Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black)

by R. M. Ridley

  “Addie was washing the floor, and she didn’t see him come in.”

  “He slipped on a wet floor?” I blinked several times trying to erase that improbable image from my mind. “Why would he slip on a wet floor, cast or no cast? Dad skis better than me.”

  Neil grinned. “Could be because Addie was on her hands and knees scrubbing and he was paying more attention to her shapely derrière than where he was walking. Don’t worry. She’ll take care of him, just like the last time.”

  “Yeah . . .” I stared at the closed door, remembering how my stepmother fussed over Dad’s every need and want. She had even taped his get-well cards up on the wall, and had all his visitors sign a whiteboard near the front door before they had left. She practically glowed at their compliments at the wonderful job she did taking care of him.

  I just realized what my brother had said. “Since when are you on a nickname basis with Adelaide?”

  “Since when are you against getting along with family?”

  I wanted to tell him, I don’t get along with her, three months ago when we were surprised about our unexpected new member. But I stayed quiet. Neil seemed to be the only one able to accept Adelaide at face value. My suspicions grew at her motives for marrying someone so much older. Jarrod refused to talk about their marriage—period. If she didn’t marry their dad for money—then what?

  A disturbing notion kept coming back into my thoughts about how much Adelaide seemed to like taking care of our dad. She enjoyed getting him his dinner and waiting on his every need. It could be seen as love; after all, they were newlyweds. And I’d understand that kind of attention if Dad looked like the hunky firefighters gracing the calendar Neil had given me as a joke Christmas present last year. I loved my dad, but I just couldn’t understand why someone as pretty and young as Adelaide would be initially attracted to him without having a bag of glittering diamonds hanging around his neck.

  The ER exam cubicle door opened, and a nurse came out. Neil caught the door before it could close. I peeked around his arm.

  “Come in,” Adelaide said, motioning toward them with a flick of her hand. Her highly polished fingernails shone off the overhead lights.

  Neil stepped back and let me go in first. Our dad lay on a narrow bed and was almost as white as the sheets underneath his body. My heart picked up pace. He’d lost weight.

  “Dad—” I rushed to his side when he raised his hand, the one that wasn’t in a cast and strapped down to his ribs. I grasped his cool hand tightly to my chest. “Oh, Dad, are you all right? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m fine, sweet Claire,” Glen said.

  His voice sounded weak. It scared me more than seeing him after he’d broken his leg six weeks ago.

  “He’ll be fine,” Adelaide said, pushing in between us, and taking his hand away from me. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  It took every ounce of self-control not to push Adelaide right back. How dare she? I moved back, watching her tenderly stroke Dad’s forehead like she was in love and he was the center of her world. Was he? Did she love him? A shiver crossed between my shoulders blades. Why couldn’t I just accept their situation? As much as I wanted to see him happy, there was just something wrong with picturing him being in so much pain, and knowing both times it had something to do with Adelaide being careless.

  Could that be the reason? Adelaide enjoyed taking care of my dad? Even though I didn’t necessarily believe it to be true after Dad had broken his leg, this new accident gave me the idea for a new book, one where the stepmother had a unique sickness, an insatiable need to be needed and praised for her self-sacrifice. I saw a movie once that had touched on a curious mental illness, and that tiny germ of an idea began to grow. An excitement tickled its way up into my chest. I needed to go home and write down my ideas before they faded.

  “Dad, if you need anything, just call me.” I smiled at Adelaide. “Anytime. I’ll be at home—writing.”

  After stopping by the Circle K to buy a Thirstbuster and a big bag of Animal Crackers, I headed for my apartment. First thing I did was an Internet search on an obscure mental illness I wasn’t even sure how to spell—until the spell check program helped find Munchhausen Syndrome by Proxy. The controversial term described a behavior pattern in which a caregiver deliberately exaggerated, fabricated, and even induced physical, psychological, behavioral, and/or mental health problems to those in their care. It made the caregiver look like a selfless hero.

