Halfway to You(80)

“But?”

“But maybe we should discuss business first.”

I snorted. “Sheesh, Keith. What about friendship first? It’s been months since we last talked. I missed you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Me too. We were worried about you.”

“We?” I’d managed to quit smoking, but thinking about Todd was an addiction I’d yet to kick. I missed knowing he was there for me.

“Me, the family,” Keith clarified.

Right. “And how are Barbara and Iris?”

“They’re great. Barbara just landed her biggest client yet, and Iris is playing the lead in her school play.”

“Iris decided to audition?” I asked, elated.

“She was inspired by that theater we visited with you in Lisbon.”

I beamed at the faded hotel wallpaper, my joy bright enough to illuminate the lonesome room. “What is it like, being surrounded by strong, successful women?”

“Exhausting.” Keith laughed. “And humbling.”

His words were champagne bubbles in my chest.

“But totally worth it,” he added. “I’m in awe.”

I smiled against the phone. “And what about you? How is work?”

“Well, that brings us to the business part of this conversation, doesn’t it?”

I sighed, exaggerating my exasperation. “Fine, fine.”

“Your short story, ‘Ashes.’”

I didn’t need to hear more. “Absolutely not.”

In addition to my regular travel articles, I’d continued to write the occasional short story. For whatever reason, they were just . . . easier than novels; I didn’t have to open an artery to write them—just mere veins. But one in particular—“Ashes”—had been so well received, my last three conversations with Keith had pivoted to the topic of adapting it into a full-length sophomore book.

Which I would not do.

“What if I told you there was an offer on the table?”

“Keith. You know how I feel about this.”

The story was a nod toward Todd, of course. All my best work seemed to come from that place of longing deep inside me. Chasing Shadows had been that way. Now this. The short stories had been a compromise—something for Keith, my publisher, my fans, the film—but this one skirted too close to home. That’s probably why it had become so popular.

“Wait until I tell you how many zeros—”

“I said no.”

“Seriously? Any other author would be thrilled by the opportunities thrown at you. Do you really want to waste this?”

I didn’t want to disappoint him, but here we were. “You knew when I handed it over that I was uncertain about its publication.”

“You’re joking. This is a cruel joke.”

“Don’t pretend you’re surprised. Did you really think I’d want to expand on an idea I didn’t want to publish in the first place?”

“Ann, I’ve talked this up to everyone. Deepa, Vicky, the entire team. Why not? Why can’t we move forward?”

I pushed my hair away from my face and pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know why.”

“This is about Todd, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” I said, surprised to find myself suddenly shrill.

“You haven’t spoken to him in forever.”

The wounds had healed over, yet every once in a while, the tight scar tissue across my heart ached, reminding me of him—taking me immediately back. “I can’t betray his trust like that—no matter how long it’s been,” I said. “The story is about a fire, for god’s sake. Didn’t the parallels make you uncomfortable?”

“This deal is worth the discomfort.”

“Perhaps Todd wouldn’t mind a cut of your percentage, then?”

“I just mean all stories come from a place of truth,” he said.

“I should’ve never written it.”

“Todd can’t fault you for drawing inspiration from real life.”

“He’s your best friend. You know a full-length book would bother him. I’m sure the story already has.”

Keith’s frustrated groan told me I was right. “Did you at least get his letters?”

The scar tissue on my heart pulled tight. “Letters?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Carmella has been collecting my mail. I only just received . . .” I rifled through the stack in front of me, truly looking for the first time. Sure enough, a handful of letters had come all the way from Colorado via Rome. “I . . . I have them right here. I had no idea.” The first one displayed a postmark of six months ago. “Oh my god.”

“I recognized the parallels,” Keith said while I stared down at the letters with my chest aching. “But it’s not like anyone else will. No one knows who Todd is.”

I tore my attention away from the envelopes and sat up. “‘Real-life Frank,’ that’s what reporters have called him—more than once, now,” I said. “It wouldn’t take much to dig up the old newspapers reporting the tragedy, find his name, make a connection.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I was clear about this from the get-go. You knew where I stood.”