It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I go upstairs to lie down because I don’t know what else to do. I have crazy dreams of falling. I’m standing on top of a ridge, and I need to get to the other side. Everyone around me is doing it easily but I can’t. To get to the other side, I have to step on the top of a very tall, very precarious ladder that’s balanced on the bottom of the ravine. I don’t understand how everyone else is making it look so easy when it’s likely that I will lose my balance and drop to the bottom, so I stay behind on my side. Then I lean forward to look down into the ravine, and see Beatrice’s broken body lying there in a pool of blood.
I’m sweating when I wake up, my hands on my face, groaning with relief that it was all an awful nightmare, and for a moment life is wonderful again, until I remember.
Oh God, what’s going to happen to me?
The light has dimmed; it must be getting late. Jim will be home soon and I should be going downstairs and preparing dinner for our guests.
I’m so tired. I tell myself to get up and finally swing my legs out of the bed and sit for a while, feeling dizzy. The phone rings, and I jump up, hoping Amazon’s about to tell me they’ve sorted this out, but it’s the home telephone again. The number I never use, I never give out. The number I don’t even remember. Allison? Who else?
I pick it up, ready to explode and tell the stupid girl to leave us alone, but there’s silence when I say hello—no, not silence exactly, more like the distorted sound of someone breathing. Later, when I feel calm enough to think about this call, I will think that they were very close to the mouthpiece. Such a vintage word, mouthpiece; do we call them that still? I listen to the sound of someone determined to frighten me. I can only hear my own heart beating loudly, and just as I’m about to hang up, those awful words—“I know what you did” —hissed right in my ear, and I quickly put the phone down.
I scream, a lonely scream of frustration as much as fear. I’m going to faint. I don’t understand why someone’s trying to frighten me so. I couldn’t tell whether the whisper was a man or woman, but I’m leaning toward female. Is someone out there seriously trying to convince me that Beatrice is back from the dead? Leaving reviews on Amazon? Or am I going completely crazy?
I put my head in my hands, my elbows on my knees, and tears well up, as much from the pain in my head as from the fear that has lodged itself in my stomach.
I need to make sense of this. There’s a person behind these phone calls, and there’s a person behind those reviews, and it’s highly likely they’re one and the same. I need to find out who that is, and why they’re doing this to me.
And then I remember Jim’s calls, the late-night, hushed calls that he lies to me about. Could they be related? Allison’s the only person to have called on the home telephone recently; is this her? Could this be about a stupid affair, with a stupid ex-student, gone wrong? Is it remotely possible that Jim knows I didn’t write the novel and told her? Maybe Beatrice told Jim at the time, but I can’t quite see it. She couldn’t stand him, and she was adamant we should keep this a secret to the grave. Ha! Only as long as it suited her, obviously.
Think, Emma, think. Can Allison and therefore Jim be somehow connected to all this?
I unplug the base of the phone from the wall outlet and make a mental note to do the same to the other unit downstairs, then I hear the front door open and the sound of Jim’s keys being dropped in the bowl on the table in the hall. I hear all this just as I wonder whether Jim’s trying to hurt me.
I grab my cell phone, call the number Frankie wrote for me, and leave a message.
28
After I’ve splashed water on my face, I remind myself yet again that the only thing that tied Beatrice and me together to this book was our contract, and that contract is gone. I took that cocktail napkin, shredded it, and flushed it down the toilet. I have these thoughts on a loop. My copy of the contract was destroyed a long time ago. So no matter what happens now, even if Beatrice told somebody, they couldn’t prove it. Oh—facepalm—Beatrice is dead.
It’s making me feel a little better, this train of thought.
“Anyone home?” Jim shouts from downstairs.
“Give me a minute, I’ll be down in a sec,” I reply.
I return to the bedroom, grab my cell from the bedside table, sit on my bed, and dial.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Hannah, it’s Emma.”
“Oh, Emma, hello. Nice to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. A little run-down, but otherwise good.”
“Aren’t we all!” She laughs a little. “I have my calendar right here. Would you like to catch up sometime?”
“I was thinking this Thursday would be good for me. How about five?”
“Mmm, no. This Thursday I have a function I can’t get out of, as much as I’d like to, but the next one’s fine. Would that work?”
I can’t wait that long. I really need that outline now. The one loose end.
“Ah, no. My husband’s taking me away for a few days.”
“Nice! For Thanksgiving?”
“No, not exactly, but he has a conference coming up, and we thought it would be good to spend some time together. He travels a lot, and now that I’m busier than ever, it becomes important, you know, to make time.”
I made that up. I just want to get her moving.
“That sounds lovely. You’re so lucky. So what do you think? Should we wait till you get back? I’m awfully tied up for the next couple weeks, unfortunately.”
“Of course. Call me then if you like. Sounds like you’re busier than I am.”
She giggles. “I’m sure that’s not possible.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to run something past you. I’m thinking of writing something about my friendship with Beatrice—I’d love to know what you think. I thought I could take all my notes from that time I spent working with her on my novel, along with the notes you have—I think it’s the old outline I did—and we could put it all together. It would be very interesting to students, I think.”
