The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  “Is that what you’ve been doing for two years? Nurturing your creativity? Because from here it looks like you’re trying to drown it.”

  Graye steps into the kitchen on quiet feet and carefully sets Laura’s bag on the floor.

  “You’re the one who signed up to marry a writer, honey. For better or worse. It’s not all award banquets and book signings. You’re my wife, Laura! You’re supposed to be here to support me.”

  Graye’s stomach churns at the self-pity in his voice. There was a time she respected this man.

  “Support you? By paying your liquor bill? I’ve been here the whole time, David. Waiting on you to get your head out of your ass.”

  “Afraid of losing your investment?” David asks bitterly.

  Graye freezes as something crashes in the living room. She doesn’t know if an object was hurled across the room or if David simply fell over again.

  Laura’s keys are cutting into Graye’s palm as she grips them tightly.

  “I’m not doing this,” comes Laura’s tired voice. “Get over yourself, David. There are more important things than the next book.”

  David laughs. It’s a harsh, ugly sound.

  “That’s fine, then. Off you go,” he says.

  With rising panic, Graye realizes his voice is closer than she thought. Seconds later he stumbles into the kitchen.

  “More important things,” he mutters, oblivious or uncaring of her presence. “More important things, she says. Not to me.”

  She shouldn’t be here, but her limbs refuse to move.

  David throws open a cabinet door and rummages inside, then pulls a bottle out. He holds it up, trying to focus, then unscrews the cap and tips it over a glass sitting along the edge of the counter.

  A trickle of clear liquid dribbles out.

  “Not to me,” he says again, louder this time as he tosses the empty bottle onto the counter next to the glass. It spins, and Graye watches, entranced, as it drifts closer and closer to the edge. It comes to a halt at last, precariously close to crashing to the floor, its neck pointing directly at Graye.

  “What about you, little sparrow?” David says softly before he lifts his glass and tips the meager drops into his mouth. “With your freshly framed diploma on the wall? What do you long for, if not immortality?”

  Graye jerks her gaze to his face. “I . . . I should go.”

  David laughs again, a bitter sound of failure and decay.

  “You know what your problem is, Miss Templeton?” His words are slurred and disjointed, but she can understand them just fine. “You lack conviction.”

  He waves the glass around, a king making a great proclamation. “You with your meekness and all your disgusting hesitation. ‘I, I, I should go,’ she says like a peasant. No one with an MFA aspires to be a personal fucking assistant.”

  A knife twists inside of Graye, but David has a grip firmly on the hilt, and finds pleasure in turning it.

  “That’s right. Don’t think I don’t hear you clack-clacking away at night on your vintage typewriter you probably bought at a pawn shop because you’re a romantic who thinks it grants you some sort of magical gravitas that a ballpoint and a spiral notebook can’t. You don’t fool me.”

  He peers at her, his eyes squinting, trying to pin her down through the haze of alcohol, as if she were flitting about the room rather than stock-still in front of him.

  “A scared, insecure closet writer, just like everyone else, with big dreams and no follow-through. But you think to yourself, if you work hard and clack away, someday, maybe, luck will smile down and your big, big dream will fall from the sky and land smack in your lap. That’s what you’re hoping for, isn’t it? What you all hope for? To take a giant bite out of that apple. But the trick,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “the part no one tells you, is not to take too big a bite, my eager little birdie, or you might just choke on it.”

  He tosses the empty glass into the sink, and Graye flinches as it shatters.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, though he sounds anything but. “Did I scare you? Are you scared now?” He sends her a satisfied smile and a glance beneath hooded eyes.

  “Fly away then, little gray bird, back to your nest,” he says with a flutter of his hand. “Fearful wings will take you there safe and sound.”

  Graye’s spine stiffens. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “No?” He tilts his head and grabs at the kitchen island that separates them to catch his balance. “Resting on the crocodile’s back is a nice place for a little bird to be, is it? Fun for everyone?”

  David lurches toward her, faster than she would have expected him capable of. She takes two quick steps away from him, but her back hits the wall. It still isn’t far enough to stop him falling against her. The keys in her hand drop to the floor with a clatter. He smells of salt and booze, sweat and inadequacy.

  She stares at the red veins that radiate through the whites of his eyes.

  “And what happens when the crocodile gets hungry, little bird?”

  Graye, immobilized by his weight pinning her, paralyzed by this man who’s fallen so fast and hard from his self-satisfied pedestal, feels a hot hiss of breath as his wet lips part.

  Teeth close upon the lobe of her ear.

  Her stomach rebels and a thick ball of bile and revulsion pushes its way up her chest, then explodes outward. She shoves, heaving the carcass of this useless man out of her space.

  He stumbles, a ridiculous mask of boyish surprise mingling with the drunken slackness as he tumbles over a chair pushed out from the breakfast table and lands clumsily on his back.

  Graye stands over him, her hands clenched into fists.

  “Are you done?” she asks, fighting for calm.

  The shock in David’s face slowly banks. His eyes shutter and his lip curls, exposing a glint of teeth.

  The loathing on his face might be directed at Graye. It might be directed at himself. She doesn’t care which.

