I called Scott Meredith and he said he'd find Herb's home phone number. He assured me Herb's “departure” would not affect my contract. But he never got back to me with Herb's whereabouts. Perhaps this was because Scott's power in the book business was waning. A new operating philosophy was taking over American book publishing. It was nicknamed “The Hollywood System.”
        But Herb? Where does the boss of the most lucrative house in New York go if he loses his job? I had no idea and found no one else who knew. I left messages asking, waited for return calls that didn't come. I am by nature impatient and waiting endlessly to hear back unhinged me. I had not been sent a copy of the Publishers Weekly issue with my novel featured on the cover, another strangeness to ponder. I thought of flying to New York and showing up at Pocket Books office—but would they tell me to my face what they would not tell me over the phone?
        Next time I called Meredith, I was patched through to his right-hand man. That was a surprise, for Scott said he liked chatting with me. His assistant assured me all was well, that any change in Alexander's position would not affect the money. Advances and royalties would continue to flow. What did “change in Alexander's position” mean exactly? I couldn't get an answer.
        Navigating through the nerve-wracking confusion about what was happening three thousand miles away, I tried to explain to Bev that I was coming undone because something had happened to my editor—I couldn't locate him and he wasn't calling me. Not to worry, she said, the company will replace him, happens all the time. But I couldn't imagine another editor with Herb Alexander's brilliance, and besides, he was more than just an editor to me. I'd come to rely on his keen insights and advice. His disappearance had me feeling like a rudderless ship in a tempest. How could the most successful editor in the book business vanish? Why didn't he call and let me know what the hell was happening? He had a lot invested in me. We were partners in a high-stakes game.
        I became depressed, short-tempered, isolated, abusive, impossible to live with. Bev packed and left to find herself a better man. I didn't blame her. I'd have left me if I were her.

        Not long after Bev's departure, I got an invitation from a literature professor. She had been in a class I'd taught at a University of Colorado Writers Conference. We'd had a brief affair. She taught contemporary literature at the New Orleans campus of Louisiana State University. Here was a chance to escape my misery, if only temporarily. I flew down to the Big Easy and gave a talk to students. At the back of the audience were a pair of bright eyes that kept drawing my attention. Afterwards, I met the bright eyes when a starlet-pretty gal elbowed her way through a group of other students to say, “Wanna go to a party in the Quarter tonight?”

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