  I smiled at the computer screen as my mind started filling in the characters to my new story. The first face that popped into my mind was the pretty, young Adelaide Walker Abney. Every story needed a good villain.

  ~*~

  3 ½ months later

  End of August

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Maximilian Chase took the photograph out from the carved glass frame. It’d had a prominent place on his desk at Moonwriting Publishing since it was taken. The picture was the one from the ski trip to Flagstaff six months ago—his and Meredith’s planned vacation. He’d reserved two suites next to each other, and had rented skies, and snowmobiles. He’d thoroughly enjoyed those five days in the mountains with her. They’d known each other for nearly a year.

  Then, last night, on their usual dinner out, Meredith had told him she wanted to break up. Just like that. No preamble, no stuttering or having a hard time finding the right words. She didn’t even look emotionally wrought over telling him something that caught him completely by surprise. What cracked the foundation of his male ego more than her dumping him in the middle of his favorite restaurant was the reason for her sudden, if not dramatic, break-up. She thought he was boring. Boring.

  Truth be told, Max might’ve taken his relationship with Meredith a little for granted. He never had to work for a date—she was always available. Maybe he should’ve given her flowers. He sent the photograph through the shredder, grinding that once favorite memory into confetti. He turned his back on the growling machine as it chewed. He might not have been the most romantic man in Utah, but he was not boring. His job as assistant editor of a mid-sized publishing house kept him very busy.

  Max touched the calendar icon on his computer and pulled up his planner. Five to six-thirty Monday through Friday he had blocked out for running and getting ready for work. By seven he was in his office chair, reading exciting manuscripts. Lunch was from noon to one. His schedule said he got off at five, but Max usually stayed well past that when he got lost reading an adventure. Then he’d get home just in time to get ready for a date with Meredith, usually dinner. Every day was filled with something . . . predictable.

  Groaning, he leaned back in his chair. His girlfriend—correction, his ex-girlfriend—just might’ve been right. Since being hired at the publisher, he’d structured his life around his job. He had needed that structure to get out of the copy editor’s office to where he was now, sitting in his own private office. But at thirty-years-old, Max shouldn’t be dug so deeply into a rut that he couldn’t just step out of it. He could make that change—if he could only figure out how.

  Two soft taps came at his closed door. It opened before he could say anything. Only one person did that.

  “Are you busy?”

  Elaina Pinkston, his boss, grinned at him. She owned Moonwriting Publishing and still acted as submissions editor when she didn’t go to writers’ conferences, give keynote speeches, and meet with aspiring authors.

  “Not busy enough,” Max said as he stood up. “Please come in.”

  All five-foot-nothing of the petite Elaina Pinkston, fashionably dressed in a matching charcoal gray skirt and fitted jacket and in color-coordinated sky-high heels, came into his office. Her red-coated lips carried a distinct smile on them as she walked over to the coffee maker sitting on the sideboard. Max didn’t drink coffee, but he knew his boss did, and he kept it ready for her. A slight pang of guilt hit him. She had enough coffee in her own office to hyper-stimulate a small western town; she certainly didn’t need him
to feed her habit.

  Elaina poured some hot coffee into an artisan-crafted mug. “You remember Claire Abney?”

  That name made Max’s pulse skip a beat. He remembered her. He’d done both of her edits, and was struck at the lack of necessary editing he needed to do. She was a perfectionist, and she was beautiful, with her long, dark red hair curling around her shoulders, her pale blue eyes, and freckled skin set on a perfectly heart-shaped face. Her stories were witty and well crafted. While they might not be bestsellers, they most certainly were entertaining.

  Max cleared his throat, sitting down again. “I think I do, yes. Have you received another submission from her you don’t need me to edit?”

  Elaina laughed, turning toward him with her mug in hand and nodding. “I just sent her a contract for a new book she submitted yesterday. Check your email. I forwarded it to you.”

