Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016, 2017 Natalie Barelli

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously self-published as Until I Met Her in the United States in 2016.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781611099829

  ISBN-10: 161109982X

  Cover design by Mark Swan

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  But to be furious, murderously furious, is to be alive.

  — Claire Messud, The Woman Upstairs

  1

  I didn’t think I would survive this day.

  But thankfully, it’s almost over now, for her friends, her husband, the many people here I have never met. There are a great many of us who’ve come to say goodbye, standing together by Beatrice’s gaping grave, below a sky so bright it makes my eyes hurt.

  Her coffin’s lying beside it, waiting to be lowered into its final resting place. That’s the part I dread. We’re about to put her into this black hole and cover her up with dirt and mud, then turn around and walk away. Later, when it’s cold and dark, will she be frightened? Will she hate us for turning our backs and leaving her there?

  The minister tells us that God has plans that none of us are privy to, although not in those exact words. God, it seems, knows how hard it is for us to understand that someone we love can be snatched away suddenly, with no warning, in the most mundane of accidents, but that we must trust Him in His wisdom. I’m not sure what the point of that is. I would think that a warning to be more careful with stairs lest you fall and stupidly break your neck—a reminder to us all of the dangers we face at home—would be a more appropriate community message.

  Jim has his arm around me and gives my shoulders a squeeze; it makes me aware I’m weeping. I turn to look at him and catch sight of George a little farther away. He’s standing close to the coffin, looking down. There’s an older woman by his side whom I recognize as his mother; even though I only met her once, Margaret Greene isn’t someone you forget easily. She’s holding his arm, as if to support him. I think she’s crying, but it’s hard to tell from here. Still, I have to fight the urge to pull her away, to tell her that she doesn’t belong here, that she never liked Beatrice, and Beatrice knew it. But I do nothing of the sort, obviously. She’s there for George. I understand that.

  He looks up at me, as if he’s realized I was watching him. His eyes are puffy and red; he’s crying at least as much as I am. Poor George, he’s going to miss her so much. How will he ever cope without her? How will he bear to live in that big apartment without her?

  The minister must have concluded his eulogy because the coffin’s descending into the hole now. I quickly bend down and grab a fistful of earth and throw it on top. I’m unsure what I’m trying to tell her—that I love her, that I miss her, I always will. Oh, Beatrice, why did you come home?

  Jim has taken hold of my elbow, and is gently guiding me away. I look up and see that everyone is moving, slowly, in unison. I had a nightmare last night: All these people here had grabbed a shovel and were filling the grave with soil, except it was me in there, at the bottom of the hole. I was shouting at them to stop but they couldn’t hear me. I woke up because I couldn’t breathe. But it seems I won’t get to see that part, the final sealing of the tomb, which is just as well because I don’t think I could take it.

  George comes over and engulfs me in his arms, and we collapse into each other, each sobbing on the other’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, over and over. After a long time, he releases me, just nods at me; that’s all he has the strength to do. I watch him being led into his car, his shoulders hunched under the weight of his grief.

  There are people all around me as we reach our own car. “I’m so sorry. You two were so close,” they mumble. “It must be so hard for you.” Craig gives me a hug. Dear Craig, the first friend of Beatrice’s I ever met.

  “How are you holding up?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “Sorry, dumb question.” He takes my face in his hands. “It’s written all over your face,” he says, and my features crumple with misery. “I’ll call you later, all right?” Now it’s me who’s nodding, who doesn’t have the strength to do anything else.

  Jim’s waiting by the car, holding the door open for me, and I’m about to get in when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Hannah. She whispers in my ear, “I’m sorry,” then she adds, “I really need to talk to you. When you’re ready.” She puts her hand on my arm and squeezes it, studies my face, her head tilted at an angle, then walks away.

  She made it sound like she had something serious to tell me, something bad. What could be worse than this? Maybe I’m imagining things.

  “Who was that?” Jim asks.

  “Hannah, Beatrice’s agent. Remember her?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Everyone is gentle with me, their eyes full of sadness for themselves and especially for me, knowing that I have lost my best friend, my mentor—this wonderful, generous, talented woman who took me under her wing and changed my life.

  I’m inconsolable, wretched, heartbroken that my very dear friend Beatrice is dead.

  Which is kind of odd, considering I’m the one who killed her.

  2

  I spend the next few days in bed. I feel like I will never get out of it, will never want to. I expected to feel crushed by sadness, sure, but a little bit of relief as well. It’s nothing like that. Every single night I dream of killing her; not the deed itself, but the knowledge of it, and I’m shattered because I know without a doubt that my life is going to be over soon. I will be found out any minute now. I’m waiting for the knock on the door, consumed by overwhelming regret. Oh, how I wish I could turn back the clock! How I wish I hadn’t done it!