  Holding her muscles taut and exerting all the control she can summon, Graye crouches next to where he sprawls across the floor.

  He tries to open his eyes, but his head falls back with a thud and his lids flutter closed, a puerile refusal to face her.

  Perhaps he’s just too drunk to try.

  With a soft hand, Graye reaches out and caresses the cheek of the man whose words once gave her wings to ride away from her cold, dreary life.

  Her thumb moves gently back and forth, feeling the stubble and aged roughness that time and poor choices have etched there.

  His eyes don’t open, but the weight of his head shifts toward her palm, a cat leaning into a scratch behind the ears. A child looking to his mother for comfort.

  Her fingers stiffen in support. She tilts her head and watches his face as she moves her thumb upward to stroke the pink eyelid that’s closed against a world in which a big man has become small.

  Graye raises her other hand and places it opposite the first. A sigh escapes him as, without thought to why, he takes the touch she gives.

  Slowly, purposefully, and with marked restraint, Graye increases the pressure of her thumbs against his closed eyes.

  David twitches. She feels the moment exactly when his stolen comfort becomes confusion. When his confusion becomes fear.

  It runs up her arms and feeds the anger that awoke when he put his mouth on her.

  She smiles slowly and increases the pressure.

  Balancing the weight of his head in her hands, she leans her face closer to his. Her lips part inches from his ear.

  “Touch me again,” she begins, her words slow and concise, “and this little bird will peck your eyes from your head and have them on toast.”

  The smallest gasp escapes him, enough for Graye to know she’s pierced his drunken fog.

  His hands come up, presumably to pry hers away. Instinctive, but futile in his state.

  One last squeeze, then she opens her fingers wide. His skull falls back against the floor.


  If he opens his eyes to stare at her, she wouldn’t know. She’s moving to pick up Laura’s keys.

  She tosses them on the counter, then Graye walks out of the house without looking back.

  15

  At the prince’s insult, Mother smiles. She braces her feet with might and rage and pulls a deep breath in, collecting all the winds and the clouds inside of her, until she’s as full as she can be.

  She purses her lips and cocks her hips and she blows. Such a mighty gale neither the cinder girl nor her golden sister has ever seen. It lifts the prince, a rag doll on the wind, and away he flies, growing smaller and smaller still until he tumbles over the hills and treetops on the horizon, gone from their sight.

  Gone from their lives.

  Mother rights her dress and tucks a stray strand of hair into place. “That’s quite enough of that.”

  Away she strolls, leaving the sisters to stare at the empty skies.

  The cinder girl, expecting tears of grief, lays a skinny arm across her sister’s shoulders.

  “Don’t be sad,” the cinder girl whispers. “Someone loved you. It’s more than I’ve ever had.”

  But the cinder girl sees, to her great surprise, there are no tears on her sister’s cool cheeks.

  “I’m not sad, you little fool,” Sister says. “What good is a love so easily blown away?”

  She stands and her face is as hard as Mother’s, two women now without a heart between them.

  “I need no prince,” she says as she turns her back and walks away.

  GRAYE

  For most, a day off work is a reason to relax, even celebrate, but Graye finds herself at loose ends.

  She’s gotten a late start after another long night, “clacking away,” as Dr. West so patronizingly put it.

  There are about a dozen pages missing from her manuscript, long gone, probably floating in the Gulf by now. She could have replaced them from older drafts, but in the end, she retyped the book entirely, finally falling into bed for a few hours’ rest as the sun began to lighten the sky.

  The pristine new draft is just where she left it when she wakes to the cry of the gulls and the distant laughter of beachcombers.

  Graye rubs her dry red eyes, hair still tousled from a troubled sleep. She lays her fingers lightly upon the cover page.

  The Orphan’s Ashes, a novel by Fiona Boyd.

  There’s a tug on her conscience at the fictitious name.

  But Graye is risking everything, every single thing that matters, on Laura’s opinion of this work. She can’t afford to let their connection cloud her unfiltered response.

  If Laura likes it—more so, if Graye allows herself the fantasy that Laura might love it—then it will be a pleasant surprise to discover the true author. A funny story to share in interviews or at book signings.

  If, God forbid, she hates it . . . then Graye will have to adjust her plans. At least she’ll have saved them both from the embarrassment of a polite yet heartbreakingly awkward conversation.

  David’s voice echoes uninvited through her mind.

  “You know what your problem is? You lack conviction.”

  She tries to shake the words off before they can find a weak spot to latch onto and burrow in, but they’re persistent.

  Graye takes a deep breath and walks toward the bathroom, then twists the faucet on the shower.

  Cecelia Ainsley is right. David West is a hack. A man who struck gold once, then proceeded to piss it all away.

  She doesn’t need Dr. West’s approval, and she certainly doesn’t need his permission. She is Graye Templeton. That’s going to mean something soon.

  Graye steps into the steaming shower. When she steps out again, she leaves her doubts behind. But not her conviction. She dresses in running clothes and ties her hair back, then heads out the door and takes the short walk to the Wests’ kitchen door.

  Laura sees her coming through the glass and waves her in. She’s standing at the counter in a T-shirt and worn gray sweatpants that have been cut off at the knee. She’s bobbing a tea bag in a cup.

