by Shirley Jump
Kate dropped her head onto her arms and tried not to cry. She wasn’t a determined plant striving toward the sky. She was the smaller one, overshadowed by the success stories, just trying to keep going. A sense of loneliness and despair settled into her chest, and for the first time in a long time, she longed for the very thing she’d told Grandma she didn’t need. A partner, a man who loved her and believed in her and who would fix her a hot cup of cocoa when her day fell apart.
But no such man appeared. There was only Charlie, and he was already on the sofa, curled into himself, asleep.
The need for chocolate dragged Kate out of her funk and back to life. She put away the groceries, then climbed onto a kitchen chair and dug in the back of the top cabinet for the emergency stash of Almond Joys. Only one left, but one was better than none. She brewed tea, then took everything over to her “office,” really just a corner of the living room with an Ikea desk and an arched lamp she’d had since college.
As she munched on the candy, Kate powered up her laptop, ignoring the funny little whirring sound that spelled impending technology doom, and clicked over to her blog. She’d started The Secret Life of a Ghost a couple of years ago as a way to talk about her job without actually talking about it. By keeping the blog anonymous, Kate could vent about clients (keeping their names out of it, of course) and pass on tips for other writers who were crazy enough to walk into the rollercoaster field of being an author undercover, essentially. She had a decent following and enough comments to make her think there were people actually reading what she wrote. But like all the books she wrote, none of this was under Kate’s name, either.
Every once in a while, she’d post a picture—without her face in it, of course—of a plant at the market or the silhouette of Charlie. A little rebellious tip of the hat to her real life. No one would ever put the innocuous, mundane pictures together with Kate, but they made her feel as if the blog was more of a part of her.
Today was one of those days when I want to throw in the towel and become a greeter at a grocery store. Something with a steady paycheck and health insurance. Remind me again, dear readers and friends, why I got into this gig.
She hit Post and watched the words fill the screen. A moment later, a comment popped up, posted by Anonymous. Maybe you should work on your own book instead of someone else’s.
The comment stung, and Kate readied a sharp retort, then drew her hands back from the keyboard. Whoever Anonymous was, they were right. She should be working on her own book.
“I hate that they’re right, Charlie,” she said to the cat, who didn’t have an opinion either way.
Kate clicked over to her documents tab and searched for the file of the novel she’d started back in college. It had been two months since she’d opened it, even longer since she’d written anything. She had a handful of chapters and a vague outline. Not exactly a finished product.
Loretta’s smiling, slightly condescending look came back to her. Call me when your book comes out, and I’ll be first in line to get a copy! Loretta had done it, and Kate had been a better writer than her in college. Maybe Kate should try her hand at fiction again.
“Charlie, want to listen to the opening of my book?” The cat raised his head, then settled back into his favorite sleeping position. “Okay, so maybe I have read that to you a hundred times. Way to be supportive of the person who fills your bowl.”
Charlie ignored her. Kate started reading, poring over the first few pages of the women’s fiction novel she’d been working on for so long, she knew every word by heart. A story of four sisters, their intrusive but loving mother, and a stray dog who disrupted everyone’s lives. Every page gave her that feeling in her gut, that little tingle, that told her this was good, and if she could finish it, this book could be something.
Write a hundred words, she told herself. Just a hundred. Something. Anything. She set her fingers on the keyboard, telling herself that any words would be fine. The second Kate began to type, her cell phone dinged.
Got a new deal offer to discuss, Kate’s agent, Angie Greenfield, had typed. Want to stop by and we can go over the details?
Just in time. Whatever the deal was, Kate vowed to agree. She needed the money and the work. Taking on a new ghostwriting job meant she wasn’t going to have to make that blue-vest greeter job change.
At least, not yet.
Absolutely! On my way. Kate scrambled out of the chair, ran a brush through her damp hair and repaired her smeared makeup. She changed into a clean shirt and a pair of dark jeans, then grabbed her phone and car keys.
Just before she headed out the door, she caught a glimpse of the determined tomato seedling, still yearning for bigger skies. Maybe she was going to get out of the weeds herself too.
Outside, the rain had stopped, the clouds parting for a brief moment of sun. Kate decided to take that as a good sign of what was to come. She got in her car and headed across town. Kate’s apartment was far from the water, and visiting Angie always gave her an excuse to see the Sound and sometimes get in a walk along the shore.
Angie’s office was in an attached mother-in-law apartment at the end of her one-story ranch on the curve of hilly cul-de-sac, with a partial view of Puget Sound. Kate’s agent was petite but brassy, with hair that was a different color every month and a fondness for Grateful Dead T-shirts. As far as publishing agents went, Angie was far outside the expected norm. Which was exactly why Kate loved her. Angie was the queen of the creative deal.
Angie’s office faced the partial water view and had a small desk in the corner that she never used. Instead, she favored the twin armchairs and small table where she also held any in-person meetings, as casual as meeting a friend for coffee. Today, Angie’s hair was a deep purple, the perfect offset for her normal ebony locks. “Glad you could come in. Have a seat.”
