The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  “I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Graye said quietly.

  Laura handed over the sheet of paper.

  “Trouble was here before you were. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

  Since that day, Graye treads lightly around Dr. West. In turn, he ignores her, much as he did when she was his teaching assistant.

  The arrangement suits them both.

  “Of course it was perfect.” Laura’s voice is a low murmur of satisfaction as it drifts from her office. “I know what you like.”

  Graye takes a careful step backward in the hallway.

  She’s grown used to the couple’s constant sniping, but the rare times they manage to set that aside and share a passing touch or a smile over an inside joke throws Graye off her stride.

  Laura laughs again. “Hugo, I don’t think your wife would care for that.”

  Graye stops, the expression on her face almost comical as her eyes widen and her lips fall open.

  A thousand competing thoughts careen through her mind. The most pressing one, and the loudest, shouts that she get out of this hallway immediately.

  Quickly and quietly, Graye moves back into the living room. She picks up her bag and drops it again with a loud thump.

  “Laura,” she calls, her voice echoing off the scuffed hardwood floors. “Are you here?”

  “Just a sec,” comes the reply.

  Graye shoves her hands in her pockets and stares out the front window toward the beach while she gathers her runaway thoughts and schools her face into a neutral expression.

  So what if she’s seeing someone else? Graye tries to tamp down her initial surprise, a childish reaction she scolds herself for.

  Why shouldn’t she be? David is . . . well, he’s David, and he can’t be an easy person to love. Not forever.

  But what does she know? Romance is a foreign concept to Graye. Relationships never end well, as a rule. She doesn’t understand why anyone bothers.

  Friendship is hard enough. Throw in sex and love and need, and things just get messy.

  A darkened room, fake wood paneling on the walls. Her hands covering her eyes, gaps between her fingers. Just enough to see too much.

  Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded, shaking the room, shaking the world. Shaking everything down around them. All coming apart at the seams.

  Shouting, shrieking voices, panicked and angry.

  “Grace!” A voice close by, hands upon her cheeks.

  Everything red.

  Red, on the fake wood wall. She stares, watching it drip slowly down.

  “Graye?” Laura asks. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Graye says, turning to smile brightly at her friend. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Laura shakes her head with her phone dangling from her fingertips, forgotten.

  “I don’t know. You looked . . . strange. Frightened.”

  “Just thinking about tonight.” Graye moves away from the window. “Checking things off the mental to-do list.”

  Laura pats her arm. “There’s nothing to worry about. Janelle’s an experienced host, and Mai Linh is funny and smart and charming once she’s had a glass of champagne to calm her nerves.”

  When Laura had floated the idea of attending the Austin chapter meeting of the Wildflower Book Club, all Graye’s muscles had constricted at once.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she’d said, her voice high and reedy. “Book clubs are so intimate and everyone knows each other and . . . and small talk . . . and wouldn’t I just be in the way?”

  Giving a lecture to a bunch of indifferent students is one thing. She can come into the lecture hall prepared, say what she needs to say, and that’s the end of it. There’s no need to interact.

  “Now you sound just like an author,” Laura had said with a laugh.

  Graye sat up straighter. “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “Well, some of them are extroverts, I suppose. But a lot are just like you—introverted and nervous about social situations. Most hide it better than you’re doing now, though.”

  “Really?” The idea sounded absurd.

  “Yes, really. Mai Linh, the guest author joining them? She’s nearly mute with nerves until she’s had one drink.”

  “Mai Linh is going to be there?”

  “Hmm, yes.” Laura was watching her from the corner of her eye. “I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to get your feet wet on the book club side of things, but I understand if you want to skip it.”

  Laura wasn’t stealthy. They both knew she was dangling a carrot and, more so, that she was enjoying watching Graye’s whiskers twitch at the temptation.

  Graye bit her lip. “Do you think she’d sign my copy of Songbird?”