“It’s brilliant, Emma. I think it’s a terrific idea. Maybe there’s even a book in it, have you thought of that? Part memoir, part the craft of putting a story together, from the point of view of both you and Beatrice?”
“Oh my Lord, Hannah! What a wonderful idea!”
“Great! We should talk about it sometime: you, me, and Frankie. Maybe the three of us should get together.”
“You have just inspired me so much, Hannah, I don’t know how to thank you. Would you pop the notes in the mail for me? If you haven’t done it already? I want to get started immediately. This is a wonderful suggestion.”
“Sure. I’ll wait till the police are done first, then I’ll mail them to you.”
“The police?”
“Oh, you know, that drab detective, the woman.”
“Massoud?”
“That’s it. They’re trawling through Beatrice’s papers. I don’t know why.”
“I thought that was all sorted out. I talked to George. He said—”
“Is it? Oh, it’s fine then, they haven’t told me yet. I’ll check with her. They wanted to see if there were any, you know, threats, anonymous threats she kept.” I heard her take a little breath through her nose. “Just the thought, Emma. That something . . .” She lets it trail, that thought.
“No no, Hannah, really, it’s fine, they made—the neighbor, they made a mistake. The police have sorted it out, George told me.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Indeed. Anyway, those notes are not exactly a threat, right? What’s the big deal?” I mean it to be a joke, but it comes out off-key.
“Are you okay?” she asks after a short pause.
“Sure I am, why?”
“I don’t know. You sound a little stressed, maybe.”
I sigh. “I need to slow down. I really am being run ragged these days. Frankie’s driving me a bit too hard, to be honest.”
“You need to talk to him then, really. Long Grass Running is doing really great, Emma. You can slow down a notch. You need to take care of yourself.”
Her words are surprisingly genuine and my attitude toward her softens a little. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you.”
“Take a break, then let’s work on this memoir. It will be a fitting tribute, I think.”
“It most certainly will, and thank you so much for thinking of it. It’s important to me to acknowledge Beatrice, both her talent and our friendship. Your idea is very thoughtful. Thank you, Hannah.”
She giggles. “Oh, you’re welcome. Us girls have to stick together, don’t we? It’s nice to talk to you, Emma. See you in a couple of weeks.”
“Yes, and don’t forget to send the papers, will you? I really can’t wait to get started. If the police say it’s okay, of course.”
“Will do!”
“Emma, darling! Hello!”
Our guests arrive at the appointed hour with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. I’m already halfway through a bottle myself in a futile attempt to soothe my nerves, so I’m slightly unsteady when we greet them.
“I just need to put on the finishing touches and then I’ll join you.” I want to go back to the kitchen and leave Jim to take care of the guests. They’re his guests anyway, and I’ve been cooking for two hours, being the good wife, the perfect wife, the Betty Crocker wife that I am—don’t worry about me, I’m not busy, I don’t have a career, I’m not incredibly intelligent or changing the world, so what if a troll or two wants to scare me half to death, there’s dinner to be made and guests to be greeted, for fuck’s sake.
“I’ll just—” I make helpful gestures toward the kitchen.
“Come and warm up, you look like you’re freezing!” Jim leads them to the living room, and I can hear the clink of glasses as he’s preparing them an aperitif. I’ve already set up some canapés, to keep everyone happy. Good times.
I sip on my third glass of Riesling, half listening to their chatter. I never used to like Riesling, but Beatrice taught me a lot about wine. I sure know how to pick them now. I’m standing at the stove, stirring the gravy that has already been stirred to within an inch of its life, trying to figure out the puzzle of those reviews in my head. My cell phone is behind me on the table within easy reach, because I’m checking it, every minute.
“Can I do anything?”
I jump and gasp audibly, and spill a little wine.
“Oh, Emma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine, Carol, don’t mind me, I’m just—” I resume stirring because I have no idea what else to do. Entertaining guests suddenly seems terribly complicated and totally beyond my capabilities.
She leans against the kitchen table, her martini in hand, the other palm down on the table behind her. I’m still stirring away, my back to her.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Of course! Why?”
“You look a little tired, that’s all.”
“I’m fine, really, just, you know, busy busy busy! Just like you guys!”
“Oh please, I need a vacation. We’re incredibly swamped at work. I’m sure you know that already.” She grimaces and rolls her eyes.
“I did notice, yes. Poor Jim. Honestly, late-night work calls and all that.”
“You must be running around like crazy. You’re everywhere at the moment. I can’t open a newspaper or a magazine without reading about your book. Which is so wonderful, by the way, that it’s going so well, but still, it takes its toll, I guess.”
“My Lord, yes, it’s been a hard slog. It’s not just you guys who work hard, you know.” I’m saying these things in a singsong voice almost, like I’m doing an ad for Good Housekeeping: It’s not just you professional people holding down important world-improving jobs who get to work hard. Running a home is no picnic, let me tell you.
But I’m being unfair. Carol’s genuinely interested. I know that.
“Actually, Long Grass Running was a mammoth project in the end. And you know, I’m still getting used to the schedule. I thought being a writer was just about writing a book.” I punctuate that with a cynical little laugh.
