The Ghostwriter(39)

Simon constantly wanted to protect Bethany; it was our most frequent fight. But how can a person trust someone that lies to them? And how can a person know what they can handle if they aren’t challenged by life? One day, probably soon, Maggie will find out about my diagnosis. She’ll know she was lied to. And everything else Mark tells her will be received with a seed of doubt. I voice my opinion, and am met with a stretch of silence.

When Mark finally speaks, the words stab through the air. “Fine. I’ll tell her not to come.”

I shrug, looking out the window, watching trees pass, their leaves a bright canvas of yellow and orange, the ditch between us filled with water. We are on a two lane road, the truck shuddering when a semi passes, and a small house moves by, twin rocking chairs on its porch, a limp orange Tennessee flag hanging off a pole normally reserved for an American one. When we drove up to Tremblant, we passed through country like this, homes like these, everything covered in a thick mat of snow. I remember thinking how peaceful it must be to live in such a place, one free of nosy neighbors and architectural review boards, one where you could sit on your porch and not be disturbed for days. I’d been deep in the fantasy, a small smile crossing my face, when Simon had sighed. “I don’t know how people live out here,” he’d said, turning to glare at a man walking along the road. “I’d think you’d just die of boredom.” It had been such a clear clashing of our mindsets that I had laughed. When I told him what I had been thinking, he’d looked over with a wry smile, and leaned over, kissing my cheek. “Crazy Helena,” he’d whispered, his breath warm against my jaw.

Crazy Helena.

For once, he’d actually been right.





I don’t know what to expect, but after seeing Mark’s plane and his pristine Bronco—I built an image in my head of his Memphis home, one of spotless Southern grandeur. When we pull off the road and down a gravel drive, I lean against the seat belt, and wait for the entrance.

I am disappointed, the trees clearing and revealing an open field, tall grasses and wildflowers on either side, no animals in sight, though a fence does run off in the distance, behind the ranch home that sits on the top of a hill. It is long and flat with a large porch, a chimney coming off one end. It looks so… normal. I frown.

As we approach, I notice the small details. The rose bushes that grow wild before the front porch, their thorny stems swaying in the breeze. The pillows on the front rockers, faded blue ones that probably once matched the front shutters. The bike that leans against the side of the house is almost buried in overgrowth, its basket rusted, handlebar grips dotted in bird droppings. It looks like a house that time forgot, one lived in but neglected, as if one day—maybe three years ago—someone stopped caring.

We park before a detached garage and he opens his door. “You can leave your bag. We’ll go in the house later.”

I unbuckle and ignore the directive, quickly pulling on the backpack and stepping out. “If you’re dealing with the cow, I can just wait on the porch for you. I’ve got my computer, I can work.”

“You’re coming with me.” He steps to the garage and opens the side door, stepping into the dark interior, the door rumbling open a moment later. I follow him, my hands twisting on the straps of my backpack, my flats sticking to the concrete floor when I see what he is climbing onto.

“You want me to ride on that?” It’s a four-wheeler, one with big muddy tires, the handlebars far apart, the headlights big—the entire thing menacing, as if it will buck underneath its rider and scale a rock front.

“I’ve got two. You can either hop on behind me or ride Maggie’s.” He nods to the one next to him, one with a bright pink helmet, in every other way identical to his.

“I’ll just wait here.” I step backward and my elbow collides with the edge of the door. I grab it and wince, the pain shooting through me.

“Helena.” He reaches over and snags the helmet, holding it out toward me. “Just put this on. I’ll drive slow. The barn is a mile away. It’s too far to walk, and we’re short on time.”

I hesitate, and he shakes it at me. “Carpe Diem, Helena.”

I never envision seizing the day aboard a filthy death machine. Still, the challenge spurs me on, and I take the helmet, carefully pulling it on, the pad of the strap fitting on my chin, no adjustment needed. I don’t even consider the second vehicle, climbing on the back, no need to touch him if I lean away and grip the rear set of rails. I feel secure as we reverse out of the garage, my feet knocking against his calves—then he bumps the ATV into drive and presses the throttle, the leap of it causing me to rock forward. I give up on the rails and grab at his shirt, moving up on the seat until I hug him. “Sorry,” I call over the roar of the engine.

“Hold on tight,” he hollers back. “And hit my shoulder if you need me to stop.” He pulls past the home and I turn my head to see a huge backyard surrounded by a chain-link fence, a big yellow dog inside it, his tail wagging, body bounding forward, alongside us. Mark lifts his hand in greeting, increasing our speed and I smile as the dog sprints faster, his tongue lolling from his mouth. I swear he’s smiling at me, even as he skids to a stop, reaching the end of his yard, his tail constantly moving. “That’s Midas,” he yells. Then we go on, and I burrow my face in his back, my arms reaching around and gripping his stomach.