by Brea Brown
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Honey, if I looked like you do right now, any old Tuesday would be a good enough reason.”
“Stop it. You’re going to make us late with all this silly, superficial nonsense.”
“You will not be coming back to this room alone tonight. Or at all.”
Pushing him through the door, I shrug on my coat and pull my keycard from my pocket. “Yes, I will. Unless you want to spend the night here with me tonight. A sleepover would be fun.”
Adamantly, he says, “No way would I interfere with the other kind of fun you’ll be having with Luke-Ass. It’s inevitable. It’s gonna happen. Don’t fight it.”
I know better than to argue with him when he thinks he’s right (or heaven forbid, having one of his “premonitions”), but he’s not right in this case. At all. There’s nothing Luke could say to me to change my mind about how things have to be between us. One word nullifies all others: married.
As angry as I was with Miles for what he said to me and assumed and presumed about me that day in his office, it didn’t take much thinking on it to know deep down how right he was, even if he was speaking out of turn and didn’t have all the facts. It boils down to this: I deserve better than to be someone’s mistress. Period. It doesn’t matter that I wouldn’t ever wonder who he loved more or that I wouldn’t even have to share him with her. She would always be there, between us.
Us.
Ha! Oh, man. I think I inhaled too much hairspray.
*****
My face is starting to hurt from all the fake smiling I’ve done the past two hours. I also have a repetitive use injury from looking over at the door every time someone new walks in. But Luke has never been the person walking in. He’s not here. He didn’t come to my party.
Nevertheless, I’ve limped my way through some painfully dry conversations this evening, trying to remain animated and engaged so that I don’t look like a drooping dullard if and when he finally does arrive, but… he’s never going to arrive.
With that realization, I hardly mutter a reasonable excuse for abandoning the current group that has been boring me for the past ten minutes before shuffling over to Gus, who’s back at the buffet table for at least the third time I’ve seen. I murmur next to his shoulder, “I want to leave.”
He looks down at me, finishes chewing, and says, “Oh, Babushka… it’s your party!”
“I don’t care.”
“But look at all the copies of your book scattered around! Hard copies! Have you sniffed any of them? They smell fantastic.”
“Whatever.”
He sighs. “I know he’s not here, and that’s disappointing, but… I’m sure there’s a good reason. I know he wouldn’t miss this unless he couldn’t help it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Again?”
With a casual shake of his head, he answers, “No. I can’t imagine why he’s not here. Maybe someone knows where he is.”
Without thinking, I nod over his shoulder at Blanche. “You could ask Jessica Rabbit over there.”
He looks around, sees to whom I’m referring, and turns away from me. Before I can make myself believe what’s happening, he’s halfway across the room, headed toward her. When he gets a few feet away from her, he asks, “Where’s Dr. Edwards tonight?” I follow him like a pitiful puppy.
She looks uncertainly from Gus to me and says, “Dr. Edwards…? Oh, you mean, Luke?” She laughs and swirls her drink.
Gus waves away her deep chuckle like irritating smoke. “Yeah. I call him Dr. Edwards.”
“Gus…” I’ve caught up to him and pull on his elbow. He shrugs me off.
“The doctor and I are good friends, and I expected him here tonight,” Gus explains smoothly. “And you are…?”
Blanche stiffens as she answers, “A colleague of Luke’s, Blanche Turner.” She turns to me. “Congratulations on your book’s success so far, Jayne. We don’t like to jinx things around here, but it looks like you have a bestseller on your hands.” Her smile is surprisingly warm and sincere-looking.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I inarticulately reply. “Uh… I, too, was sort of expecting Luke to be here.” Quickly, I tack on, “Since he’s my editor. Of course.”
She seems to think about something for a second before pulling Gus and me aside and saying quietly, “Not even Arthur knows this, but… I think Luke would want you to know.”
“Yes?” Gus asks impatiently.
I nudge him in the ribs. “Sorry,” I tell her. “Go on.”
