“David,” she calls. He doesn’t turn back.
She closes her eyes and leans her head back. She knows better than to begin a conversation with him that way. It never ends well.
Voices carry from the front door, and Laura’s ears prick. She’s familiar with only a few of the neighbors from her childhood summers on Port Mary. Dr. Lawson, an old family friend, is still two houses down. These days, though, many of the homes spread out along the island have been converted to rentals, and the summer season is still in swing.
She stands, curious, and more hopeful than she should be that it’s a Girl Scout selling cookies door to door. Nervous anxiety gives her the munchies, and she could murder a box of Thin Mints.
She stifles a sigh when she comes around the corner and realizes the figure in the doorway is certainly not a little girl in uniform. It was a vain hope anyway.
She wanders closer. There’s something familiar about the woman’s voice, but David is blocking her view.
“I’m hoping you’ll be willing to write a letter of recommendation, Dr. West,” Laura overhears.
Recognition dawns and she moves to stand beside her husband.
“Graye,” Laura says. “This is a surprise.”
If she hadn’t placed her voice before she saw the young woman, Laura may not have recognized her. Gone is the mousy shrinking violet, replaced with a new, sharper version of Graye. The crisp cream slacks and sleeveless coral blouse, paired with a long silver pendant and leather sandals, certainly hadn’t been part of her wardrobe six months prior.
“You could have sent the request via email, Miss Templeton,” David says, disregarding Laura’s welcome.
Graye blushes and glances at her feet. Laura’s heart goes out to her. It’s true, but David can be such a jerk.
“I . . . I did, sir,” Graye mumbles. “Twice.”
Laura glares at her husband, who manages to look mildly embarrassed.
“David—” she begins.
“I had to come to Houston for the interview tomorrow anyway,” Graye says quickly. “Once I realized how close Port Mary was . . . I know it’s rude to drop by like this, but Cecelia Ainsley was very specific about her expectations. If I mention a position working for David West, she’s going to ask to see a recommendation.”
Graye pauses to take a breath, then quickly continues, clearly afraid David will slam the door on her at any moment.
“Without one in hand, she’ll assume there’s a reason you wouldn’t give me one, and then I’ll have lost the job before I’ve even opened my mouth.”
David’s brows have risen at the mention of Cecelia Ainsley, and they remain there until Graye finishes speaking.
“Given Ms. Ainsley’s opinion of my work, I doubt a recommendation from me will do you any favors.”
Graye opens her mouth, but for a moment no words come out.
“Oh,” she says finally. The air seems to leak out of her. Despite the changes to her appearance, Laura sees plainly the awkward girl Graye was when they met months ago on the street.
“Graye, hon, come inside. I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,” Laura says, though she remembers the scathing review Cecelia Ainsley gave David’s last novel and thinks it probably is as bad as that.
“You look lovely, by the way.” She takes Graye’s arm and leads her to the sofa in the living room. “You’ve done something different with your hair?”
Graye smiles vaguely and reaches to smooth the sleek bob that has taken the place of her unruly frizz.
“Laura, a haircut isn’t going to make any difference to that ratty old bi—”
“David,” Laura says sharply. “That’s not helping.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans insolently against the front door he’s closed behind them. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, dear.”
She glares at her husband. “You could start by going to your office and typing up a recommendation letter.”
“It won’t do any good. The woman publicly branded me a hack. As if she has any room to talk. She’s pumped out the same dystopian garbage masquerading as literature since the early seventies.”
“David,” Laura forces out through clenched teeth. “Can you set your ego aside for one minute? An endorsement from you may not mean anything to Cecelia Ainsley, but there are plenty of other doors it would open.”
The irritation on David’s face changes before her eyes.
“I suppose you’re right,” he says grudgingly. “But you should have called first, Miss Templeton.”
He unfolds himself from his indifferent pose and walks toward his office as if he’s graciously granting a favor rather than succumbing to flattery.
Graye, who watches the exchange in silence, looks at Laura with large eyes. “He’s right, I shouldn’t have stopped by unannounced.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He wasn’t working today anyway. I should be thanking you for keeping him occupied.” Laura cocks her head to one side. “Listen, are you hungry?”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose—”
Laura nods. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’ve been too nervous about the interview to eat much,” Graye admits.
“Good, because I’m starving and I have a seat reserved at the best place in town,” Laura declares. She’s pleased to see the young woman again, and she can’t deny the girl has impressive timing.
She saved Laura from a huge misstep. The confrontation with David needs to happen, and soon, but Graye’s impromptu visit has bought her enough time to plan a more finessed approach.
It’s something to celebrate.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says with a smile.
10
GRAYE
The best place in town turns out to be a run-down taco stand tucked into the sand like a piece of a shipwreck the ocean has spit out. Graye frowns at one of the corners where it’s propped on a cinder block, a stack of gym weights, and what is possibly a boat anchor. She’s surprised a stiff breeze hasn’t toppled it back into the waves.
A grizzled bear of a man in a stained apron stands as they approach. The whole contraption lists to one side, and Graye reassesses. No breeze is taking the little building anywhere, not with this guy inside it.