  “I’ll book the hotel,” Laura had said, clapping her hands together.

  Now, with a four-hour drive ahead of them, Graye hopes she can maintain a normal facade.

  Laura hoists the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and angles her chin toward the door.

  “Ready?” she asks, looking for all the world as though she hasn’t just been sharing an illicit conversation with a man who isn’t her husband.

  “Sure.” Graye takes a deep breath and determines to set the awkward knowledge aside.

  The bright day greets them. Graye is surprised at the touch of sadness that comes with the thought of leaving the island. Silly. They’ll be back the following day. But Port Mary, with its postcard views and little pockets of strangers wandering up and down the beach, has quickly begun to feel like home.

  She’s yet to work up the courage to visit the taco stand alone, though.

  The gravel driveway crunches beneath their feet as the two women make their way beneath the carport to Laura’s SUV.

  “Well, damn,” Laura says softly. Her shoulders slump and the strap of her bag slides from its perch there. It falls to the ground with a thunk.

  “What’s the matter?” Graye asks.

  But as she rounds the corner of the car behind Laura, she can see the problem for herself.

  “I’ve never changed a tire,” Laura says. “Can you believe that? And David’s off fishing somewhere. I doubt I can reach him on his cell.”

  Graye shrugs and sets her own bag next to Laura’s.

  “No big deal. I can do it. You have a spare in the back?”

  Laura’s head slowly turns in Graye’s direction. “Well, look at you. A woman with hidden skills. Yeah, I think it’s back here.”

  As Graye shows Laura how to loosen the lug nuts, then raise the car on the jack, she recalls Sister Margaret walking her through the same steps when she was a teenager. Laura’s SUV is nicer than the beaten-up van from the girl’s home, but the process is the same.

  A tug of guilt pulls at her. She should call the nun and let her know she’s settled into a new job, but something holds her back. Some sense that she’d jinx her good fortune.

  It isn’t that the sister isn’t supportive. Not exactly. But she has a no-nonsense way about her that prods Graye to examine things from all angles, including potential pitfalls.

  Graye is happy here, and that’s enough. For now, at least.

  As Graye rolls the deflated tire around the front of Laura’s car, a figure on the beach catches her eye.

  The guesthouse she’s living in is tucked beside and a bit behind the Wests’ home, leaving little view to speak of, but Graye takes the opportunity to walk along the shore whenever the mood strikes.

  Her favorite time is early morning, when it’s mostly deserted.

  There’s something about the man in the red board shorts. Something familiar. She’s seen him before, an early riser as well.

  He wears a windbreaker in the mornings to ward off the chill, and his hood is usually up when he passes, leaving his face in shadows.

  Unlike the other people spread sparsely along the beach, he’s turned away from the ocean.

  He isn’t wearing a windbreaker now, and although it’s impossible to be certain because
of the distance between them, the man appears to be watching . . . her.

  Graye goes cold suddenly, despite the sun warming her shoulders.

  “Do you need a hand?” Laura asks, startling Graye and pulling her attention back from the figure on the beach.

  “No,” Graye murmurs. “I’ve got it. No need for you to get dirty too.”

  She glances down at her blackened hands and dirt-smudged clothes. “Do you mind if I wash up and change?”

  “Anything for the woman of the hour,” Laura says.

  Before Graye makes her way toward the guesthouse, she risks a furtive look over her shoulder at the man on the beach, but the spot where he was standing just moments before is empty.

  He’s gone, like he was never there.

  Laura hadn’t noticed the long, clean gash in the sidewall of her tire. Graye chooses not to mention it.

  “Good Lord, what did you pack in this thing? Bricks?”

  Laura lifts Graye’s bag from the back of the SUV with an “Oomph.”

  “Manuscripts,” Graye says.

  “You brought work? You don’t have to impress me, you know. You’ve already got the job.”

  “It’s my favorite part, though. Leaving them behind felt like abandoning little ducklings.”