  Max clicked on his email possibly a touch too quickly—he heard Elaina laughing again. The subject line had Claire Abney’s name. He clicked it open.

  “Hmmm, interesting working title,” he murmured.

  “Relative Evil,” Elaina said, sitting in the chair across from Max’s desk. “It fits the story very well, so I don’t want it changed.”

  He bobbed his head back a little. That was a first for his boss. He’d changed practically every other author’s titles since he started working for her six years ago. Max looked at the author’s name in the header.

  “I thought this was Claire Abney’s manuscript.”

  “It is.”

  Max glanced at Elaina’s grinning red lips. “Then who is Ryan Albert Williams?”

  “That’s Claire.”

  His shock must’ve shown in his face.

  “I know,” Elaina said. “I called her this morning—”

  “You called her?” Max asked, interrupting her. She usually corresponded with her authors by email. Everything was electronic.

  “Yes, I actually picked up my phone and spoke to a very shocked young woman. I had to tell her my name twice before she understood who I was.”

  “Did you tell her that in using a pseudonym, she’d lose her established followers?” Max took another look at the query letter that went along with the submission. “What genre is it?” He quickly read. “It’s a suspense? But she writes romance. She’ll be starting all over. Doesn’t she understand that?”

  Elaina took a slow sip of her coffee. She waited for him to finish his rant.

  He wasn’t finished.

  “And it’s written under a man’s name. How is she going to do book signings?” Max looked at the computer screen again. “Not doing book signings will hamper sales—what good is publishing her book going to do our company? What good will it do for Claire?”

  He sat back—angry with not only his boss for accepting a book with a pseudonym, and out of the author’s genre with her knowing all the obvious pitfalls, but at Claire for taking several large steps backward in her career.

  “We’ll have the standard book signings. Don’t worry,” Elaina said, nodding.

  “How? Is Claire going to dress up in a man’s suit and glue on a mustache?” He remembered her picture again. “I guarantee it won’t work.”

  “No, I’m putting you in charge of not only editing this perfect manuscript, but finding an appropriate and willing man to be a substitute for Claire Abney. We’ll pay him to do a month’s worth of book signings around the state, like any new author would get.” Elaina set her mug down on the small table next to her chair. “Really, for a first book, there shouldn’t be that much of a demand for her, um, for his attention after that. All of the other marketing Claire can handle through Ryan’s author’s webpage and blog she’s set up for him already.”

  She stood up. “I’ll be happy to sell a few thousand, and so will Claire. From what she said on the phone this morning, writing this story was more cathartic for her than anything else. But it’s a good story—very creepy, and you know I like creepy in a suspense.”

  Max turned back to the computer after Elaina closed his door, leaving him alone.

  He spent the rest of the day reading Claire’s manuscript—a story of Joseph, a young man whose fifty-nine-year-old widowed father married Linda, a woman thirty years his junior. The father died within a year of an apparent stroke leaving the woman a wealthy widow. She moved in with Joseph’s older brother and his sympathetic, very pregnant wife.

  Soon after the baby was born, it died, presumably of sudden infant death syndrome, and Joseph’s uncertainty about his otherwise healthy father’s death had grown to include his tiny nephew’s death as well. When the young mother, distraught over losing her baby, supposedly overdosed on prescription pills and died, Joseph’s suspicions mounted. He drove to the stepmother’s last known home, a small town in a neighboring state to find answers.

  With the help of a local and very beautiful female private investigator, they gathered incriminating evidence of a previous husband’s accidental death against the stepmother. Joseph heard voices—saw shadows that disappeared when he blinked.

  When a dark truck hit the duo following a lead off the road, they crashed into a muddy field. The truck sped away. They climbed out and discovered elongated mounds of dirt and rocks littering an area. When they found a human skull half-buried in the dirt behind an abandoned old house that reportedly had belonged to Linda’s family, his suspicions of murder solidified into sickening fact.