“Again, you’re back,” the bearded man booms, scowling at Laura. His voice has a hint of an accent. French?
The greeting brings Graye up short, but Laura smiles her brightest.
“Antoine, am I starting to grow on you?” she asks with a wink.
“Oui, madame. Like a fungus.”
“Oh stop. You’ll make me blush. We’ll take two shrimp tacos each,” she says, then glances at Graye. “You’re okay with shrimp?”
Graye nods.
“That’s good,” Antoine says. “The pork—c’est la merde.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Graye says softly to Laura.
“He said the pork is shit,” Laura translates, not bothering to keep her voice down. “He’s right. It’s terrible. Stick with the shrimp.”
Graye doesn’t need to be fluent to get the gist of the angry stream of words that flies from the Frenchman’s mouth in Laura’s direction. Apparently, it’s fine for him to critique his own offerings, but Laura’s opinion is another matter.
Unfazed, Laura slaps two bills onto the makeshift counter and turns her back on the big man mid-rant.
She motions to one of the empty weathered picnic tables nearby.
While the taco stand thumps and creaks ominously at their backs, the two women sit facing the Gulf of Mexico.
Even with the grumblings of the surly man peppering her ears, Graye is entranced by the sheer scope of the view.
From where she sits, perhaps she can understand why people once believed the world was flat. An undeniable feeling of insignificance washes over her in the face of such power and beauty. The sand and surf, with their incessant give and take. The sense of being at the edge of . . . well, of everything.
<
br /> What more could there possibly be?
“It’s breathtaking,” Graye says in a hushed voice, then glances at Laura, embarrassed.
But the other woman is gazing out at the horizon, where the water blends with the sky. “It never gets old,” she says softly. “At night, with the stars overhead and the waves crashing, I can almost picture it the way it must have been hundreds of years ago. Port Mary was a pirate hideaway, once upon a time.”
Graye stares at Laura. The wind buffets her hair, and her eyes are far away and shining. She can imagine her there back then, waiting on the shore for her husband to return, or on the deck of a ship of her own.
Laura shakes her head and turns her eyes back to Graye. “I’m sorry,” she says. “David would call that sentimental trash, but I’ve always loved this place. The wonder of it has never faded. Thank goodness.”
“If Your Highness so pleases, your order is up,” comes the thunderous voice of the Frenchman, breaking the spell. “And don’t expect me to walk it out to you.”
“God forbid,” Laura says with a smile for Graye. She rises and retrieves their food.
When she returns, Laura digs into one of the overstuffed tacos with gusto and Graye follows suit.
“These are good,” she says, unable to hide her surprise.
Laura finishes chewing, then swallows. “Of course they’re good. Otherwise, why put up with the abuse?”
She polishes off the first taco in two more bites, then wipes her mouth on a paper napkin. “So tell me about this job,” she says.
With the taste of salt on her lips, the sun on her shoulders, and the constancy of the ocean in her ears, Graye describes the mundane duties Cecelia Ainsley has outlined for a personal assistant. The juxtaposition is dizzying.
Laura’s eyebrows shoot up only once.
“Aren’t you a little overqualified to be walking her dogs?” she asks mildly.
“Not really,” Graye says. “I’ve got no experience except as a TA. I was a scholarship kid and couldn’t afford to take any of the unpaid internships others could.”
“But you must have a solid work ethic if you got through college and grad school on scholarships,” Laura says thoughtfully.
“I’m not afraid of work. I know she has a reputation as . . . difficult, but I have to start somewhere.” She shrugs and goes back to her food.
“How are your organizational skills?” Laura asks as she breaks off a piece of tortilla and tosses it into the air.
A white gull swoops down and plucks it from the sky with practiced ease. The four gulls that follow in its wake cry their displeasure.
“Mon Dieu, no feeding the birds!” comes an explosion of irritation from the taco stand. “Shoo, you filthy animals!”
Antoine lurches out of his cave, waving a broom ineffectually at the sky.
“And multitasking?” Laura asks.
Graye gapes at the chaos the woman has caused and almost misses the question.
“Oh . . . um, yeah. You have to be able to handle all sorts of things as an assistant. Priorities are fluid. It’s easier to anticipate problems down the line and plan for them than try and put out fires as they happen.”
Antoine almost manages to knock one of the gulls from the sky, but it dodges at the last minute and sends a shrill complaint in his direction before settling farther down the beach.
“No feeding the birds, woman! How many times do I need to say this?” He shakes the broom in their direction as he stomps past them back to his stand, still grumbling under his breath.
Laura never blinks. She’s staring at Graye with an intensity that’s disconcerting.
“What?” Graye finally asks.
“I have a proposition for you, Graye Templeton.”
Graye has never lived anyplace luxurious. From a run-down trailer, to a foster home for girls, to cheap student housing, she hasn’t even worked her way up to lower middle class yet.
But the motel she’s booked in Rockaway is seedy enough to give even Graye pause.
