to screen the call. Margaret’s brash voice insisted Catherine pick up the line.
Catherine snatched up the telephone. “I’m here! What’s up?” She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine, indicating she had other messages.
“I’m glad I caught you. We have a problem.”
Catherine chuckled, partly in relief because it was Margaret and not Easy, but mostly because Margaret thrived on crises and problems. “As long as you don’t make me speak in front of a crowd, I can handle it.”
“Does a press conference qualify as a crowd?”
It took a few seconds for her agent’s meaning to sink in. Catherine nearly choked. “Margaret! You know I hate publicity. I can’t do tours and press things. They make me crazy.” The mere idea of having to speak to a group of strangers filled her belly with ice.
“Settle down. You won’t actually have to say anything. All you have to do is stand there and look cute. You are cute, aren’t you? Do your publicity photos do you justice?”
Catherine groaned and sank onto a chair. “Spill it, Margaret. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been on the phone with Doc Halladay’s publicist The good doctor wants to meet you.”
Catherine had illustrated stories, books and articles for dozens of writers, none of whom she’d met face-to-face. She’d spoken to many of them on the telephone or via fax transmissions, but she’d never done a job that required personal contact. “Whatever for?”
“We’re dealing with television people. They spend the majority of their lives in meetings and at lunch. They like personal contact.”
“Do I have to go to New York? Or Los Angeles?”
“Actually…Halladay is coming to you. He wants to see you in your natural environment, so to speak.” Margaret paused, dramatically. “He wants to do a segment for his show. Your studio, where you live, blah-de-blah.”
“No.” Catherine shook her head vehemently.
“You don’t have a choice, sweetie. Publicity is part of the deal, and since Doc Halladay is the star, he calls the shots.” Another dramatic pause. “If you don’t do this, the deal is off.”
Catherine gazed haplessly at her studio. Filled with secondhand furniture and found treasures, it seemed amateurish and messy, more like a child’s playroom than the workplace of a serious artist. A real artist had handcrafted beechwood worktables, custom lighting, overhead projectors and chaise longues. Catherine kept brushes in old coffee cups and used pushpins to hang photographs on the walls. As soon as Doc Halladay saw her home, he’d know Catherine was a fraud.
‘‘Doc Halladay is rich. He probably has servants. I don’t even have good china. How can I let him in my house?”
“You don’t have to impress the man with furs and feather boas. You’ve already impressed the hell out of him with your work. Trust me, he’s not going to do anything to make you look bad. It’ll be fun, sweetie. He’s a good sport and his people are total professionals.”
Fun…Compared to displaying herself in public, breaking her fingers with a hammer would be fun. “Does this mean I have to do a book tour, too?”
“Mmm. In a word, yes.”
Catherine groaned again. “This is getting totally out of hand. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so stupid around strangers. My hands sweat and my face breaks out. I stutter!”
“Relax. Think about the money. Tons and tons of money. Think about awards and prestige and how this will establish you as the artist of the decade. This could be your life’s work.”
Catherine pressed a hand flat between her breasts. “My heart is pounding already. I feel sick. You don’t know how terrified I am of public speaking. I can’t do it, Margaret.”
“Yes, you can and you will. Even the best actors get stage fright. Tell you what, I’ll come out to Colorado. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll find you a hypnotist or some drugs. Whatever it takes.”
“There’s no way to get out of it?”
“I’m afraid not. You’ll do fine. I’ll make sure you do fine. Just keep thinking about the money.”
Feeling as if she’d been handed down a sentence of execution, Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her aching temples. “We’ll figure out something,” she said weakly.
“That’s my girl!”
“When does Doc Halladay want to meet me?”
“Nothing firm yet. I got the impression it’ll be sometime next month. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare. You’ll be all right with this, sweetie, trust me. Who knows, you might find out you’re a ham at heart and you love it.”
“That’ll take more than hypnotism, it’ll take a miracle.” She wondered if it were possible to hire a stand-in to impersonate her.
After she hung up the telephone, she realized she hadn’t told Margaret about her engagement to Jeffrey. Nor had she mentioned Easy Martel—
She gasped and caught the base of her throat with both hands. Easy! She envisioned him embroiling her in a court case over parental rights. Tying her up with lawyers and depositions. The story would show up in the newspapers. Or in the tabloids! Doc Halladay’s sole purpose in life was teaching children. He didn’t preach religion, but he did set a good example of respect, clean living and character. He wouldn’t like his book illustrator publicly unmasked as a liar who denied a man his parental rights.
Oscar nudged her knee with his nose. He eyed her with an expression of concern. She ruffled his silky ears.
“What do I do? I can’t ruin Elizabeth’s life just to keep Easy off my back.”
She wanted advice, someone to talk to. Her parents might be interested in her news about getting married and her major book contract, but they always refused to listen to anything about the baby she’d given up. She wished desperately that her grandmother were still alive. She’d been able to tell Grandma everything and anything.
That left only Jeffrey.
She cupped Oscar’s muzzle in her hand. “What’s your gut feeling, old boy? Will Jeffrey have a fit if he finds out about Easy?”
Oscar’s skinny tail whipped against a table leg with a loud whup-whup-whup.
“Dogs have it so easy. No moral dilemmas. Just eat, sleep and chase bunnies.” She turned her attention to the answering machine.
The message was from Jeffrey. He told her he had a big deal about to fall apart and he had to meet with his clients and the finance officer. He said the negotiations would probably run late, so he could not see her this evening. He promised to make reservations at a fine restaurant for a proper engagement celebration. “I love you!” he announced cheerfully before he rang off.
“Love you, too,” she muttered. He’d been so accepting about her revelation. She asked too much for her fiancé to be so accepting about an old love