“He’s been having some problems lately,” she practically whispers so I have to strain to hear. “His ex-wife has gone off the deep end, doing some increasingly-crazy things to try to hurt him.”
“He has a crazy ex-wife, too?” Gus breathes incredulously and then mutters, “Sheesh. Well, we know what his type is…”
Blanche shoots him a dirty look but returns her attention to me. I hope she can’t tell that my heart is in my throat and beating so quickly that it’s about to wiggle up and out of my mouth. If she can tell, she’s not letting on as she lists, “She tried to run him over in her car, right here at the office, in the parking garage; she came at him with a knife at his beach house; and then she pretended to overdose on some pills. Her family’s very powerful, you know, so they’ve kept it all hush-hush, but they blame Luke for her meltdown. It’s been very upsetting to him.”
Suddenly, her disclosures feel gossipy. Curtly, I say, “I don’t know that he’d want me—or anyone—to know this; he’s very private.”
“Right, but you guys became… close… last summer. Right?”
“Not really,” I deny. “Not at all. I mean, I stayed at his place in Marblehead, but… that’s it.”
She narrows her eyes at me but lets it go. “Hm. I guess I misunderstood… Anyway, he wanted to be here tonight, but she tends to show up wherever he is, especially when there’s an opportunity to embarrass him in front of a lot of people.”
Gus rolls his eyes. “The brother needs to get a restraining order on her ass.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Blanche says but doesn’t explain how it’s more complicated, so Gus sighs and wanders away. Blanche seems relieved he’s gone. “Listen,” she says confidentially, “I don’t know what happened between you and Luke—”
“Nothing happened!” I insist too loudly and too firmly.
“—and I don’t care. It’s not my business. But he’s my friend, and I know he was bummed not to be here tonight.”
Bummed? What are we, high schoolers? I try to conceal my distaste for her word choice and focus on the meaning. I don’t know how to respond. Self-preservation takes over. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal. I was just wondering if you knew why he wasn’t here. Tell him I said hi.” I edge away from her.
“Jayne!” she calls after I’ve rejoined Gus.
I turn to face her, so she takes that as an invitation to proceed and approaches me. Quietly, she says, “Again, I know it’s none of my business, but… maybe you could call him while you’re in town?”
Gus, ever my protector, steps in. “You’re right; it is none of your business.”
She blinks at him. When I don’t contradict his assessment, she says stiffly, “Okay, then. Forget I said anything,” and walks away.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Gus says to me, “So, he divorced that crazy Caroline chick.”
“You finally puzzled that out?” I snap. “And what’s the deal with you? You’re suddenly my bodyguard? My posse of one? Makes me look even lamer than I already am, thanks.”
My ire doesn’t faze him. “She was getting awfully chummy. Plus, she strikes me as the office gossip.”
“She’s friends with ‘Dr. Edwards.’ For real. I’ve seen them together. I think they have the potential to be more than friends.” I can’t keep the pout from my voice.
“She’s a lesbo.”
“Grow up!”
Defensively, he replies, “I’m
not saying it as an insult, you bonehead. I mean, she’s actually a lesbian. Luke-Ass told me that weekend I stayed in Marblehead with him.”
This news—or the question of how Blanche’s sexual orientation ever came up in conversation between Luke and Gus—hardly causes a ripple in my consciousness. There are too many other pieces of information vying for my attention. Staring into space, I say, “I should call him.”
“I’ve been telling you that for months.”
“Why didn’t he ever call me?” I ask in my own defense. “If he loved me so much—as he claimed to you—then why didn’t he call me the day his divorce was final? Or sooner, even?”
Gus inspects an olive before popping it into his mouth. While chewing, he offers, “Sounds like he’s been keeping busy, trying to stay alive. Not to mention, you were a total bitch to him the last time you two talked.”
“Well, how do I know whether he hasn’t contacted me because he’s too busy or because he’s plain over me?” I grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and toss it back. “I don’t want to make an ass of myself. ‘Hey, Luke. It’s Jayne. Heard you got divorced. Wanna hook up?’”
“Uh… old guy at six o’clock, headed this way,” Gus mutters down at me.
