By Blood Written

wearily and reached for a pad of paper and one of the pencils from a jammed coffee mug full of pens, pencils, markers, and anything else she could cram in.

The first message was from Brett Silverman, delivered in her usual upbeat, high-energy, in-your-face fashion: “Hey girl! So you’re off to the Caribe, eh? You gotta drink some of those frou-frou drinks with the paper umbrellas for me, and for Chrissakes, have lots of sex!”

“God,” Taylor whispered, “if you only knew.”

The second message was a frantic one from Joan Delaney, something about a lost contract. The third, fourth, and fifth messages were from Joan as well, the last one announcing that the contracts had been located and she could ignore the other messages. There was the usual depressing message from her mother, followed by one from her floor leader on the co-op board about the next monthly meeting, and a few other dreary, routine business messages. Taylor made notes of any message that actually required something of her, and either mentally filed away or dumped the others.

Then the next-to-last message, time-stamped Friday morning at nine-thirty, was Brett Silverman again. “I hear you’re going to be in Saturday afternoon. You get your ass out of that apartment and buy the Sunday Times the second it hits the newsstand!”

Taylor perked up. There was nothing else to the message but a moment of silence followed by a beep, then another time stamp for Friday morning, nine thirty-four, and Joan’s voice again:

“We did it!” she screamed. “He’s number one! And the other four are all on the paperback list at the same time!”

Taylor’s heart leaped into her throat. Could it be? She dropped the pencil on the counter, grinning broadly, then ran out of the kitchen, her bare feet pounding on the hardwood floors, then breathlessly up the stairs. She flung open the bedroom door and swiped the wall to hit the light switch.

“Wake up!” she yelled.

Michael shot up out of bed like a tiger who’d just taken the first bullet. He was halfway on his feet, furious, something dark, almost murderous in his face. He raised a fist, a wild look in his eye, and took a step toward her.

“Wait!” Taylor barked, startled. “It’s me! It’s me, baby, just me.”

He stood there a moment, stunned, staring at her as if she were a stranger. Taylor looked into his face and saw something she’d never seen before, something that frightened her terribly. She took a step backward, into the doorframe.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said softly.

Michael stood there at the edge of the bed for a moment, his nude body tight and tense as if poised to leap. Then he seemed to relax, the breath rushing out of his chest, and dropped onto the mattress still sitting up, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I was sound asleep.”

Taylor rushed over to the edge of the bed and dropped to her knees in front of him. She put her arms around his waist.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that. I was just excited.”

He ran his hands through her hair and pulled her to him, his torso bending down over her head. He was still breathing hard. Against his chest, Taylor felt his heart beating like a hammer. Michael hugged her to him.

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to look like a crazy person.”

She pulled away from him and looked up into his eyes, smiling once again. “My father always told me to never wake a sleeping dog.”

Michael laughed, reached down, and pulled her up off her knees, then fell back on the bed, pulling her on top of him.

She leaned down and kissed him softly, as he held her there.

She felt him getting hard once again and found herself rubbing against him, feeling him through the silk of her underwear. She moaned softly.

“Oh, wait,” she said suddenly. “I almost forgot.”

“What?”

“Brett Silverman and Joan both left frantic messages yesterday morning. We’ve got to go pick up the Sunday Times.”

His eyes widened. “You mean?”

She nodded. “Yep. You made it.”

Michael jerked upright, carrying her with him. She almost bounced off him and landed on the balls of her feet.

“When’s it come out?” he yelped.

“There’s a newsstand over on Houston that gets them in around nine.”

Michael stood, a look of incredulity on his face. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Taylor said. “It’s real. It’s happened.”

“Number one on the New York Times best-seller list,” he said in wonder, as if it were a dream, an illusion.

The look on his face almost made her want to cry. “I’m so happy for you,” she said.

Michael bit his lower lip. “I wish my mother were alive to see this,” he said. “She would have been proud.”

Taylor nodded. “I know she would have. I’m proud of you.”

Michael stepped toward her and threw his arms around her waist, then lifted her up in the air and twirled her. They shouted and giggled and yelled.

Then they got dressed as fast as they could and headed out into the bitterly cold Manhattan night.

Sunday morning they slept in late, partially out of fatigue, partially to recover from the hangovers they were shouldering after the previous night’s celebration. Michael had bought twenty copies of the Sunday New York Times, which turned out to be a load of newspaper to carry in the wet weather. They’d found a cab and gone to N’s, the trendy Manhattan bar where they’d had their first date. The place was packed and they had to wedge into a corner table, made all the more difficult by the nearly four-foot- high stack of newspapers. Michael ordered a bottle of champagne, and while waiting for it, opened the book review and simply stared at the page for a long time. Then he turned the page to the paperback best sellers and held it there in front of him.

Michael Schiftmann, Taylor thought, had done it. It was the culmination of a life’s dream. The Fifth Letter was the number one book on the New York Times hardcover best-seller list, and four of the fifteen slots on the paperback list were Michael’s as well.

Taylor wondered what lay in front of him. But then the champagne came, and the thought left her head.

One bottle of champagne was followed by another, and part of a third. By the end of the evening, Michael and Taylor had hooked up with the people at another couple of tables, and soon there was a party going on. They laughed and drank and danced and, in the end, went home with one copy of the complete Sunday Times and nineteen copies of the book review, the rest of the newspapers dumped in a wire litter basket on the sidewalk.

Taylor realized as they got to her co-op that she was dizzy from a combination of fatigue, excitement, and champagne.

Michael was still wired, still animated. All she wanted was sleep.

And now, at nearly noon on Sunday, she rolled over in bed, faced a sleeping Michael, and smiled at the thought of what he had wanted. The act of smiling, though, made her head hurt even more. She hadn’t had a pounding head like this in years.

“You’re insatiable,” she whispered. He stirred, moaned, and shifted beneath the sheets. She eased herself out of bed, slipped into the bathroom, peed, and swallowed three Ad-vils. She threw on her thick bathrobe and slippers and padded downstairs without waking Michael.

She started a pot of coffee and, while waiting, managed to down half a glass of cranberry juice. She didn’t drink much, ordinarily, but if there was ever a reason to celebrate, this was it. She opened the Sunday Times book review and turned to the best-seller page again. She stared down at it,