Port Mary, as enchanting as it is, has only the one hotel on the tiny island, and Graye can’t afford the rates. She’s taken the last ferry back to the mainland.
Not even the bored desk clerk who reeks of marijuana can dampen her mood.
Laura West offered her a job.
“Yeah?” the clerk says when he notices her standing at the counter. His eyes flicker back to the television. Graye studies the nick on his pale neck near his Adam’s apple.
When she doesn’t answer right away, his gaze swivels back to her face.
“What do you need?” he says with a sigh.
“Am I starting to grow on you?” she asks suddenly. Her voice is overbright, teasing and out of place in the drab space that smells like old mop water.
His eyes widen when Graye sends him a playful wink.
She has no idea where that came from, but the clerk’s reaction is worth it, and she stifles a laugh.
“’Scuse me?” he says, leaning forward suspiciously.
“I’d like to pay for another week, if you don’t mind. Room 127,” Graye says.
“Yeah. Okay,” the clerk replies slowly. The name tag pinned to his wrinkled shirt reads Tripp.
That’s unfortunate.
Graye struggles to hold back a snort of laughter.
“That’ll be $255,” he says.
Her amusement sours. “But last week it was $215.”
Tripp shrugs. “Rates change seasonally.”
“The season is the same this week as it was last week,” she points out.
Another shrug. “Look, lady, it’s $255. Pay it or don’t. Whatever.”
Graye sighs and counts out the cash from her wallet. The bus ticket from Ithaca to Texas, the rental car, and two weeks’ lodging have quickly depleted her savings, but what choice does she have?
She could have told Laura the truth—that she doesn’t need an extra week to head back to New York State and collect her things before she can start her new position. But that would only complicate things.
It’s better this way.
Graye collects her receipt from Tripp, whose attention is already back on the television screen, and turns to walk toward her room.
One of a group of shaggy men clustered around an old sedan lets out a wolf whistle as she passes, but Graye refuses to let it get to her.
She unlocks her door and drops the keys to the rental car and her plastic keycard onto the small bedside table, then falls back upon the bed and stretches her arms above her head.
Personal assistant to Laura West.
It may not have as much cachet as assistant to Cecelia Ainsley, but Graye doesn’t care.
Laura West began her career almost by accident, with nothing but a blog about novels she loved. After she made her future husband famous, she took what was little more than a hobby, combined it with a degree in marketing, and turned herself into a full-fledged institution.
Now she’s a sought-after speaker and workshop leader. She founded a book club that includes hundreds of chapters in towns all over the world.
But the crown jewel in her repertoire is an annual themed retreat.
“You handle all of this alone?” Graye had asked.
“And some other things,” Laura said. “But I don’t want to scare you off, so we’ll stick with that for now.”
Laura needn’t have worried.
A dozen years ago, life had already taught Graye its greatest lesson: everything dies. She’d been a lonely girl enraptured by David West’s breakout novel, Broken Home Harvest, a gift from Sister Margaret on her birthday. It had swept her away from the cold, dark walls of St. Sebastian’s.
David West, for all his faults, has achieved the ultimate impossibility. His published work will carry his voice forward long after he’s gone. It is its own organism now, separate from the man himself.
Next week she’ll be a cog in the wheel of the machine that created him.
Just maybe, with luck and hard work, that
same machine will launch her too.
Things are finally falling into place for Graye Templeton, she thinks with a smile.
Graye drifts off to sleep that night, contentedly unaware that if she’d lifted her head as she walked to her room, she might have noticed a dark car, a rental like hers.
If she’d been paying attention, she might have wondered if she’d seen the same car on the ferry to Port Mary, and again on her return.
But as Sister Margaret knows, there’s a strange innocence about Graye. Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t look. She doesn’t notice. And if she had, her eyes would have skimmed over the darkened figure without stopping, without any glimmer of recognition.
Over a decade behind bars changes a person.
11
GRAYE
Out of habit, Graye knocks lightly on the side door before she lets herself into the West home.
In the weeks since she’s moved into their small detached guesthouse as part of her arrangement with Laura, she’s become a fixture in the household.
“The pay isn’t great, but the rent is nonexistent,” Laura had said.
Graye sets her overnight bag next to the door and wanders down the hallway toward Laura’s office.
When she hears her friend’s soft, intimate laugh, she stops.
She’s been careful not to intrude on the Wests’ privacy. She’s particularly mindful to give Dr. West no cause for complaint.
He hadn’t been pleased when the two women returned late in the afternoon that first day with news there was a change of plans.
His letter of recommendation, typed at his wife’s request, wasn’t necessary after all.
“No, we didn’t waste your time,” Graye overheard Laura telling him. “She can add it to her résumé for the future.”
“That’s not the point, Laura. You could have called to let me know.”
“I’m sorry, David. I didn’t think about it.”
“Clearly. Here. You can give her this, but I’m sure it won’t be as impressive as experience working with Laura West, goddess of the blog.”
Whatever Laura said next was too muffled to hear, but there was no mistaking the flush of anger on her cheeks when she emerged from his office with the letter in hand.
The Shadow Writer Page 4