That was the other thing Kate liked about working with Angie instead of another agent—the in-person meetings. There was something about the face-to-face interactions that made it feel like they were on the same team.
“I can’t wait to hear what you have for me. It’s been a long time between contracts.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.” Angie tugged a blue sheet of paper out of the folder on the little table. A deal sheet, with numbers on it that could make a big difference for Kate. “Royalties are down, too, which stinks for everyone. But this deal…you’re going to like it. Lots of money.”
Kate arched a brow. She liked the financial part, but what cost would she pay? “Lots of money usually means a diva client or a tight deadline. Which is it?”
“Pretty tight deadline.” Angie slid the offer across the table. “Memoir of a CEO, all about his travels and eco-friendly approach to life, blah-blah. The kicker is that you have five weeks to produce the book.”
Kate didn’t hear any of Angie’s words, not the money, not the deadline, none of it. Instead, she stared at the name of the author she would be ghostwriting for, and a hundred emotions tumbled inside her.
Trent MacMillan. Of all the people in the world she could end up working for, how had she ended up with the man who’d broke her heart?
“I know him,” Kate said, thinking it was sad she could boil a year-long relationship down to three words.
“Oh great, that should make it easier. So if you sign that—”
“No, I mean I used to date him, back in college, before he became this big CEO. He broke up with me.” Again, an encapsulated version of what they’d had. The laughs she remembered, the heartache that had followed his surprise breakup.
“Oh.” Angie’s lips pursed. “Well, that might make things awkward for a minute, but you’re both professionals. I’m sure things will be fine.”
And Kate wouldn’t get distracted by Trent’s green eyes, or his crooked smile…or the memory of his hunched shoulders as he walked away from her. She’d forget the picnics they’d had on a rock
y bluff overlooking the sound, the time he’d grabbed her for an impromptu dance, or the two of them watching the fireworks cuddled on a blanket on the sand. Almost fifteen years had passed. Long enough? Or nowhere near long enough?
“I don’t know if I can take this job, Angie.”
“The money is good. I negotiated two and a half times your regular fee because of the time crunch. And it’s half down, with payment for the remaining balance on delivery of the final draft.”
All Kate could think about was seeing Trent again, and how weird and probably painful that would be. It wouldn’t be just one meeting, either. It would be dozens of meetings, like a hundred papercuts every day.
“I can’t work with him.”
Angie tapped the paper. “I want you to look at that number before you turn this down.”
Kate’s gaze dropped to the payment details.
Wow.
The numbers seemed unreal, with those zeroes she’d been missing out of that first check. Her heart stuttered, and she blinked twice, sure the amount would disappear. It didn’t. Just the first half she would get for signing the contract was more than she’d made in the last six months. The second half would be enough to cover her expenses the entire rest of the year. It was roof repair, and a new heater for her grandmother, and a fix to the plumbing. It was security and comfort and a huge lifting of stress.
“Offers aren’t exactly rushing into my office,” Angie added. “This is a hot iron, and you need to strike it, regardless of who you have to work with. Besides, how bad can Trent MacMillan be, compared to Gerard Phillips?”
The race car driver had never made her heart race. He’d never made her dream about a future with a dog and kids and a minivan in the driveway. He’d never kissed her and left her thoughts a jumble. Trent had done all those things, and then he’d gone and walked away from her.
She glanced at the fee again. Already, the back of her mind was working through the financial side, adding and spending and seeing what was left over. “It’s a lot of money.”
“You’ll be done in five weeks. That’s a little over a month. If you put up with Gerard for a year, surely you can tolerate an ex-boyfriend for a month.”
“True.” The broken half of her heart wanted to push the offer away and leave Trent to flounder with some other ghostwriter. The other half of her heart, which worried about Grandma’s furnace and her own roof, whispered logic and reason. She’d be crazy to turn this down. Who knew how long it would be until another job came along?
Kate was not a risk taker. She liked to know what was coming this month, next month, and all the months after that. Being a freelance ghostwriter was risky enough, but she only had to support herself and a cat, so the semi-regular income wasn’t too bad. She should, as her grandmother would say, keep the bird in her hand instead of looking for another one in the bush.
“I’ll take it.”
“Awesome. I’ll let them know right away and get the contracts executed.” Angie made a note on the blue paper. “Oh, I almost forgot. Trent’s assistant was asking if you could take a meeting tomorrow morning at nine. They’re anxious to get started.”
“I’ll clear my schedule.” Kate pushed a smile to her face and wondered if the corner market sold suits of armor. She was going to need something impervious if she was going to resist that man’s crooked smile.
Three
Trent laced up his running shoes, pulled on a GOA windbreaker, and darted out of his apartment building, thankful for the overcast and cool morning. After the stormy weather of the last few days, a break in the pattern meant he could sneak a couple of minutes in for a run before he had to get to work. He looped down the street, through the park and onto the Elliott Bay Trail. The paved road gave him a little over three miles in each direction, as it skirted the edge of the water and back into Olympic Sculpture Park. Greg was already there, stretching against one of the park benches.