  “Aw,” Laura says with a tilt of her head and an indulgent smile. “That’s sweet. But here. Your ducklings are heavy.”

  Graye takes the bag from her and they walk toward the entrance of the hotel.

  “Do you miss it?” Graye asks.

  “What? Combing through my unsolicited slush pile?”

  Laura isn’t a literary agent or an editor. Other than a connection to her father, she has no role in publishing at all, but that doesn’t stop the stream of unrequested, unpublished work that shows up in her mail and inbox.

  “It’s my own fault,” she’d admitted when she showed Graye the stacks of manuscripts she’d collected but hadn’t had time to assess. “I can’t stop myself from reading at least the first few pages. And once in a blue moon I’ve found a rare gem and passed it along to Dad.”

  One of those “rare gems” had been Hugo Caron’s debut, a sweeping historical saga that had gone on to win the National Book Award. The glossy author photo inside the back flap of his book jacket shows a handsome dark-skinned man with a faint smile that hints at mischief.

  Is Hugo Caron the Hugo that Laura had been so friendly with on the phone? Graye wonders how many men named Hugo her friend could know.

  “I miss it a little, I guess,” Laura admits. “But I trust you to pass along anything that catches your eye, and that frees me up to do the things that actually pay the bills.”

  Laura has no inkling of the fireworks that exploded inside of Graye when she passed the task along to her new assistant.

  It’s the perfect gift-wrapped, gilt-edged opportunity that Graye had hoped for, and she’s determined not to waste it.

  Thoughts of the man on the beach intrude, but Graye dismisses them. She imagined his eyes on her, surely. No one knows she’s busy working to make her dreams come true on a tiny island off the Texas coast. Not even Sister Margaret.

  As for the flattened tire and how it had been damaged, those are thoughts she refuses to even entertain.

  What matters, the only thing that matters, is the path ahead.

  12

  LAURA

  Laura sighs as she ends the call with her husband. She leans onto the balcony railing of the hotel room, her mind far from the downtown scene below her. Before she left, David claimed he was going to use the time to rework his newest manuscript, but lingering resentment seeped between his words.

  She’s grateful he didn’t bother to ask for her opinion before he sent the last draft to Isaac. As it was, his editor had been the one forced to tell him it needed work.

  She was on the phone checking in with Janelle when he called, so she said goodbye and clicked over to David.

  He wanted to know where she’d put the corkscrew. She could hear him fumbling through the kitchen drawers as they spoke.

  Laura straightens.

  It’s time for a serious reassessment of her priorities.

  “Mai Linh’s flight is late,” she says as she closes the sliding glass door behind her, shutting out the blast of heat and the sounds of traffic that push their way into the room.

  Laura lifts the hair off her neck and leans over the air-conditioning unit to cool herself.

  Graye is hanging her clothes in the small closet, but whirls around with a touch of panic in her eyes.

  “It’ll be fine,” Laura assures her. “The flight wasn’t canceled, just delayed. She’ll be landing soon.”

  Graye closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly struggling to relax.

  Laura has an overwhelming urge to hug the girl.

  “I just spoke with Janelle. She’s got everything under control,” she says.

  An hour later, when the two women step through the doors of the hotel’s banquet room where the special book club meeting will be held, Laura can see that, true to form, Janelle Mathis has outdone herself.

  A tall, thin woman in her sixties with an elegant braid that falls across one shoulder, Janelle crosses the room to greet them.

  “Laura,” she says, opening her arms wide and encircling her. “I’m so glad you could make it. Now that you’re an official Texan, I’m hoping I’ll get to see your gorgeous face more often.”

  “Janelle, this is Graye Templeton, my new assistant.” Laura places a hand lightly on Graye’s back with a smile.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Graye,” Janelle says warmly.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Graye asks, glancing around the room, where hotel staff are busily setting tables with cream and navy linens.