  News of his brother’s sudden illness reached him. Joseph and the investigator raced to convince local law enforcement of her guilt before the stepmother killed again.

  Elaina was right. The story even creeped Max out, too.

  The sky was dark outside by the time Max finished reading and had scrolled back to the beginning of the manuscript. He’d even missed lunch. Meredith would be so proud he’d broken his boring routine. Predictable? Hmm . . . He could do something that would take him out of that realm of predictable and safe.

  Max smiled as he went to his photo files and scrolled to one of his own pictures. Yeah, he could use a good dose of adventure, and what better way than to pretend that he was an author for a month, doing book signings. Maybe he’d even get to meet Claire Abney in person. His heart did a flip, thinking about seeing her face-to-face. They could do a business dinner.

  He decided to start what little edits the story needed tonight after he grabbed something at the deli on his way home. He forwarded Relative Evil to his personal email address, hit send, and closed down his computer.

  The excitement in his chest was different than he’d felt in the past year. He was actually involved in one of Claire Abney’s stories in a way he’d never been before, almost involved with her—somehow.

  Two

  2 months later

  Beginning of November

  Phoenix, Arizona

  I waited until the UPS man had retreated back to his truck before I swung the front door open to get at the box he had left on the steps. I couldn’t wait to see my new book in person. To actually touch that first copy made all the work worthwhile.

  From start to finished copy, it only took six months, an amazing time frame in the world of publishing, but my publisher had a hole in production and needed a suspense—my manuscript was ready at the right time. My first book took six months to write. Then it took another year of submitting before finding a home with Moonwriting Publishing, and then another six months after that before actually being able to hold a hardbound book in my hand.

  Of course I knew what Relative Evil’s cover would look like. I even had some amount of pull into the final look. There were no surprises there. I flipped to the back inside cover to read the thoroughly made-up biography of my pseudonym, Ryan Albert Williams, but didn’t get past the man’s picture.

  I was handsome— uh, he was handsome, much better looking than what I ever had expected. In my mind, I envisioned him having dark hair—nearly black, not wavy blond that fell to his collar. The publisher’s vision of Ryan had blue eyes, not the
chocolate brown eyes that I had planned.

  I was glad to see that he was at least clean-shaven and looked physically fit, and near my age, maybe a little older. Yeah, he was very handsome.

  I wondered who he was—the man pretending he wrote about my dysfunctional family. He had a warm, caring smile. I felt like I knew him. Or maybe I felt like I wanted to get to know him. But how? A smile crept onto my lips. I was scheduled for another round of signings for Love Reignited up in Utah next month, where my publisher’s main office was located.

  I was sure the first round of signings for Relative Evil would still be going on during that time. I could get the signing schedule from Max Chase, my editor, and show up with a copy of my book and have the faux Ryan sign it. It would be so fun. Besides, I enjoyed talking with Max. Over the past couple of months since I started revisions on Relative Evil, we’d been emailing each other practically every day. If I were daring enough, I might even drop by his office and ask him out to lunch. It would be a first—asking a man out instead of waiting for him to ask me. It would probably be a good idea to find out if he was single.

  Until then, I’d need to start promoting my new website under Ryan Albert Williams’ name. Since the book was officially for sale, and I had his picture, I could really start marketing. How could my day get any better?

  ~*~

  My day got worse. The back tires lost traction and slipped on the wet pavement. I held my breath and turned the steering wheel into the slide. I didn’t even think about it before reacting. That little response kept my new Jeep, and me, from spinning out and smashing against the street curb. Stupid rain. I shifted into four-wheel drive high and pressed the accelerator down again. Should’ve done it sooner, but I’d been in a hurry.

  St. Joseph’s Hospital was only twenty miles across Phoenix from my apartment, but I’d been at Costco in Avondale doing a book signing for Love Reignited when Adelaide had sobbed pitifully into the phone. I’d barely understood what she’d said—except the words “heart attack” and “dying.”