The Ghostwriter(29)
He walks into the kitchen, passing an empty glass to Kate, who dips it into the soapy water. “Is she sleeping?” she asks.
“Yeah. The anti-nausea medicine they gave her is pretty potent. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s out the rest of the night.” He steps next to her and pulls open an empty drawer, then another. “You know where hand towels are?”
“Here.” She hands him one. “She seems to have only one of everything. Most of these drawers are empty.”
“That seems to be a recurring theme in this house.” He glances around, at the stark kitchen. “Book sales struggling?” It’s a joke, and he’s pleased when she smiles.
“Ha.” She passes him a plate to dry. “I think she’s just the opposite of a hoarder.”
She thinks. The intrigue surrounding Helena Ross grows. “So you don’t know her well.” A sad realization, the only two people who care enough to be here—both strangers.
“No. She likes her space.” She pulls the drain on the sink and shoots him a wry look. “Which is why I’m a little surprised to see you here.”
“I sort of elbowed my way in. She seemed like she needed some help.”
“Huh.” A single syllable seeped in suspicion. She turns to him and folds her arms across an ample chest. “She’s not the easiest thing to work with.”
“I know. I’m trying my best with the content.” And he has, truly, tried. He’s put more effort into their chapters then he’s ever put in anything before. Part of it is because he understands how seriously she is taking the project. The second motivation is an insecure desire to please a legend. A legend now snoring, one arm hanging limply off the couch. A legend who has read everything he’s written so far, and yet hasn’t given a line of feedback. He must be performing well, must be nailing the feel. Otherwise, she would lash out, and give him some of that famous Helena Ross hell.
“She’ll rip your heart out, but she doesn’t mean it.” She pauses, and he can feel the assessment in her stare. “I think she needs you. More than just your words. She needs someone to help her through this.”
“My wife.” He stops and collects himself. “I’ve been through this before, I can—”
“No.” Kate shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. This book, that’s what she needs help with, that’s where her focus is. Her death?” She meets his eyes. “She treating it like a side effect.”
As a child, I only loved myself, and even that was a love dipped in confusion and self-criticism. As an adult, I learned to love in a stilted fashion, my relationship with Simon similar to that of my first ski lesson. Slow at first, my hand gripping the safety rope, my breath in my throat, waiting for the eventual fall, the eventual tumble. After I began to trust him, that’s when the danger really started. That’s when the hills became taller, more like mountains. And my risk went from that of a skinned knee to something much more deadly.
I wake up on the couch, the words echoing in my head. I grab a stack of Mark’s latest content and write the paragraph in the margins, the room dark except for the television. There. The beginning of the next chapter, done. I set the pages aside, my entire body aching when I stand and stumble into the kitchen. There, the light is on above the microwave, pill bottles in a perfect line along the counter, a note in front of them.
Wake me up.
I don’t recognize the handwriting, but it can’t be Kate’s. It’s messy and male, and missing a please. I am turning to the stairs when I see his feet. They are bare, jutting off the end of my recliner, and there is the low sound of a snore. I plod into the sunroom and peer at him, his mouth hanging open, features slack. Men are so ugly when they sleep, and Mark is typical, the second snore coming louder than the first, his face twitching as it struggles through the inhale.
He didn’t need to stay here. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping on my own. Chances are, given Kate’s prior visit, any dishes are done, the trash taken out and toilets cleaned. He should be sleeping in his hotel, that duffel bag somewhere other than my floor.
Speaking of which… I consider the bag, which slouches next to his chair. Settling onto the cool tile, I pull it toward me, my eyes lifting to him for a moment before I pull the zipper open.
The contents of the bag are fairly unexciting, a grab bag of old man underwear and clean shirts. There are no pants, and I eye the leg of his jeans, which hang off the edge of the recliner. I relax a little when I find his dopp kit, his toothbrush and razor inside, his invasion of my home not creeping into a bathroom. I find myself mildly disappointed that there is no porn magazine, or flask, or pill stash—no well-creased photograph or love letter hidden inside a book or passport. I do find a wallet, my hands careful as I pull out the overstuffed leather billfold. Lots of cash, over a thousand dollars. A driver’s license in the name of Mark Fortune, his birthdate putting him in his early fifties, his height a generous six foot, weight of 205. He is an organ donor, one point in his favor, and has a motorcycle license. I thumb through the other cards, my hands plucking them out as I go. An automobile association card. A—
“What are you doing?”
I glance up, from my spot on the floor, watching as he slowly hefts the recliner upright. “Going through your wallet.” I hold up a black American Express card. “I thought you had to spend a million dollars a year or something to get one of these.”