The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck

by Bethany Turner

  “This is . . .” Granny, whose name I hadn’t yet learned, paused, and I shuddered, preparing for the shame that I knew was about to flood my soul. Which adjective would she choose? Sickening? Reprehensible? Smutty? “Amazing!” she finished.

  The other ladies excitedly chimed in.

  “I only read a page, and I don’t want to put it down!”

  “I should feel guilty reading this, but I actually don’t.”

  “I need a cold shower!”

  “Who’s your friend, Sarah?” Jane, aka Book Club Leader Lady, asked. “Do you think she would let us read her book? I think all of the ladies would love that.” She blushed.

  I saw the enthusiastic nods and grins, and I thought, What the heck! What can it hurt to tell them that I wrote it? My ego could use a boost anyway, and it might help take away some of the residual pain of “Kerosene Boom.”

  “Well, actually—” I began quietly, but before I could go any further, Piper cleared her throat.

  “Not all of the ladies, Jane. You know, it’s not really my cup of tea. But if you all want to read it, go ahead, and I’ll just pick back up with you the next week.”

  Jane frowned. “Oh, are you sure, Piper? We certainly don’t want to exclude anyone.”

  My best friend smiled sweetly. “I’m sure. Really, it’s no big deal. I’ll just continue through the monotony which is the complete works of Jane Austen.”

  I smiled at the twinkle in her eye, fully aware now that while her lack of love for Austen was genuine, she regularly played up her distaste to get a rise out of the rest of the group.

  “But I certainly want to hear more about your friend, Sarah.” Piper’s eyes were on me, and for the first time in many weeks, I wasn’t comfortable maintaining eye contact with her.

  So books like Stollen Desire weren’t her “cup of tea.” That wasn’t harsh criticism, certainly, but if it wasn’t the cup of tea of the one person whose opinion mattered to me, I didn’t have the confidence to confess that the creation was mine.

  “Oh, she’s just an old friend from college,” I fibbed. “She just asked me to proofread for her. No big deal.” I smiled nervously as I gathered as many pages as I could—the pages that weren’t caught in the death grips of the ladies—and stuffed them back into my bag. The thought of letting the group read what I had written had faded quickly under Piper’s penetrating gaze.

  “I just don’t think I’ve heard you mention her. What’s her name?” Piper asked.

  I knew that Piper knew she hadn’t heard me mention her. Or any friend.

  “Her name is . . .” I looked around the room, trying to piece together a good name for a writer of steamy romance. The rat-tat-tat of raindrops hitting the roof, a constant reminder of the wall of humidity that would hit us the moment we stepped outside, stole my attention. “Raine. With an e,” I stammered. Was the “with an e” really necessary, Sarah? “Raine de Bourgh.”

  One pair of eyes stayed focused on me, and I’m sure you can guess which pair that was. Every other pair, and Patty, looked down at the book they held in their hands or their laps. Pride and Prejudice.

  “Oh. Like Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” Moira asked sweetly.

  Good grief. Had I really just chosen a name from the very book that my entire book club had been poring over for three weeks? The very book that every woman in the room, apart from Piper, had practically memorized? The very book that had inspired near-weekly debates as to whether or not Colin Firth had ruined the role of Darcy for any other man, because no one else would be considered worthy ever again?

  “Oh!” I laughed nervously. “Well, yeah . . . wow, what a coincidence.”

  Piper knew. I knew that she knew.

  “That’s funny,” she said, but she sure didn’t look amused. “I mean, we’ve been reading this drivel, and it never once occurred to you, in the course of all of the reading and discussions and debate and Darcy-love, that your friend from college, whose manuscript you have in your bag, shares a last name with Darcy’s aunt? Hmm. Funny.” She was daring me to lie directly to her, and I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t see any other way out.

  “But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it.”

