“Pity.”
He seems surprised by my response. Even more so when I usher him out. “I could read over your notes.”
“It’s supper time.”
“I don’t mind.”
He follows me down the hall, his footsteps falling in time with mine, too close for my liking. “I do.”
“Look—I know this isn’t what you wanted—me being here.”
I turn on my heel, and we come eye to eye. Well, almost. My shoulders hunch a little more than I’d like these days. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said.”
“But,”—he cocks his head—“I’m being paid to do a job and frankly, I could use the money.”
“We could all use the money. That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, but it would be very helpful if—well…uh…you know— if we could get things sorted rather quickly.”
“It’s a novel. They don’t just get sorted.”
“No,” he says. “No. I suppose they don’t, do they?” He looks at me as though he’s expecting something profound. When nothing comes, he fills the silence. “That’s why I’m here. To help you finish the book. And…you see…I really need it to happen sooner rather than later…”
“This seems important to you,” I say. Not because I really care but because it’s important to find out what a person’s motivations are. The sooner the better.
“It is.”
“Why’s that? Why not just write your own book?”
“It’s complicated.”
Chapter Four
He waves once and then he is gone, disappearing as easily and effortlessly as he appeared. I watch his taillights fade and I wonder, is he as glad to go as I am to see him leave? For a young man his age, it must be a relief to go back to his bustling life in the city. But if that’s the case, then why was he so reluctant to go?
Standing in the driveway, the dust settles as the sound of his car fades further in the distance. I take a minute to survey the grounds, to refocus, to breathe in the evening air. Our first encounter went better than I thought, and yet, I could see it in his eyes, he is going to be a challenge.
For one, he is of the impression that he wants this. This being what exactly, I am not sure. The estate? The acclaim? The years of blood, sweat, and on many occasions, tears?
No, I doubt any of that is what he is after. Just the success. The stifling, suffocating success.
If I were a betting man—and trust me—I am, anyone who has been in this business as long as I have is no stranger to risk—I’d be willing to bet that he’ll have it. He has that certain something. Something you don’t find all that often. There’s a quiet hunger about him, a gentle curiosity, the kind that isn’t quick and flaming, the kind that won’t easily burn out.
He has staying power, this Liam character, which is what keeps me in the garden long after the sun has set and a steady chill has filled the air.
His presence worries me. I am in the position to be dependent on him, which is the worst kind of position to be in. It’s not a good look for me.
In fact, he worries me enough to know that change is in order.
There’s something about having a visitor, after all this time, something about this particular visitor, that reminds me I’d better call the lawn guy. He hasn’t come in nearly a month, maybe two. If I had to guess, I’d say his absence has something to do with his invoices going unpaid. A problem I have the power to fix. I am lazy, but not yet completely broke.
While I’m at it, I should probably look into getting a painter out, but before that, a roofer to take a look at the leak. A plumber to fix the guest bath couldn’t hurt either.
This house, like all things, is beginning to show its age. With its steeply pitched gable roof, elaborate masonry chimneys, embellished doorways, groupings of windows, and decorative half-timbering, it’s always felt a bit like something out of one of my novels. Dramatic, out of place, a little larger than life. Sure enough, it’s a big home. Too big, if you ask me. Especially now. I told Eve that when we first looked at it. If memory serves me, I called it a monstrosity. For her, it was love at first sight. For me, it looked like trouble.
But we could afford it, and we needed more space. That was how Eve usually won: by mixing just the right amount of logic with a little emotion. I’d just signed a three book deal with Dunham, my second, and it was worth three times what the first had been. The boys were one and four, and we’d just found out a third was on the way. Eve had barely come out of what she referred to as “the fog” when the pregnancy had surprised us both— perhaps to no one more than me, considering I’d been up at a lake rental for the better part of six months finishing a novel.
The boys were young. Caring for them was demanding and relentless. Without family around and with me writing nonstop, worried about the next novel, and with touring and whatnot, Eve had her hands in the clay by herself, so to speak.
It’s yours, she said, of the baby. Of course it is. We both knew it was a lie, but once a thing like that is done, it’s hard to go and take it back.
Obviously, in retrospect, it’s impossible to understand what a constant reminder that thing will be once it manifests.
So, I did what I always do when it comes to Eve. I put it out of my mind. Maybe I thought I could pretend; I am a writer after all. But more than likely, I was simply too focused on work to be bothered.
That mishap, not unlike so many others, lies buried beneath the dirt in the garden.
It’s one reason we’re still here in this once-charming, now tired, larger than life, godforsaken house.
Chapter Five
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
Consequently, I looked ridiculous. Dressed for sport, in runner’s wear—it was a joke. I’ve only ever known one good reason to run, and that’s if someone were chasing you. Thankfully, they weren’t. And at least…well…at least I didn’t look as ridiculous as he did.
Bent double, he was down like a sprinter, his nose inches from the humid earth. At length, he let out his breath in a long sigh and opened his eyes. Maybe he was down for the count. Maybe he was playing hot and cold.
They do this sometimes.
His jet-black hair glistened in the early morning light. I could smell the fresh scent of his shampoo. It smelled like apples.
“Get up,” I said, kicking him in the ribs. Not too hard, just enough to get my point across. He curled inward, folding into himself like a wounded animal. He was dressed well, in his expensive running Lycra, and it made me smile. I wondered if he thought about it that morning as he stretched the clothing over his tanned skin. Is this how I want to look when I die?
I’m going to go with a negative. That’s likely not what he was thinking. Men like Nick Golding only think of death in the abstract. Men like him believe they are untouchable.
As I hauled him up by his hair, I pressed the gun firmly between his shoulder blades. It was a feat, and then some, just getting him off the ground. He was not weak, at least not in this regard. Muscled and lean like a prized racing horse, he is also worth a fortune.