She should have been embarrassed, or frightened—she had practically no savings and had cultivated no other job prospects—but all she felt was relief and exhilaration. In a moment of rashness, she had kicked open an escape hatch from the life she’d been leading. Now that she stood outside of it, she could see how small it had gotten.
In college, she’d read The Immoralist and felt a rush of sympathy with Michel’s disdain for “fireside happiness”—comfort instead of glory. But a small, cozy life was exactly where she’d been heading. Agatha’s life, basically. She wanted something much, much more than that. With one outsized action, she had regained the conviction that it was out there, waiting for her. She just had to reach for it.
She sent out her newly edited stories to dozens of literary agencies. She was sure that with an agent on her side, publishers would finally see her talent. Her faith in her own potential had been restored. What type of cruel God would give her the deep, unwavering drive to become a writer without the ability?
She saw a lawyer about suing for sexual harassment, but he didn’t think a jury would find her sympathetic. “Probably not,” she’d agreed, chuckling lightly, to his obvious discomfort.
She had $1,100 in her bank account, and she owed $800 in rent at the end of the month. Still, she didn’t worry.
It was the first time since she was sixteen that she hadn’t had a job. And the first time in her life that she felt free from her mother’s scrutiny; Florence still hadn’t told her that she’d been fired.
She couldn’t believe how happy she was. She felt, for once, in league with the universe. The universe, she believed, would look out for her. Fate would intervene.
And then it did.
Two weeks after her firing, she received a voicemail from Greta Frost at Frost/Bollen, one of the best agencies in the business, asking her to call back.
Before dialing, Florence took several deep breaths to tamp down any evidence of desperation in her voice. Greta answered in a flat, husky tone that Florence tried to match as she explained who she was.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” Greta said. “I was reaching out because one of our writers is looking for an assistant and someone floated your name.”
Florence was confused. “This isn’t about my stories?”
“Hmm?”
“The stories I sent in?”
“Oh. Yes, they were very compelling; it’s part of the reason we’re reaching out to you for this role.”
“What role?”
“Before I tell you anything more, I am going to ask that you keep what I’m about to say confidential.”
“Alright.”
“Are you familiar with the author Maud Dixon?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I am not.”
“You’re asking me if I want to be Maud Dixon’s assistant?”
“I’m asking whether you’d like to apply for the position of Maud Dixon’s assistant.”
“Of course.”
“Wonderful,” said Greta in a voice that sounded like it had never found anything wonderful in its life. “Before we move forward, I need to make you aware of several caveats. Due to the rather unusual circumstances—I’m referring of course to her anonymity—the role has several unique qualifiers. Should you get the job, you will be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Not only will you be prohibited from revealing Maud Dixon’s real name, but you will also be prohibited from ever saying that you worked for her.”
“Okay.”
Greta paused before speaking again. “I want to make sure you realize what that means, Florence. For the rest of your life, you will have a gap in your resume that you will be legally prohibited from explaining.”
Florence paused. The whole point of being an assistant to a writer was to use his or her connections to leverage your next job, or, if you were lucky, get published. Without that, you’d be better off working as a waiter, where at least you earned tips.
But it would take more than an NDA to make her turn down the opportunity to learn from a best-selling novelist and, perhaps more importantly, to develop a relationship with her very powerful agent. “That’s fine,” she said.
“Alright. Well, that brings me to number two. She doesn’t live in Manhattan. I can’t disclose where exactly she lives at this point in the process, but she has offered to provide lodging to the successful applicant.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine.” Florence knew—she just knew—that fate had intervened to send her this job, that it was the next step toward assuming the mantle of greatness herself. Greta could have listed physical mutilation as a job requirement and Florence still would have wanted it.
“Alright then. Let me tell you where you can email your CV. Do you have a pen?”
Florence sent her resume and a cover letter to Greta’s assistant that night. The next day, she received a call to schedule a video chat with Maud Dixon.
12.
Hello? Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” said Florence. “But I can’t see you.” Her own face was clearly visible in a small box in the lower corner of her screen, but the space where Maud’s face should have been was blank.
“Well, yes, that is rather the point of anonymity, isn’t it?” said the voice on the other end.
“Oh.” Florence blushed. “Right.”
“What’s that light behind you? I can barely see your face.”
Florence looked behind her. Her desk lamp was on. She switched it off.
“That’s better,” said Maud. “What pretty hair you have.”
Florence reached a hand up to her head as if to check that she still had the same mop of curls. “Oh, thanks.”
“So, tell me a bit about yourself.”
Florence gave her spiel about where she was from, the writers she’d studied in college, how she’d ended up in New York.
“But you don’t work at Forrester anymore?” Maud asked.
“No. I decided I’d learned everything I could there.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Um. I’m a writer. Or rather, I want to be a writer.”
“That’s all well and good but I don’t need a writer. I need an assistant. Can you type? Are you willing to run tedious errands? Can you conduct research?”
“Of course. Yes. To all of it.”
“Okay. What else should I know about you?”
Florence struggled to think of anything that would make her stand out. “Um. I was raised by a single parent, like you.” Florence realized her mistake. “Or rather like the character in your book, sorry. Like the Maud character in your book.”
“Alright. What else?”
