explaining Alton’s situation and promising he’ll desist—“

“I already wrote that letter,” Nicole told her, exasperated. “Remember I showed you their reply? Just more crap about how Dad ‘infringed on Maxwell Tucker’s rights’ and how there has to be some kind of ‘recompense’.”

In the month since the first letter from Tucker’s lawyers, she’d had no luck in making them see reason. Their threats had only escalated.

“Right. Well, the only thing else I can say is--don't buy a handgun. Sometimes you can get too determined.”

* * *

Nicole leaned against Maxwell Tucker’s building as the morning sun rose over the tall, jagged skyline. Even now, heat seemed to rise from the concrete as if the city were a baking stone that held its warmth all night. On the other side of the street, a scruffy-looking guy with cameras festooning his body kept eyeing her.

Trying to look casual while projecting the jaded, confidant attitude of a city dweller, she glanced idly at nothing. With Claire’s stalker-warnings ringing in her ears, she was acutely aware this was the third morning she’d waited outside Tucker’s building. In this big city, however, no one really looked at anyone else. Surely, she wasn’t so conspicuous as to be remembered.

Basically, she was just hoping the doorman didn’t call the cops. If he did, she’d have to use every ounce of her feminine charm to avoid getting hauled away.

The scruffy photographer, still looking her way, crossed the street.

Ignoring him, she hooked her fingers in the belt loops of her pants. This was ridiculous. She was damned tired of sitting out here waiting to pounce on Max Tucker.

Something had to give. She had to do something different. One way or the other, she had to convince that man talk to her. Her gut told her he had it in him to be decent when he wanted. The books he wrote had a heart in them. A battered heart, but emotion and pathos.

A small gathering of people outside the building attracted Nicole’s attention. Three women stood waiting as the doorman swept the rug in front of the door.

Without any active plan, Nicole drew closer, barely conscious of the photographer who now stood only an arms length away from her.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you get a picture of Max Tucker when you go in for the job interview.”

“What?” Nicole moved away from him, nearly bumping into one of the women who waited at the doorway.

“During the interview the agency sent you here for. A hundred bucks,” the photographer hissed, holding a tiny camera out for her. “Just snap a few frames when he’s distracted.”

“No.” She turned away from him. The doorman was motioning the women into the building.

It all happened in a blurred moment. Nicole pulling back from the sleazy photographer, the cluster of women moving toward the door.

Realization burst upon her.

The women waiting at the door were here to apply for a job with Max Tucker!

This was it! She could join the group. The photographer had already assumed she was with the others! Her chance to get in again, to see Tucker again and reason with him. If she could just talk to him face-to-face, she could convince him to drop the lawsuit. Hadn’t she talked herself around way worse situations.