  And every morning I wake up, groaning with a relief so profound it makes my eyes water. Thank God. It was just a dream.

  And then I remember, and it’s devastating.

  Surely it’s just a matter of time before I get caught, before the knock on the door. Murderers get caught, right? So I go back to sleep, because anything’s better than waiting.

  Jim’s very kind and attentive. He thinks I’m so sad because she’s dead. He’s even taken time off work to look after me—that’s how intense my reaction has been. “You’ve taken this really hard, Em. Just
rest, sweetheart. It will get better.” He brings me food, and endless cups of tea. He doesn’t say much, just sits on the side of the bed, patiently looking after me, eyebrows drawn together with worry. But he must be relieved that Beatrice is dead. It’s back to being just him and me now, even if he would never say that.

  “You’re awake, Em.” He has brought me some coffee. I sit up slightly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, I think.” The coffee is lukewarm. I wonder how long he’s been standing there.

  “Frankie called. He said he can cancel the interview tomorrow if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “The interview?” I try to gather my thoughts, struggle to put them in some kind of order.

  “Books and Letters, sweetheart. Do you still want to go? You don’t have to, you know.”

  “But that’s not until Thursday, Jim. I’ll be fine by then, I’m sure of it.” I put the cup on the small table beside me and slide back down. I just want to go back to sleep for a while.

  “Tomorrow is Thursday, Em.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I think we should cancel it. What do you think?”

  I sit up properly now, jolted. “No! Of course we’re not canceling! I’ll go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have to go. I want to go. Call him back, please, darling? Tell him I’ll be there?”

  He looks at me, then gives a hesitant nod. “Okay, I’ll call him.”

  “I’ll take a shower,” I say, getting out of bed.

  “You’re really sure you’re up to it?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I have to do this, Jim.”

  I’m shortlisted for the Poulton Prize, you see, one of the most prestigious—if not the most prestigious—literary prize of all. I daresay I’m even a hot favorite, and Books and Letters is the most pretentious, intellectual, literary TV program on earth. Right now, it’s the only thing I’ll get out of bed for.

  “My guest today is Emma Fern, author of Long Grass Running, a novel that is as surprising as it is engrossing—a novel that is bold, timeless, and yet speaks to the heart of every generation. Hello, Emma. Welcome to Books and Letters.”

  “Hello, Richard, thank you. It’s wonderful to be here.” My voice is weak.

  “Well, first, congratulations. This wonderful book, your first novel, has been shortlisted for the Poulton Prize—a great achievement.”

  “Thank you, yes. I’m very happy, very humbled too, of course. It’s every writer’s dream.”

  “Indeed. And it’s also a bestseller, which, as we know, does not necessarily go hand in hand with being a prizewinning novel.”

  “Yes, again, I feel so fortunate, on every level. It’s a dream come true.”

  “Now, this novel, Long Grass Running, is highly unusual in its structure. It’s not a traditional narrative—the time frame jumps around. We begin in the Second World War, where we meet three sisters who are left behind, shall we say, when their brothers . . .”

  I can’t concentrate. The lights in the studio are hot and disorienting. I feel sweat beading on my skin; I hope it doesn’t show. I’m dizzy, tired, confused. I answer the questions almost by rote—after all, I’ve been doing these interviews for months now. Still, I’m zoning in and out. I just hope I come across okay.

  “. . . that’s terrific, Emma, and I wish you the very best with the Poulton. I bet you can’t wait for the outcome.”

  “And you’d win that bet, Richard.” We both chuckle. “But, look, of course it would be wonderful to win, but to be shortlisted is already far, far beyond my wildest dreams, so you know, if I don’t win, I’m still incredibly proud and happy to be where I am.”

  “It’s an impressive achievement, and especially for a first novel, so—”

  “Richard, let me correct you there, it’s not exactly my first novel—it’s my first published novel.” His eyes widen and I can’t help raising an eyebrow. That must have looked a touch smug. I hope the camera didn’t pick it up.

  “So there’s another one?”

  “Languishing at the bottom of a drawer, yes.”

  “Well, folks, you heard it here first,” Richard says to the camera. “Can you tell us a little about that other book, Emma? I know we would all love to hear about it.”

  “No, look—it’s not ready anyway. Give me a little more time to dust off the cobwebs and we’ll see. And anyway, I’m not quite over this one yet.” I laugh, sadly of course, and he laughs with me, but then I take a more serious tone. “But also, I want to say that I had a lot of encouragement from my dear friend Beatrice Johnson Greene in writing this novel. And I really want to acknowledge that. I’m here because of her support and incredible friendship.”