“What?” I spin around to see Arthur Thornfield coming at me with arms spread wide.
“Jayne!” Before I can do anything to stop it, I’m enfolded in a smothering hug, and he’s kissing both of my cheeks. Wet kisses. Ugggh! It’s all I can do not to grab the cocktail napkin from Gus’s hand and scrub my face with it. I seriously want to gag as I feel the publisher’s spit drying below my cheekbones.
“Arthur,” I coldly acknowledge him.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself here tonight. This is all for you, you know. The Devil I Know is, as we expected, a raging success. I hear from Tullah that your appearances have been packed. Good for you!” He pats my shoulder.
I want to punch him in the face. Instead, I coolly reply, “Yes. Everything’s going swimmingly. I’m holding up very well, despite the super-personal questions people feel entitled to ask me, thanks to your decision to splash my tragedy on billboards, buses, and magazine ads. Oh, and the Internet. Don’t forget the Internet.” Champagne makes me sassy, apparently.
“Now, Jayne. Let’s not quarrel about this. Let’s not hold grudges. We’re like a family here at Thornfield.” He points to his chest. “I’m the father who knows best.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “You’re the daughter who will blossom under my guidance, if you’ll only trust my judgment. I pay you a very generous allowance, after all.” He grins proudly at his comparison.
“It’s not about money!”
“Oh, yes it is. That’s one of the things you haven’t learned yet. But you will. It’s all about money.” Pityingly he looks down at me. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve had any family to rely upon, so this may be a foreign concept to you, but—”
Gus grabs my hand. “We’re leaving,” he announces loudly.
I’m glad he can still speak and move, because I’m dumbstruck and frozen at Arthur’s audacity.
When Arthur simply tuts indulgently at us as we move toward the door, Gus says, “She has family, you miserable sonofabitch. You, however, are not a member of it.” This declaration silences the rest of the room and brings the focus of attention on us more effectively than a spotlight ever could. At the threshold from the ballroom to the lobby, Gus stops long enough to say, “But if you were, you’d be the pervert uncle who molests his nieces and nephews and tries to pay them to be silent. Well, fuck you!”
Two security guards in suits approach us, but Arthur waves them off. “They’re already leaving,” he informs them in a bored tone.
“That’s right, we are!” Gus confirms. “This dysfunctional family reunion is over.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
New England loves me. Probably because Thornfield did a major marketing push here, close to home, where they could closely monitor the results and feel most proud of their dastardly efforts. The outcome is that I’m stuck here for three weeks, hitting every bookstore—chain and privately-owned alike—within a thirty mile radius of the city center. When I’m not at an event and Gus isn’t at work, he tries to keep me occupied and entertained, but the hours of his full-time job happen to coincide with the free hours I have before signings and readings and photo ops, so I spend a lot of time alone… stewing. And obsessing.
It wasn’t until Gus had delivered me to my hotel room and was running a hot bath for me that I had any reaction to what had happened at my Thornfield party. Even then, all I could do was sit on the side of the cushy bed and cry. Suddenly, I was that eighteen-year-old orphan again. Only I cried much harder in my hotel room than I ever did in the aftermath of losing my family. I couldn’t afford the luxury of a breakdown then. Now, I can afford a lot of things my eighteen-year-old self couldn’t. I’m not sure that’s such a good thing. It would probably be better if I were still in survival mode.
I want to call Luke, but fear of the unknown (what he’ll say to me; what I’ll say to him) keeps me from tapping that entry in my phone’s contacts. I was a bitch to him the last time he called me. And he was only trying to help. I blush at the memory as I imagine him dodging Caroline’s attempts to kill him, absorbing her family’s hatred, and bearing my accusations and verbal barbs. Talk about being everyone’s scapegoat! Despite what Gus told me months ago and Blanche insinuated recently, he probably hates me. I’m just one more person who’s made his life unpleasant lately.