“’Bout time you showed up for our morning runs.” Greg fell into pace beside Trent. Even though Greg was a buttoned-up lawyer and Trent was more of an adventurer, the two of them had been friends for years. They’d done a couple of climbs of Pike’s Peak together, and a marathon that had taught Trent he loved to be outdoors but not for twenty-six miles straight.
“Sorry. Work has been insane.” Trent pushed the pace a little more. Merely talking about work ratcheted up his stress level. Maybe the endorphin rush would release some of that tension crowding his shoulders. On his long runs with Greg, they could talk for hours about their lives and their jobs. Trent knew all about Greg’s wife Virginia and their two little boys, and Greg had heard dozens of stories from Trent’s college days and the startup of GOA.
“Gotta say, it’s pretty ironic that you own an outdoor apparel company and you’re barely outdoors.” Greg’s long, lean legs had no trouble matching Trent’s speed. Already, Trent’s lungs were burning and his legs were protesting. That’s what happened when he spent too much time behind his desk instead of away from it.
“And that’s only going to get worse.” Alongside the path, fishing boats dotted the serene, dark water of Elliott Bay. “I’ve got to write that book.”
“That it’s-all-about-me book you mentioned a few months ago?” Greg scoffed. “I thought that thing was done.”
“Hey, it’s a memoir, not a shrine to myself. And it’s started…sort of.” Trent’s breathing was choppy, his words staccatoed by the effort to keep up with Greg, who ran almost every day and was clearly in better shape right now. “I’m…well, I’m sort of hiring a ghostwriter to finish it.”
Greg slowed. “Wait, what?”
“I know. I know.” Trent pulled his pace back too and tried not to show how grateful he was for the break. “I’m not really sold on the idea yet, because my whole company is about being honest and transparent. This feels like I’m lying to everyone who buys the book.”
Those values had been instilled in him by his parents, who’d spent their lives working hard to deliver above and beyond for their customers. Their garden center in Hudson Falls had never become much more than a standard mom-and-pop shop, which Trent had never understood. His parents had the skills and business to expand, but they’d chosen to stay small. Small town, small business, small lives.
Trent had always thought bigger than that. From his first sale, he’d had his eye on expanding nationally, getting his brand into the giants of the outdoor industry, and within a year of that celebrity mention, he’d managed to achieve all those goals. GOA was carried at all the major outdoor retailers and had worked out unique partnerships with other brands.
Greg sidestepped a rock on the trail. “It’s your story though, right? So that’s not really lying. It’s basically paying someone else to type what you say.”
They rounded the corner for their turnaround point and started heading back. As much as Trent wanted to get in the full seven-mile loop today, he only had time for three miles. Good thing, because his legs were going to be pretty sore later. “That’s true. I can live with that, since it’s technically still my words.”
A few minutes later, they finished the run with an all-out sprint to the start point. Greg sailed past Trent and slowed to an easy stop.
Trent staggered to where they’d begun and bent over, heaving in deep breaths that burned his lungs. His legs were on fire, and his heart felt ready to explode out of his chest. A steel water bottle appeared in front of him, and he took it from Greg, uncapping it and guzzling half.
“Look at the upside.” Greg gave Trent a pat on the back and a teasing grin. “You’ll have more time to run if you’re not busy writing that book.”
“That’s an upside?” Trent finished off the water and handed the bottle back to Greg. “I think I’d rather be writing the thing myself.”
“See you in a few days. Maybe then you’ll be able to keep up.” Greg grinned, said goodbye and headed back to his
car.
Trent recovered his breath, then ran back to his apartment, once again pushing himself, as if he was trying to cram months of being stuck indoors into a single run. The three miles was going to have to sustain him for a while, given all that was on his plate.
A plate that would hopefully be lightened by whoever was going to pretend to be him.
Forty-five minutes later, Trent was in his office. He sorted through the emails that had come in overnight, had a quick meeting with the production department, then grabbed the materials he’d compiled for his book and headed down to the conference room. Through the glass walls, he could see a woman standing there, her back to him.
Her long brown hair cascaded in big curls down her back. She wore a dark blue skirt and a crisp white shirt with a pair of red heels that drew his attention to her legs. She had a curvy, gorgeous shape, and was as far from his image of a ghostwriter as Pluto was from the moon. Something twitched in his memory, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.
“Good morning,” Trent said as he pulled open the door and stepped inside the conference room. “I only have an h—”
She pivoted to face him, and Trent stopped talking. He recognized those big green eyes, the curve of that chin, and the lingering smile that always seemed about to break across her face. He hadn’t seen her in at least fifteen years, and if anything, Kate Winslow had become even more stunning. His gut tightened, and a hundred memories rushed by in a blur.
“Kate? What are you doing here?”
“I’m your ghostwriter.” She looked hesitant for a second. “Didn’t your assistant tell you I was the one she hired?”
“No, she didn’t.” Though, chances were good that information was in one of the dozens of emails crowding his inbox this morning. Then Trent recovered his wits and strode forward, closing the distance between them. He opened his arms to give her a hug, something he did with pretty much everyone he met, but at the last second, she thrust a hand between them and grabbed his. Detouring his hug into an awkward handshake.