  He nods, thoughtful now. Right, yes, let’s take a moment. “Thank you for bringing up Beatrice Johnson Greene. I can speak for all of us here when I say we have been especially touched by her passing away. She was a well-loved writer.”

  “Yes,” I say, taking a breath. “Very well loved.”

  “It’s so very sad. A terrible accident that robbed us of a wonderful author, way before her time, at the peak of her career even. And you knew her well. Is there anything you’d like to share with us? A special memory?”

  It takes all my power not to burst into tears. “Beatrice and I were very close. And I want to say it again: I’m here today because of her. She became my literary mentor, if you will. She guided me and advised me, and without her, I’m not sure I would even have finished the novel. It probably would be lying on top of the other one in the same drawer right now.”

  My chin trembles and the corners of my mouth droop down, and I can’t stop it happening. Maybe this was a mistake, coming here so soon.

  Richard takes a moment; looks serious, reverential even. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Emma. And for all of us, because who among us hasn’t been kept up all night by a novel by Beatrice Johnson Greene?” He smiles.

  “She’s caused a few sleepless nights for me, I assure you,” I say, managing to smile back.

  And she’s still keeping me awake at night. What am I doing here? I shouldn’t have come. I should have listened to Jim and Frankie, I should have—

  “. . . we never had the pleasure of her company on this program, unfortunately . . .”

  I’ve zoned out again. I force myself to concentrate. I can’t be falling to pieces here, on national television, for Christ’s sake. Pull yourself together, Emma, this is your big moment—don’t waste it.

  “. . . you say she mentored you, but your novel, Long Grass Running, it’s not crime fiction as such, not in the genre that Johnson Greene excelled at.” He says this as a statement, not a question. “Could you tell us a bit about that mentoring process?”

  I nod. “Yes, you’re right, Richard, we did write in completely different styles. It takes special skills to write crime fiction, as Beatrice did so well. I never put any thought into what style or genre I wanted to write in, I just, you know, wrote what was inside me, but to go back to your question, Richard, Beatrice took me under her wing almost as soon as we met. I had started my novel years earlier, but I didn’t have the confidence, I guess, to finish it, to see myself as a writer. That’s what she helped me with, mostly, and instilled some discipline into me as well.” I laugh.

  “She certainly was prolific.”

  “Wasn’t she? So no, it wasn’t so much tutoring in that way, but we used to talk every day about our writing, about how it was going, and she gave me enormous amounts of encouragement. I’ll always be grateful to Beatrice for that.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “How did you meet her? Such a life-changing event for you. Do you ever think about that?”

  I don’t know why the question takes me by surprise, but I’m momentarily speechless as the memories tumble over each other and Richard goes out of focus for a second.

  “She came into my store,” I finally manage to say. I tell him a little about that day, how I used to own a home decor store and I’d never
dreamed I would become a published author. I tell him about meeting Beatrice, and how quickly we bonded over our shared love of writing, about her kindness to me, and how fortunate I was that she believed in me. She semi-adopted me as the daughter she never had, I tell him. Until I met her, I had never shown my work to anyone, but she made me open up and trust myself, I tell him. It became important to her that I fulfill my potential, and she worked very hard at it. I will always be grateful to her for that.

  I tell him.

  It’s all a crock of shit, of course. Except for the first bit.

  She came into my store.

  3

  It was a Saturday. I remember because Jim came with me that morning. Fall was well underway, but the sun was out and it was still warm for the time of the year. We came out of the subway and joined the leisurely crowd of young families, parents pushing strollers and carrying small children, and people bursting out of coffee shops onto the sidewalk. When I first bought the store there almost a decade ago, that part of Brooklyn was quiet, a neighborhood of ordinary folks going about their ordinary business, but you could get a taste of things to come—literally, as it turned out, since it was food—the haute-cuisine kind—that first replaced the old closed stores. Restaurants serving artfully presented dishes, the type of place you could imagine reading about in a fancy magazine and taking a taxi to. After that, the trendy wine bars followed, then fashion retail, organic food stores, and finally, art galleries. Which is when you know for sure a neighborhood is well and truly gentrified.

  On that sunny morning, Jim wanted to go to the bookstore a couple of doors down from the store, which is why we were walking together, arm in arm, and we were only a hundred feet away from it when we heard a loud crash just ahead. The traffic was heavy, but slow, and a car filled with far too many people had driven straight into the one in front of it. They weren’t going fast—no one was—and they were probably distracted by all the activity along the street and hadn’t been looking ahead. But still, it was loud. The back door opened and a little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, jumped out, screaming at the top of her lungs, and ran.