  Those words from Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself applied very nicely to Piper Lanier, I realized with a mixture of awe and fear. And suddenly it was a battle of wills. I met my best friend’s eyes with my own, prepared to “fake it till I make it” in regards to confidence and the story I had to create.

  “Well, it’s a pen name, of course. She doesn’t want her real name out there—”

  “I can’t say I blame her,” Piper said softly, but I heard her loud and clear. And while just a couple of weeks or, let’s face it, hours earlier, I might have been devastated by what I viewed as her unfair passing of judgment, the interest and appreciation of the rest of the group gave me a confidence in my work, and myself, that only fueled the fire.

  “You see, she’s written some other works of literature that don’t fit into the genre of this particular work—”

  “Poetry, perhaps?” Piper muttered under her breath.

  I stood from my chair, allowing my copy of Austen and my Montblanc pen to fall to the floor. “What is your problem?”

  She looked surprised at my outburst, but not nearly as surprised as the rest of the circle. Well, those who were paying any attention, that is. About half of them were trying to get the scattered pages of Stollen Desire back in order and were completely focused on their illicit reading activities.

  Piper cleared her throat, and for the first time, she refused to make eye contact with me. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sorry.” She started gathering her things, and I felt like a creep. “Forgive me, everybody. I’m really just not feeling like myself today.”

  “It’s probably the thunderstorms,” Answer for Everything Abby contributed, most unhelpfully.

  Piper had all of her possessions in her arms and was ready to walk out of the room, but she stopped to say, “No, not the thunder. Just the Raine.”

  She didn’t have to say, “Raine with an e.” It was understood. And it hurt.

  I should have gone after her and we should have had the argument right then. There was no need for it to stretch out as long as it did—none at all. But I was angry and offended, and I wanted to get back to basking in the praise that had made me feel so happy just a few minutes earlier.

  The rest of the group sat, afraid to move and unsure of what had just happened. I understood their confusion.

  “She’s a Christian, you know.” Answer for Everything Abby finally broke the silence as I stared across the circle at the suddenly vacant seat.

  Of course! She’s a Christian! It all made perfect sense. Except it didn’t make any sense at all.

  I sniffed. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  She didn’t have an answer to that—or at least not one she was willing to share with me, I suppose—so she just shrugged and turned her attention back to the other ladies, whose attention was gradually returning to the few pieces of paper they had managed to hold on to.

  Soon, the pages that had been hastily stuffed back into my bag were distributed freely, and Piper was seemingly forgotten by all as the discussion turned back to Alex, Annie, and their various food-oriented escapades.

  I finally completed the story of my friend’s pen name in my mind in case I was asked again—“Lady in Red” by Chris de Burgh was the last song she danced to with her husband before he died—but it was no longer of any concern to anyone. Right then they didn’t care who Raine de Bourgh was, they just wanted to read the tawdry tale she had written.

  What happened next feels, when I look back on it, like one explicit whirlwind after another. Over the course of the next couple weeks, the book club read Stollen Desire and loved it. A week later, Jane gave a
copy of the manuscript to a friend who was married to someone in publishing, and seemingly before I knew it I had an agent, a book deal, and tons of new best friends to replace the one I hadn’t heard from in six months.

  In all that time, Piper hadn’t been back to book club.

  Once or twice I thought of calling her, but what was the point? She had made it very clear how she felt about “Raine’s” book. I didn’t understand it. I mean, even then I knew it was smutty and I understood that it truly wouldn’t be every woman’s “cup of tea,” but was there any need to storm out of book club and out of my life?

  So maybe I didn’t have the most thorough understanding of what Christianity actually was, but I thought Christians were supposed to be understanding and compassionate. And they were supposed to turn the other cheek. And always be honest about their feelings and put the needs of others above their own. And walk on water. And never, ever storm out of book club and out of their best friend’s life.

  If Piper was a Christian, she sure had a funny way of showing it.