  “Good morning,” Laura says, her forced cheerfulness almost believable. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  Graye shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m heading out for a run, but I thought I’d drop off that manuscript we talked about yesterday. I finished it last night.” She holds up the ream of papers, secured with rubber bands.

  Any sign of David’s few days of debauchery has been cleared away, the chairs righted, empty bottles stowed in the garbage, the broken glass gone from the sink.

  But the feel of his teeth, sharp on Graye’s skin, remains.

  “The swan among the ducklings,” Laura says with a distracted smile. “Listen, Graye. About yesterday—”

  Graye shakes her head and looks away from Laura’s earnest expression. She fiddles with the rubber band on the manuscript and gives it a snap. “You don’t need to—”

  “But I do,” Laura interrupts. “You’ve been so kind. A rock. I owe you an apology.”

  “No need, really. You’ve been nothing but generous, and—”

  Graye breaks off as David, bleary eyed and unkempt, stumbles into the room. Her spine stiffens, but she refuses to look away as his gaze travels around the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Laura,” Graye says, her words stiff and too formal, even to her own ears. “But you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  She doesn’t miss the way Dr. West’s eyes widen just a fraction, or the way his body goes suddenly still. She hopes he’s reliving the memory of pressure against his closed eyes. That her words are replaying on a loop in his head.

  She thinks perhaps they are, and that’s enough to improve her mood.

  “Coffee,” he says with a croak. “Just want a cup of coffee.”

  Both women stare at him. Neither moves.

  He clears his throat. “I . . . I’ll come back later,” he says and steps backward out of the room without meeting Graye’s hard eyes.

  Once he’s gone, Graye busies herself by pulling her hair down from its ponytail and retying it, something to do with her hands while she schools her face into a more casual expression.

  She doesn’t see the way Laura’s gaze flickers back and forth between Graye and the doorway her husband has retreated through, or the frown of concern she can’t hide at the exchange.

  “I’ve got to run,” Graye says. “But you should read this when you get a chance. I’m curious to hear your thoughts.”

  Conviction, Graye thinks, even as her hands tremble at the idea of taking such a big step. She fights an overwhelming urge to snatch the pages back, to run and hide them in a dark closet forever. To burn them, to toss them one by one into the waves.

  Who is she kidding?

  Conviction. She forces her hands to stay casually by her sides.

  “Of course,” Laura is saying, unaware of the battle raging inside Graye. “I’ll add it to the stack.”

  “Great.” Graye turns to make a hasty exit before the tremor in her voice gives her away. She’s reaching for the door, but Laura isn’t done.

  “Hey, so I know today is supposed to be a day off, but I got a call from the manager at the Mary Read. She has some questions about the setup for the retreat.”

  Graye’s hand stalls and she turns back.

  “I was going to head over later and talk it over in person if you’d like to come along.”

  “Absolutely,” Graye says with no hesitation at all. “Days off are overrated.”

  Laura shakes her head. “I swear, we were separated at birth. We’re only three weeks out from the event and everything’s looking good so far, but days off might be hard to pin down between now and then, so if you want to make the most of this one, I completely understand.”

  Graye rolls her eyes. “What time?” she asks.

  Laura brightens, clearly pleased. “Lunchtime? We’ll call it a working lunch. My treat.”

  “It’s a date. See you there.”

  As Graye heads d
own to the beach, a faint smile lingers.

  Conviction. It’s going to be a good day. She can feel it.

  16

  LAURA

  Even with the constant ocean breeze, the sun is intense, and Laura appreciates the extra blast of air from the wide bamboo fans that whirl from the beams of the pergola over the Mary Read’s outdoor bar.

  She spots Graye seated at one of the high-top tables, sipping from a frosty pink drink that Laura’s mouth waters at the sight of.

  For once, the other woman is looking up rather than down at a book in her hands, though her face seems drawn as she stares toward the beach.

  “Can I get an ice water with lemon, please, Mike?” Laura asks the waiter who converges on the table at the same time she does.

  “Coming up,” Mike says obligingly.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” Laura slides into the empty seat across the table from Graye.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Graye says. “And it is my job,” she adds with a smile.

  “Fair enough.”

  They order lunch, and Laura fills Graye in on some of the details for the upcoming event. This year she’s planned a mystery theme, complete with an Agatha Christie–inspired murder mystery dinner on Saturday evening to round off the weekend.

  “It’s the highlight of the year for me, without a doubt, but it never fails that something goes wrong. My job, and yours too this year, will be to adapt to whatever emergencies crop up.”

  Graye nods. “And the meeting with the hotel manager?”

  “She wants to go over the placement of the tables for the Friday Noir Poker Night and the Saturday events, so this is a good opportunity for you to get the lay of the land as well.”

  Graye nods again, but Laura can see a cloud has settled over her.

  “Having second thoughts about taking the job?” Laura asks. The question may sound like a joke, but in truth, Laura has come to depend on Graye. The young woman has a way of stepping up to a challenge that Laura appreciates.

  Graye’s eyes lift. “Are you kidding? Not a chance. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Laura lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “But something’s on your mind.”