“I’m not sure. I loved your book. I love your voice. It would be a real honor to learn from you. And to help in whatever way I can, obviously.”
There was a pause.
“And you wouldn’t mind moving out to the sticks?”
“Not at all. To be honest, I’m kind of over New York.”
“You know, I once heard a psychologist remark that whenever a patient used a phrase like ‘to be honest,’ it was a sign that he was lying.”
Florence gave an awkward laugh. “I’m not lying.”
“No, of course not. Although now that I think about it, a liar would be perfect for this role, considering that they can’t tell anyone who they work for.”
Florence didn’t know what game Maud was playing, but she knew she wasn’t keeping up. “I assure you, I can keep a secret,” she said.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Greta will be in touch.”
That was it?
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” she said, but Maud had already signed off.
Florence shut her laptop and buried her head in her hands.
* * *
She was still in bed at eleven the next morning when her phone rang. It was Greta, calling to tell Florence that the job was hers if she wanted it.<
br />
“Seriously?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Yes. Why would I not be serious?”
“No, of course. Thank you so much. I accept.”
“You don’t want to think about it?”
“No thanks.”
“Fine. Maud has proposed a start date of March eighteenth. Are you able to make that work? I realize it’s quite soon.”
Florence opened the calendar on her laptop. “Wait, next Monday?”
“You will come to learn that patience is not Maud’s strong suit.”
She shut the computer. “That’s okay. I can make the eighteenth work.”
They set up an appointment to sign the paperwork later in the week.
After she hung up, Florence looked around her room in amazement. Had that actually just happened?
She remembered something from Mississippi Foxtrot that Maud says to Ruby after the murder: “Everyone’s born with different amounts of living in them, and you can tell when someone’s run out. That man had none left. If I hadn’t of done it, he’d of died anyway.”
Florence wondered if that’s what Maud Dixon had seen in her: life. The will to really live, at any cost. That, ultimately, is what her stint at Forrester had left her with: a deep fear of insignificance and the understanding that one could slip into a flimsy, aimless life without even realizing it.
Just then her phone buzzed with a text from her mother: “I gave your number to Keith today. He has a gr8 idea for a book!!!”
A moment later it buzzed again: “Two words: Dragon. Catheter.”
Florence frowned.
A third message came in: “Catcher!!! Not catheter.”
Florence turned off her phone.
PART II
13.
Florence stood on the platform at the Hudson train station and watched her train tear away with more force and violence than she’d given it credit for. A scattering of leaves and food wrappers surged up in its wake then settled back down with a sigh. Florence tucked her chin into her scarf. It was colder here than it had been in the city.
Shielding her eyes from the bright, early-spring sun, she saw a wall of dark clouds mounting in the distance. Rain. She hoisted her duffel bag onto her shoulder and staggered briefly under its weight. It contained everything she owned, minus the furniture. She’d tried to sell her mattress and desk on Craigslist, but she’d only managed to offload them after reducing the price to zero.
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.
“The solitude,” Helen answered without elaborating.
Florence tried to think of something else to say, but her mind was blank. Her early comments seemed so weighted—it would signal something definitive about her character and determine whethe
r or not Helen would respect her. She couldn’t settle on the right tone, the right topic. She’d thought about telling her how much Mississippi Foxtrot had meant to her, but the words sounded trite and hollow when she rehearsed them in her head. Helen, for her part, seemed content to continue in silence.
Soon the clouds crossed the sky, blotting out the sun, and the light took on a jaundiced tint. Florence watched a flock of blackbirds descend on a single tree like a net thrown over it. A few fat drops splattered on the windshield as Helen exited the highway and took a series of turns that led them to an unevenly paved street called Crestbill Road. Florence recognized the name from the address Greta had sent her a few days before.
“It won’t last long,” Helen said as she flicked on the windshield wipers. “These spring storms come on strong but soon they get bored and move on.” She added with a glance at Florence: “Perhaps not unlike writers’ assistants.”
“Oh, I don’t plan on moving on anytime soon,” Florence assured her.
“So where did you tell people you were going?”
“What do you mean?”
“Since you couldn’t tell anyone about this job. And I trust that you didn’t.”
“Oh. I didn’t really tell anyone anything.”
Helen raised her eyebrows without taking her eyes off the road. “No? What about your family?”
“Well, it’s just my mom. And she thinks I still work at the publishing house.”
“You didn’t tell her that you left?”
Florence shrugged. She didn’t want to say anything that would hint at the circumstances of her departure from Forrester.
Helen pressed on: “You’re not close, then?”
“Not really. She’s—. I don’t know. We’re just very different.”
“How so?”
No one had ever asked Florence to so starkly define her relationship with her mother, and she struggled to put it into words.
She finally said, “You know how Trump’s always talking about winners and losers?”
Helen nodded.
“That’s the way my mother is too. She’s constantly cataloguing the world according to this very concrete hierarchical structure that she has built in her mind, and she has very specific ideas of where I should slot into it. Her whole investment in parenthood has been about getting me up to a high-enough rung, and she gets upset when she thinks I’m sabotaging that effort. She doesn’t understand that we just catalogue the world in very different ways.”
Who is Maud Dixon? Page 6