  My book deal was for a trilogy, so as soon as the deal was inked I started working on the next two books in the Desire series—Rising Desire and Kneaded Desire—and exited the book club to focus on my newfound career. Yes, the women in that circle had been there for me when I had no one. Yes, the first book never would have been published if not for them. Yes, I knew it was wrong to turn my back on them and act like I was too important for them all of a sudden.

  But I thought I was too important for them all of a sudden.

  Nine months flew by as I got lost in Alex and Annie, and the next thing I knew, Raine de Bourgh’s first novel hit bookshelves and, more importantly, very private e-readers. Readers who may not have wanted to be seen purchasing such a risqué book didn’t have to worry about that, and book sales exploded. By the time Rising Desire was released another nine months later, and Kneaded Desire six months after that, I was well on my way to becoming a millionaire. And it was my money. It wasn’t Patrick’s or Mr. McDermott’s. Suddenly I had to hire a team of people to take care of me and my affairs, and I had constant requests for interviews and appearances.

  Well, that was a problem. For a while, I was able to avoid it all, because my publishers thought it wise to keep the author of such a salacious book shrouded in mystery. Raine de Bourgh. Say the name aloud. Seriously, right now, say it aloud. What image comes to mind? Probably one of two things: a tall, voluptuous blonde in four-inch stilettos and a leather dress, or a distinguished, octogenarian Barbara Cartland–type, though maybe a little less Phyllis Diller in her style.

  Chances are the name Raine de Bourgh does not evoke images of a 5’7”, midthirties brunette who hasn’t been to the gym since her divorce. I’m not unattractive, but clearly I’m not Bree, either.

  So, the shroud of mystery was nice. The added bonus, of course, was that a group of ladies sitting in a circle in the library of Northside College Preparatory High School would never know that the author of their favorite book had in fact lied to them and been in their midst all along.

  I could have kept it a secret forever, probably. My team of people had to sign legally enforceable and binding confidentiality agreements. Beyond that, the mystery actually fueled the fire, and more and more books flew off the shelves, digitally and otherwise. As long as that was the case, my agent wasn’t going to go to too much effort to get me to agree to a sit-down interview on television.

  I was the one who made the decision to go public. Patrick called to tell me he was getting married again, and I lost it. Completely lost it. He wasn’t even marrying Bree. I think if it had been Bree I could have at least convinced myself that there was only one other woman, no matter how untrue I actually knew that to be. Her name was Kimberly.

  Of course it was.

  Kimberly was a dental hygienist who was going to give up her career to be the perfect supportive wife that he needed. And she was amazing in every way, and her dream was to be an interior designer, which was so fantastic because Mike and Deb Lorenzio were looking for someone to add some new life to their condo. And they planned to start a family right away. Well, as a matter of fact, Kimberly was ten weeks along, and they weren’t really telling a lot of people yet—until after the wedding—but he thought I should know. Oh, and she was twenty-four.

  Of course she was.

  I hung up the phone after speaking to Patrick and immediately sent a text to Sydney, my assistant.

  What’s the highest profile interview request we’ve received?

  The mood I was in, there is a pretty good chance the text also included the red dancing lady emoji and a snake emoji. And maybe that “100” emoji that I’ve never understood, but I can’t say for sure.

  Tonight Show

  Hmm. That wasn’t too shabby.

  Second guest.

  I stared at my phone, somewhat deflated by her follow-up text. Suddenly the text was covered as Sydney’s name popped up and my phone began ringing in my hand.

  “Do you want me to book it?” she asked as soon as I answered.

  “Second guest? That’s the best we can get? What about Oprah?”

  “What about Oprah?” she asked.

  “Wasn’t Stollen Desire on O magazine’s guilty pleasure list, or whatever? Doesn’t she want to interview me?”

  “You’re an author, Sarah. Not a Kardashian.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, but this will be Raine’s first interview. The first time anyone finds out who she is. Isn’t that pretty big news?” Even if all I am is an author, I thought with a somewhat resentful nod to the Kardashians.