I’m bored, though. And boredom (combined with cabin fever) pushes you to do some dumb things. So today, I dialed the number Luke gave me when he revealed what Thornfield had discovered about me and how they were going to use the information. I was both relieved and crushed when the voice on the other end told me the number was no longer in service. Damn. If he had picked up, I would have swallowed my pride and apologized for the months of silence. I’m that ready to stop being in limbo with him.
But not ready enough to call him at a number where I can be sure to reach him.
I go online and type in “Marblehead” on weather.com to see how inhospitable it is today. Yesterday, it was in the low 20s and windy, with a chance of flurries. Today, it’s 40 (heat wave!) with overcast skies but no chance of precipitation. I’m chagrined to realize I think that sounds lovely. The fireplaces are probably blazing and soup’s simmering on the stove. The smell of Paulette’s fresh bread in the oven suffuses the entire ground floor. Maybe Luke’s sitting at his desk, scribbling on a manuscript.
My quest for information about Marblehead not quite satisfied, I type the name in a Google search to see if anything interesting has happened there recently or will be happening while I’m in the area. Maybe I can rent a car and drive out there, for something to do, if nothing else.
When the list of links finishes loading, I focus my dreamy stare at the top one. It’s from the local paper, the Marblehead Reporter, and the preview headline states, “Magnate’s Home Burns in Overnight Blaze.”
I click on it to see if I recognize the house from my walks along the beach, but the photos of the blackened house are too close up for me to put the place in context. Until… a wider shot of the property from almost head-on grabs my attention. Two very distinctive features—an unfocused gazebo in the background and a sporty silver car in the seashell driveway—make my eyes bug and my heart lurch.
“No…” I whisper aloud, bringing my nose closer to the computer monitor. I skim the text and the photos’ captions without focusing enough to actually glean any information until I force myself to calm down and read. That’s when I find out that the house “…caught fire around 3 a.m. and was fully engulfed by the time volunteer fire crews arrived on the scene. Shipping tycoon Malcolm O’Shea currently owns the home. However, the property was in the process of ownership transfer in a divorce settlement between O’Shea’s daughter, Caroline, and her ex-husband, Lucas Edwards. Three occupants, including Edwa
rds and Caroline O’Shea, made it out with minor to moderate injuries. Edwards was taken to a Boston-area hospital, where he’s being treated for moderate injuries related to the fire. Ms. O’Shea suffered minor smoke inhalation. She was treated and released. The other victim, Paulette McGovern, a family employee, was treated at the scene. The cause of the fire is currently under investigation. Investigators say arson has not yet been ruled out. The house is considered a total loss.”
“Oh, shit,” I say behind my hand when I get to the end of the article.
Feeling sick and shaky, I stand and pace the room.
A fire. A fucking fire. She tried to kill him in a fucking fire. Murder him. With flames and smoke. Choking, burning, crackling fire. Tried to melt his flesh and singe his hair and remove him from this earth. With fire, of all things.
The article doesn’t say that, of course, but I know it’s true. Running him over didn’t work. Stabbing him was a failure. Guilting him proved impossible. So she targeted something he truly cared about—that house—in a desperate attempt to get her revenge.
If I ever see her again, I’m going to fucking kill her.
But first, I have to see him.
A Boston hospital? What does that mean? There must be a dozen hospitals in this area. How do I know which one he was taken to? I don’t. There’s no way for me to find out, either. Damn privacy laws! He may not even be at the hospital anymore. Depends on how bad his injuries were. What does “moderate” mean, anyway? Smoke inhalation? Burns?
I guess I could call Thornfield and talk to Sally. Surely, she’d know something. After the scene Gus and I caused at my party, I’m hesitant to talk to just anyone there, but Sally’s an ally. She’d tell me, right? I’d even talk to Blanche, if I had to. It’s worth it. I have to find out if he’s okay. Really okay. Not newspaper-speak for “okay.”
But I can’t get through to anyone at Thornfield. The phone lines are jammed. How do you get a busy signal on a multi-line phone system at a company as large as Thornfield? I try his cell phone next, but it goes straight to voicemail. I knew it was a long shot, but I’m desperate.