The Ghostwriter(18)
She snorts, and shuts the door, leaving him alone on the porch, for the second time in five minutes. What an interesting woman.
He turns, stepping away from the house and to the rail of the porch, his eyes moving over the perfect lines of the yard, a stark contrast from the wild acreage of his Memphis plantation. He tries to imagine the conversation occurring inside, Helena’s interrogation of Ron Pilar. Ron will behave, swallowing his snark under a blanket of kiss-ass. Helena… who knows how Helena would handle it. So far, his plan to play nice has gone slightly astray.
There is the click of a lock and he turns, pushing off the porch rail. Helena stands in the open doorway, a house phone gripped between her hands. There is a long moment of quiet as her eyes drift over him, examining him with renewed distrust. He says nothing, the waiting game stretching out slowly.
“You should have told me you’re a man,” she finally says, and damn if there isn’t a bit of sadness in her voice, as if he is a cheating spouse, or an unfaithful friend.
“It’s a secret very few people know.” He tucks his hands into his front pockets and wishes, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t so big, so tall, so widely built. One of her hands move to grip the doorframe, and it’s as if she needs it to stand, her frailty so out of place amid the fire that burns from her eyes.
She considers that, then nods. “I can respect that. But I can’t respect you playing with me.” Her face hardens, and he pities her future children. This expression, the steel in her voice—it is a force, one scary to stand up to. “Don’t screw with me.”
“I won’t.” It is a promise he will have to keep, the hurt that permeates the edge of her stance… a familiar pain. In it, he sees his daughter’s first tears over a boy, her withdrawal when Stanford rejected her, the crack in her voice—just last week—when she was snubbed by a friend. This hurt, he had caused, all in an immature need to humiliate Helena Ross for pure entertainment. “Can we start over?”
There are small cracks in her facade, a relax of her narrow shoulders, the general untightening of fingers around the phone, her lips parting, a sigh of breath escaping from them. She meets his eyes and nods. “Okay.” She turns, opening the door and waiting for him to enter.
Taking a deep breath, he moves across the threshold and into the house. He had come here to meet Helena Ross, and turn her down. Already, he can feel himself waffling.
My mind can’t move off the fact that Marka, the blonde siren of romance, is this crumpled old pile of masculinity. The fingers that drum the table before me, scarred and cracked, with short nails and knuckle hair, are the ones that wrote The Virgin’s Pleasure. His eyes, watery blue knives that peer at me as if they can read my soul—they reviewed proof copies of Teacher’s Pet. Underneath this thick head of silver and black is the mind that wrote some of the best and worst pieces I have ever read. A man. Had I known, I would never have called him here. A man can’t help me tell this story. A man can’t, won’t, ever understand.
We are in the kitchen and I take the second chair, the place I used back when Simon sat across from me, his shoulders hunched over his coffee, Bethany streaking past us, full of morning energy, a toy or two in hand. I remember sitting in this seat and marveling at how beautiful my life was. I remember sitting in this chair, the morning after it all happened, and planning my suicide.
“Helena?” His voice is impossibly gentle, one that can’t belong to the woman—person—I hate. The person who wastes their talent on filth and sends me such nasty emails. I look up at him and blink, the view blurry. Hell. Am I crying? I wipe at both eyes and focus. He wants to know why he is here. That, at least, I can manage.
I clear my throat and begin my script, one that I’ve practiced three times now, each delivery less wooden, more believable, each delivery practiced for a goddess and not this chunk of AARP that sits before me. “I have a story I want to publish, but I don’t have the time to write it. I work at a much slower pace than you do… normally I take a year per book. Given that this one is a little more complicated than my others, it would take me even longer. I’m looking to hire someone who can write the bulk of it, and I will handle the rewrites. Each chapter will be provided in outline format—the ghostwriter—you, will only have to fill in the copy.” I look up from the table’s worn oak surface. He watches me intently, the lines of his forehead furrowed, one giant hand now running across his mouth.
“What’s the length?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. Probably eighty thousand words.”
“Longer than my normal works.”
“It’s not your normal works. It’s not erotica.”
I know the next question before he asks it. I had dreaded it from Marka’s mouth, had pictured one perfect brow lifting, her lips bright and red as they pouted out the words. From him, it is different, gruff as gravel, his fingers dropping from his mouth as he speaks. “Then why me?”
“As much as I hate to admit it…” I swallow, my hands fisting underneath the table. “We have similar writing styles. I wouldn’t have to do extensive rewrites. Your work has, even with your ridiculous plots, heart. You know how to write motivations and difficult scenarios. I think, given the right direction, you are trainable. Improvable.”
One short laugh sputters out of him, his body leaning forward as he levels me with his gaze. “No.”