“Jim says you wrote it in no time. One minute you were running your store, next minute you’re publishing a novel.”
I snap my head around.
“Why would you say that?”
I must have said this more forcefully than I intended because her head jolts a little in surprise.
“Just that, it’s amazing how creative you are, how talented you are, that you can do that. I envy you. I wish I were creative like you.”
I make myself relax, force my shoulders to come down, my muscles to unclench. I have to keep it together, but I just don’t know how right this minute.
“Actually, you can help,” I tell her, transferring the contents of a casserole into a large serving dish. “Can you take this to the table for me?”
“Sure!” she says brightly, clearly relieved that she can get away from here, from weird me, and takes hold of the heavy dish.
I follow her with more dishes. “Come on, everyone, let’s eat!”
“I have to say, Emma, you look great. Success really suits you,” Terry says as he sits down next to me at the dining table, and I’m more grateful than I can say, because I know I look like shit.
“Thank you, dear Terry.” I pat his hand. He beams at that.
“Now now, Terry, stop flirting with my wife.”
“Stop? Not a chance, especially not now that I’ve tasted her cooking. All bets are off, buddy.”
Everyone laughs, me included. If I were more myself I’d have found a way to correct that compliment that’s not actually a compliment, but I don’t have the energy right now.
“And about time too,” Jim says. “My famous wife has been too busy to cook lately. I’ll need to hire someone if this keeps up.” Gentle chuckles all around. Jim looks at me from across the table and says, “But who cares. I couldn’t be more proud of you, my darling,” and he raises his glass to me. I’m so pleased, my cheeks hurt from grinning. I’m like a mechanical toy, I decide. I’m either grinning madly or crying, but nothing in between.
I don’t really follow the conversation, I’m deep in my own thoughts, so after some initial attempts by Terry and Carol to steer the topic away from work, they accept, with some relief I’m sure, that I don’t need to be entertained.
“Hey, Jim, someone called—Allison? Anyway, some person called and left me a very odd message, but I think it was for you.” My ears prick up at what Terry just said.
“I don’t know any Allison,” says Jim, and before I’ve registered that his jaw is set, that his hand has flattened on the table, I pipe up, “You do know: Allison who wants a job at the Forum?”
Jim has gone pale now. I wonder if Terry has noticed. “Oh, right, she’s from my old job, at the university, that’s where she’s from, I know who she is now.”
“She called you here earlier today.” I know how uncomfortable he’s feeling, but I can’t help it. It’s like picking at a scab. I too want to know more about this Allison, and why Jim would pretend not to know her.
He throws me a hard look. “Yes, I remember. You told me,” he says in a slow, deliberate tone.
So make up your mind, I want to say, you’re the one embarrassing yourself.
I can see that both Terry and Carol’s curiosity is piqued. They’re too polite to push it, however, no matter how tempting it is.
“Allison’s an old student of Jim’s who wants to work at the Forum, apparently,” I say, since Jim clearly won’t. He looks positively constipated by now.
“Does she?” Terry turns to Jim. “She said she wants to show me some of your work, at least that’s the message Jenny passed on, but maybe she misunderstood, because it didn’t make a lot of sense to me.”
“Jenny never gets it wrong,” asserts Carol. She’s addressing Terry, but she turns to me. “You know Jenny. We’r
e lucky to have her. She’s the one who knows what’s going on better than anyone.”
“I think Allison’s the one with her wires crossed,” Jim says. “She must have meant to show you some of her own work. I’ll talk to her. Don’t worry about the message. I’ll deal with it.”
“We’re not hiring though, are we?” Terry asks.
“Nah. She’s just persistent, don’t worry about it. Who wants dessert?” Jim says, brightly now, but I can see how agitated he really is. The pain that has lodged between my eyes all day starts to flare up again and I rub the ridge above my nose. Allison. Again. It’s all swimming in my head, the phone calls, the reviews, Jim’s strange behavior, and my stomach lurches, because while I don’t understand anything that’s happening, I wonder, again, if Jim has something to do with it.
I hear my name. “What? Sorry, I was miles away.”
Carol’s looking at me expectantly. “I was just saying I went by your store, Emma. I was in the neighborhood. I popped in on the off chance you might be there.”
“Oh Lord, you must be joking, I haven’t been there for weeks. Jackie, my assistant, takes care of it all.”
“Of course, it was silly of me.”
“In fact, I’ve decided to sell it.”
“You can’t be serious!” Jim exclaims.
“Why not? I have hardly anything to do with it now, and anyway, I’m rather busy with other things these days, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. That shop’s been such a big part of you, of your heart. I’d have thought it would be hard for you to give it up. That’s what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. But you know, this is so incredible, what’s happened to me, and it’s true, I can’t do both. I can’t do everything. Being a writer is so much better, don’t you think?” If I last long enough to enjoy it, that is.
“Sure, if that’s what you want to do,” Jim says, “but think about the future. Will you want to write all the time? What if the next one isn’t a big success? Isn’t it better to have a fallback position?”
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 19