  “Well now, since you asked,” Janelle begins, taking Graye by the arm and leading her away. She’s in good hands, Laura knows. Janelle will keep Graye busy enough that she won’t have time to worry about anything else.

  That leaves Laura free to wander. She peeks at the gift bags Janelle has placed on the chairs for the guests, smiling at the clean, distinctive dandelion logo she chose when she launched the Wildflower Book Club.

  The little bag holds a small leather-bound notebook and pen, along with a blue cardboard jewelry box. Unable to resist, Laura tips up the lid of the box and gasps.

  “Do you like them?” Janelle asks as she makes her way back to Laura.

  “Janelle, these are beautiful!”

  “Thank you. An artist friend of mine made them. I think they turned out well.”

  Laura holds the delicate silver necklace up for a closer look. It features a filigree version of the same dandelion from the logo.

  Laura is surprised to feel tears welling up.

  Janelle touches Laura’s shoulder. “Good gracious, don’t cry. I got one for you too.”

  Laura snorts and waves a hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry, I’m just so impressed with what you’ve done here.”

  Janelle glances around, her eyes bright. “I love an excuse for a party. The regular meetings are wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a special occasion when we have a visiting author like Mai Linh. Have you seen the cake?” she asks, linking her arm in Laura’s. “The bakery recreated the cover of Songbird, and it’s perfect, so no blubbering on it or you’ll ruin their hard work.”

  When laughter from the hallway signals the first guests’ arrival half an hour later, Graye appears by Laura’s side.

  “She’ll be here,” Laura assures her, reading the concern on her face. “Come meet some of the members.”

  They’re making their way toward the entrance of the banquet room when Laura stumbles, her legs wobbling beneath her like a newborn foal. With a sharp intake of breath, she grips Graye’s arm to stop herself from tumbling to the ground.

  “Are you all right?”

  Laura looks down and sees that her favorite pair of shoes has betrayed her.

  “My heel,”
she says, angling her ankle to show the broken piece dangling from the back of her foot. “And this is the only pair I brought.”

  “I have some that might work. Here, have a seat and I’ll run up to the room and get them.”

  Only a few minutes have passed before Graye returns and places a shoebox in Laura’s hands.

  “Graye, I honestly don’t know how I’ve survived so long without—” She breaks off as she lifts the lid and catches a glimpse of the shoes in the box.

  A gorgeous pair of heels the color of sparkling champagne nestles in the tissue of the box.

  “Oh my,” Laura breathes out in a low whisper. “These are . . .” She searches for the right word.

  “Will they fit?” Graye asks.

  Suddenly desperate to find out, Laura slips her feet into them and admires the way they subtly reflect the light.

  “Like they were made for me,” Laura says with a smile. “Thank you.”

  She tucks her other shoes into the box and slides it beneath her chair. She glances toward the door and gestures for Graye to follow her gaze.

  “I told you she’d make it.”

  They see a slight woman with chin-length dark hair who looks like she wants to sink into the carpet.

  “Let’s catch her before she makes a run for it.”

  Mai Linh’s shoulders relax some when she spots Laura heading her way, but only a little.

  “I swear to God, Laura, I don’t know how you talk me into these things,” the newcomer whispers, casting nervous glances at the clusters of women who are beginning to notice her arrival.

  “Good to see you too, Linh,” Laura says.

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  Laura struggles not to laugh. “Linh,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to my assistant, Graye Templeton. Be nice, she’s a fan.”

  Mai Linh rolls her eyes, but her face is kind as she turns to Graye. “I’m always nice.”

  Laura snorts, and Mai Linh glares in her direction before holding out a hand to Graye.

  “I am. I just get twitchy in crowds. Forgive me. You can call me Linh.”

  It takes Graye a moment to find her voice as she shakes the author’s hand. She looks starstruck, but she pulls herself together quickly.

  “Can I get you a glass of champagne, Linh?” Graye asks.