  “Yes. It is big news. That’s why they want you on The Tonight Show. Second guest,” she added once again.

  I wasn’t sure if she thought second guest was a good thing or if she was trying to keep me humble, but I instructed her to go ahead and book it.

  Kimberly may have been twenty-four and perfect and having my ex-husband’s baby. And she probably fully understood the entire emoji language. But her novel wasn’t making women all over the world blush every time they baked bread, was it? Kimberly wasn’t about to be a guest on The Tonight Show.

  Second guest.

  4.

  Now What?

  One Monday evening, after Sydney had left for the night, I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine and drink and cry myself to sleep, as I had begun to do most evenings, when the phone rang.

  It took three rings for me to realize that I was going to have to answer it myself. I didn’t do that sort of thing much anymore. I was hesitant to answer it at all, certain it would either be my mother, making her daily attempt to get back in my good graces now that I was someone, by her standards, or another Hollywood director, begging for the film rights.

  “Hello?”

  “They’re making me read Sense and Sensibility. Again, Sarah. How many times does this make? Please come back to book club tonight. I really don’t think I can go through it alone.” I sat in stunned silence for a full thirty seconds before she added, “It’s me. Piper.”

  “Oh, I know.” I smiled as I wiped away the tears that had formed in my eyes. “I’m just confused. I mean, I thought you loved Jane Austen.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you misheard me,” she deadpanned. “It’s Piper. Piper Lanier.”

  I wiped away a few more tears of joy as I cracked up laughing and began slipping on my shoes. “I’ll have you know I was in book club for six months without you, and we didn’t read a single Austen. It must be you . . .”

  “Well, I’ve been back at book club for a year without you, and we’ve read every Austen, so you may be right,” she said with a giggle.

  “I’ve missed you.” I laughed, though I was fully aware I had never been more serious about anything I had said in my entire life.

  “I’ve missed you too.” She sighed. “Sarah, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I began instinctively, even though I knew nothing about any of it had actually been okay.

  “
No. It’s not okay.” She took a deep breath. “I never should have stormed out of there.”

  “Well, I never should have let you.”

  “And I never should have let that come between us. I was just so disappointed—”

  “In me?” I choked out. I’d been working under that assumption for more than two years, but hearing her say it was more painful than I could have anticipated.

  “No,” she answered, before quickly adding, “Well, yes. But only at first. I don’t think I’d made it all the way to my car before I realized that I was the disappointment. Whether I agreed with your choices or not, it was so stupid for me to just walk out of your life—though, in fairness, I had no idea at the time that’s what I was doing. But the more time passed, and the more ashamed of myself I became, the more difficult it was to figure out how to fix any of it.”

  “I know.” I nodded as I blew my nose. “I felt the same way.”

  “And then I saw you on The Tonight Show, and I didn’t feel any bitterness, and I wasn’t resentful about your books, and I wasn’t even overwhelmed by the regret I’d been feeling for so long. I just missed you, Sarah. And I wanted to tell you how great your hair looked and ask you why you wore flats instead of heels—”

  “Martin Freeman,” I interjected.

  “That’s what I figured.” Piper laughed.

  “Yeah, when I found out he was going to be the first guest, I figured I’d look like an Amazon next to him.”

  “It was the right call,” she agreed.

  “I wish I’d had the guts to call you first, Piper. My life became more and more about the books, and—”

  “And I certainly hadn’t given you any reason to believe that I’d be a part of that life. I really am sorry.”

  “Me too. So sorry.” We sat in silent contentment for a few seconds until I added, “Can you believe I couldn’t even get Martin Freeman to give me Benedict Cumberbatch’s phone number?”

  “After you were so considerate to make him look taller on TV?”

  “I know!”

  “You know, to the best of my knowledge, neither of them has ever appeared in an Austen film adaptation. That’s probably why I like them so much . . .”