The Villa(73)
Mari doesn’t reply, and outside, it begins to snow again, the flakes thicker now, falling faster.
“I’ll miss you forever, Mari,” Lara says. “But I’m not giving you absolution. We don’t deserve it.”
There’s a click, and then Lara is gone, leaving Mari alone in the cold phone booth, snowflakes sticking to the glass.
She stands there for a long while with the receiver still clutched in one hand before, finally, she places it gently in the cradle.
The door of the phone booth screeches as she pushes it open, and a blast of cold air hits her as she steps out onto the snowy street and begins to walk to the corner.
Alone.
You are cordially invited to a reception at the
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
to celebrate the authors of
The Villa,
Chess Chandler and Emily McCrae.
An instant #1 New York Times best seller, The Villa has sold over two million copies, and been translated into more than two dozen languages. An adaptation is currently in the works at HBO, led by Emmy-winning director Elisabeth Hart.
Called “an immediate classic that marries true crime, literary mystery, and memoir” (Los Angeles Times), and a “searing but deeply personal look at art, sisterhood, and the crucible of loss” (NPR), The Villa has remained on the New York Times list for more than sixty weeks, forty-three of those at the #1 spot.
The authors will be giving a short talk detailing the creation of the book, followed by cocktails and small plates.
ATTIRE: BUSINESS CASUAL
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s raining as I make my way into the café where Chess and I are supposed to meet for lunch. I had a phone interview that ran long, and by the time it was over I realized I was supposed to be at the restaurant ten minutes earlier.
But I’m here now, and Chess is already seated, a bottle of white wine sweating in a bucket of ice, a basket of bread untouched on the table.
“Sorry!” I call, making my way to her. People turn and look as I go by, and I don’t know if that’s because they actually recognize me, or if it’s just my newly reddened hair. My stylist swore it worked on me, and from the look on Chess’s face, I can tell she was right.
“Em!” she says, standing up and plastering on a smile to replace the grimace I just caught.
“Chess,” I say warmly, wrapping my arms around her. She smells the same, that Jo Malone perfume she likes so much, but she’s traded in all her beige and white for black today, a sleeveless turtleneck sweater setting off her tanned, toned arms.
“Love the hair,” she tells me as soon as I sit down, and I tuck it behind my ears, shrugging.
“I wanted something new before all the TV promo stuff starts.”
Her smile goes a little rigid, but she nods. “That’s smart.”
The Villa will be out next month on HBO, a ten-part miniseries with an award-winning cast, all shot on location in Orvieto. Chess and I got to visit the set last fall. A picture of us posing with canvas chairs, our names emblazoned on the backs, is currently my most liked photo on Instagram—634,932 likes, to be exact—and my Twitter replies are full of exclamation points any time I so much as hint at the show.
But I know it’s not the show Chess wants to talk about today.
The Villa has been out for over two years and is still dominating the New York Times list. We don’t even have plans for a paperback yet since the hardcover is doing so well, but already, there’s that question.
What’s next?
No one has asked about another Petal Bloom book, of course. Petal and Dex will forever be frozen in amber at the end of A Deadly Dig, and I’m happy to leave them there.
The follow-up to The Villa, though … that’s another story. Not a day goes by that I’m not inundated with questions about it. On social media, on my website, in interviews, on phone calls with my new agent, Jonathan.
And now it’s the question I see in Chess’s eyes, a knowledge confirmed when she fluffs out her napkin and says, “So I was thinking it’s time to start planning the next one. That way, we can have a big splashy announcement about the new book just as the show is really heating up. Buzz upon buzz, you know?”
She grins, putting her elbows on the table, her fingers folded as she waits for my answer, and I take a little satisfaction in making her wait. I unfold my own napkin, I take a sip of water. I contemplate the light fixtures for a moment, and then I finally say, “Are you sure we should even try?”
Her hands drop to the table. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, fidgeting with my napkin. “It’s just … yes, The Villa was a big hit, and honestly, I’m so grateful for it, but maybe it should just be a one-off. What are we going to do, cowrite for the rest of our lives? I mean, it’s not like mysteries are really your thing, you know?”
Her smile goes brittle. “Well, it’s not like nonfiction was yours, but here we are.” She gives a little laugh at that, waving one hand in the air. “We both brought our respective strengths to The Villa. That’s what readers responded to.”
What they responded to was Chess’s name, my writing, and the story we could tell them, but I don’t say that.
“We did,” I agree instead, “but lightning isn’t going to strike twice, let’s be real. And what are we supposed to do, stay at another famous murder house, hope another terrible thing happens that we can write about?”