Who is Maud Dixon?(19)

Florence joined the surge of departing passengers streaming toward the parking lot, which was where she’d agreed to meet Helen.

Helen. That was Maud Dixon’s real name: Helen Wilcox. Not a man, it turned out. A woman with, as far as Florence could discern, no publication history, no presence on the Internet, no traces of existence whatsoever. Unless she was a prodigiously talented teen gymnast from La Jolla, California.

The week before, Florence had met Greta Frost at the Frost/Bollen office in a gleaming Midtown high-rise. Greta was an imposing woman in her late sixties with a gray bob, thick-framed glasses, and impeccable posture. She’d watched silently as Florence signed a W-9, an employment contract, and a non-disclosure agreement.

“So how many people know who Maud Dixon is?” Florence asked when Greta stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.

Greta pointed a knobby finger at her own chest. “One.” She turned the finger on Florence. “Two.”

Florence was taken aback. “You’re the only person who’s known all this time?”

“As far as I am aware.”

“How is that possible?”

Greta smiled coolly. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“What about her editor?”

“They mostly email. Deborah just calls her Maud.” Greta paused. “In the spirit of honesty I’ll admit that I can’t for the life of me fathom why she decided to let you, a perfect stranger, in on the secret. I tried to talk her out of it. It seems like a wildly ill-conceived plan.”

Florence wasn’t sure how to respond. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I should hope not. You just signed a legally binding document to that effect.”

“Right.”

Despite Greta’s coolness, Florence had walked out of the Frost/Bollen office that day feeling heady with excitement. She had always been uncommonly secretive—her mother’s exuberance had trained her early to build dark rooms within herself where she could be alone and free of scrutiny—but she was rarely invited into anyone else’s secret. It gave her an unfamiliar—and intoxicating—sense of power. By its nature, every secret contains the power to destroy something. Simon could attest to that.

Florence looked out into the parking lot. The sun was behind her, and its glare reflected off the field of chrome in a thousand blinding bursts. All the cars looked dark and empty. Beyond the lot were warehouses and abandoned buildings instead of the picturesque town she’d expected.

Presently the driver’s-side door of a beaten-up green Range Rover swung open and a woman stepped halfway out, leaving one foot inside. She had short blond hair and a long, bony nose with a jarring bump on the bridge. It was a nose no one would ever have called cute, even on a baby. Above it perched two frown lines between her eyebrows like a quotation mark. She wore a heavy wool fisherman’s sweater over jeans and an unexpected swipe of bright-red lipstick.

Helen shielded her eyes with one hand, dropping a shadow across her face. With the other she waved at Florence. Florence waved back and walked toward the car.

“Hello, Florence,” Helen said, extending a long, cold hand.

Florence smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Hop in.”

Helen rotated her body in the driver’s seat and watched Florence shut the door and draw the seat belt across her chest. Florence smiled nervously.

“How old are you?” Helen finally asked.

“Twenty-six.”

“You look younger.” It sounded like an accusation.

“I get that a lot.”

“Lucky girl.” Helen sat looking at her for another moment, then abruptly shifted the gear into reverse and pulled out.

Florence turned her face toward the passenger window and said nothing. The intensity of Helen’s gaze had unsettled her. Helen revved the engine, and the tumbledown buildings abruptly gave way to a narrow two-lane highway.

“It’s about a ten-minute drive,” Helen said.

Florence had looked it up beforehand; Google had estimated that it would take almost twice that long, but she understood the discrepancy when she saw how fast Helen drove.

They turned right toward the bridge spanning the Hudson River. Florence noticed a sign for an “escort waiting area” but resisted the urge to make a joke. She could already tell that the woman sitting next to her would not find it funny.

As they crossed the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, Florence looked down and saw the train tracks on which she’d just arrived skirting the river’s edge.

“Cairo’s not really in the Hudson Valley,” Helen went on, “though the real estate agents like to claim it is. It’s more like the Catskills.”

She pronounced it Cay-ro, not like the city in Egypt. Florence was glad she hadn’t said it first. She stole another glance toward the driver’s seat. Helen was smoking a cigarette and tapping two fingers on the steering wheel in time to a Lucinda Williams song.

Florence looked out her own window and frowned as they passed a junkyard. She had expected someplace more charming. A few minutes later, they passed a billboard announcing YOUR FUTURE HOMES towering over a dozen cheap, prefab houses raised on cinderblocks. It reminded Florence of Florida more than anything else she’d seen in New York so far.

“What brought you out here?” Florence asked.