The Last Book Party(51)

Jeremy smirked, which made me too angry to follow his convoluted explanation that he’d only taken the “kernel” of an idea, keeping its essence but cultivating it until it was something completely different.

“It’s more than a ‘kernel,’” I said, my voice rising. “It’s plagiarism.”

“It is not plagiarism. I ran with his idea and made it better.”

“You changed Hawaii to Nepal, as if that makes it all OK,” I said. “Are there even leprosy colonies in Nepal? Come to think of it, did you even go there? Or was your trekking adventure a lie too?”

“Yes, I went to Nepal.”

Jeremy tried to grab the novella from me. I pulled it back. “Don’t!” I cried.

“Artists riff on the same images all the time,” he said. “Think of all the still lives in the world. Some are good, and some are hideous, but no one says, ‘You stole my idea of painting a bowl of fruit.’”

“That’s just dishonest, Jeremy. This is different—you and Henry didn’t see the same thing and conjure it differently. You took what was his.”

Jeremy shook his head.

“All he had was plot, and plot is fair game. Writers use the same stories all the time and no one cries plagiarism. Look at Shakespeare. He stole almost all of his plots.”

“Now you’re equating yourself with Shakespeare?”

“I’m not,” Jeremy said emphatically. “I’m just saying that Henry came up with a good idea that he executed poorly. I think he’s embarrassed by that novella, which I’ve never even heard him mention. It’s probably the reason he went into journalism.”

I saw a flash of white in the woods at the edge of the tennis court and heard Franny’s low laughter. Jeremy followed my gaze. For a few seconds, we paused in our conversation as we watched Franny and Lil scrambling off together into the woods. Jeremy shook his head like he’d seen this all before. “They can’t keep their hands off each other.”

I wasn’t ready to change the subject. I sank onto the grass, the novella in my lap. Jeremy sat beside me. I asked when he’d discovered it. He told me it was during his freshman year at Vassar, when he met Franny in Truro for Thanksgiving break. Henry had encouraged him to read widely from his library and to borrow anything.

“So you helped yourself to his story?”

“It stayed with me, and so I reimagined it.”

Jeremy looked at me as if he was waiting for me to agree with him, to soothe the part of him that, deep down, must have known that what he’d done was wrong. I asked if Henry knew what he had done. Jeremy said, “Not yet, but I’m going to tell him. Maybe tomorrow.” His face was solemn. And then I remembered the flea market.

“He already knows what you did,” I said quietly.

Jeremy looked confused.

“I told him.”

“How could you possibly have told him?”

He looked at the house, as if expecting to see Henry outside the kitchen, having gotten the news from me on my way back outside. I could hear music, the plaintive sounds of a Linda Ronstadt ballad, and the high peal of a woman’s laugter.

“I didn’t know I was telling him. We were at the flea market together in Wellfleet, and I came across a copy of Winesburg, Ohio, which reminded me of you and so I told him about your book deal and your novel. I described the entire plot.”

Suddenly, Henry’s behavior at the flea market made sense. He hadn’t been jealous of Jeremy’s success or upset about my being so much younger. He had been disturbed to learn that Jeremy had not simply written a novel about “a forbidden love affair in the Himalayas,” as he had thought, but had plagiarized his own story. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset that Henry hadn’t shared his shock with me. He must have gone home and found the novella, which would explain why it was out in his bedroom. He must have discussed it with Tillie, which was probably why both she and Henry had been cold to Jeremy and hadn’t invited him to stay at their house.

I looked up and saw Jeremy staring at me. He looked confused. And angry. In a slow whisper, as if he wanted to delay the inevitable answer to his question, he asked, “Why were you at the flea market with Henry?”

I felt a flush of warmth on my face. I looked down at my lap. I could feel Jeremy watching me, waiting for me to speak. Afraid to meet his eyes, I looked away, which apparently confirmed what Jeremy suspected.

“Jesus, tell me you didn’t. First Franny and then his father?” He stood up, towering over me. “That is seriously twisted. That’s like some weird form of incest.”

My stomach heaved.

“It is not,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I stood up to face Jeremy. “And it has nothing to do with your stealing Henry’s novel. You’re the one who crossed a line here, not me.”

“I crossed a line? That’s something coming from someone who’s been having an affair with a married man twice her age.”

“Stop making this about me. You’ve been lying to everyone since the day you sent your manuscript to Malcolm. If you did nothing wrong, why the secrecy?”

I hated the way he was looking at me.

“Jeremy Grand, Jeremy Greenberg—whoever the hell you are, you’re full of shit. A phony.”