The Ghostwriter(35)

I take the front steps carefully, moving among the memories, each one both painful and sweet, like poisonous chocolate, the sticky taste lingering far after I swallowed the piece. At the mailbox, there is a thick stack of envelopes, and I flip through them slowly. A utility bill moves aside and exposes a thin white envelope, my eyes narrowing at the sender’s name. Charlotte Blanton. I stop, one foot on the first step of the porch, and stare at it. What could it contain? What could this woman possibly need? Her behavior is stretching the limits of my patience. First her visit, then her email, and now this. I hold the envelope away from the stack, considering it.

I’m afraid of it. Scared in the way that I was right after the funeral, the grief/guilt/paranoia cocktail contributing to my short-term dependency on pills, then alcohol, then work. Writing is what pulled me out of it, my characters pulling me away from the Ambien and wine, an impending deadline being the final push I needed to forget everything but my word count.

Now, with just her name in the return address, I feel my throat close. “May I ask you a few questions?” Lying, my forgotten friend, would save me. If I had to, I could handle questions, just like I always have. “Please. It’s about your husband.”

Inside the house, I feed the envelope into the garbage disposal, watching the white envelope spin to its death without any desire to see what lies inside.

I have only nine weeks to go. Dodging Charlotte Blanton, during that time, is certainly doable.





I lay back on the couch, my feet on a pillow, Simon’s head on my swollen belly. He turns his head, pulling up my shirt and presses a kiss against the skin. “How about the name Jacklyn?” he asks.

I groan, running my hand through his hair and note, with affection, the way his hairline is changing. “No. How about Bella?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I knew a Bella once.”

“You seem to have known a lot of girls,” I pout, tugging at a tuft of hair. “Good thing I’m not a jealous woman.”

He grins, and I love the soft huff of his breath against my skin, the warm weight of his body as he lowers it against me.

“You’re the only woman for me.” He kisses me, and I smile against his mouth, loving the gentle curve of his fingers over my belly.





Mark’s cell rings, a muted tone from inside his shirt pocket. I look up from my spot on the floor, my back against the couch, pages of his work spread out before me. He doesn’t react, his butt perched at the edge of my chair, his fingers busy against his laptop. It rings again, and I wonder if he can hear it. “Your phone—“

“Shh.” He doesn’t look at me, his eyes glued to the laptop screen as the clattering of keys reaches a crescendo. He hits a key with finality and sits back, one hand working open the pocket on the front of his shirt, his chin tucking into his neck as he peers at the screen. When he answers the phone, I set down my notebook, interested.

His voice is friendly, then changes, worry creeping into the tones, the one-sided dialogue confusing. By the time he ends the call, I’m lost.

“Is everything okay?” I watch him rise to his feet and I can see the distraction on his face, his cell phone twisting in his hand. I think of his daughter, and concern flashes through my mind.

“It’s Mater. She—” he sees the look in my face and hurries to explain. “She’s one of my cows. And she’s birthing early.”

Marka Vantly has cows. All the times I’ve envisioned my arch nemesis, it has been in an elegant penthouse, one that smells of perfume and fresh flowers, her days busy with waxing appointments and massages. Marka Vantly has cows. My imagination couldn’t have been more wrong. “So…” I try to understand the worry on his face. I don’t know anything about cows, but birthing seems to be a normal part of their life cycle.

“I need to go home. Just for a day or two.” He pulls on his right ear, and glances toward his laptop, still open on my desk. “I’m sorry. She’s one of my oldest. I need to be there.” His hand falls and he looks up at me, a new light in his eye.

I recognize the glance—the aha moment of a dumb idea. Simon used to get it all the time. You know what… he’d start, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Then he’d propose a “project,” like pushing out the guest room wall and turning it into a game room, one with pool tables, a bowling lane, and wet bar. Or the idea of throwing an Easter egg hunt for the entire neighborhood, complete with a bunny petting zoo and giant furry costumes for me and him. “All the kids can come,” he’d said, as if that was a good thing, as if I wanted hundreds of tiny feet all over our yard. That idea, he’d actually implemented, using Bethany as his pawn, me helpless against the two of them and their ideas of fun. Such bullshit, all of it. All lies, all selfishness and I was so stupid to enable it all, to stand there and foot the bill for what he wanted.

“Why don’t you come with me?” He nods, as if this idea makes sense. “I got my plane. We can be in Memphis in two hours. I’ve got plenty of room at the ranch, and we can keep working—not lose this momentum.”

“No.”

“It’d be better for me to be around, in case you need something, or don’t feel well.”

“You’re not my nurse, Mark. I’m a big girl. I managed just fine before you.”