I turn one of the books over. In a black-and-white photo, a dark-haired woman with light eyes wears a half-smile. She looks vaguely familiar.
“That’s an old photo of my mother,” Grayson confesses in a quiet voice. “It’s funny. When I first starting writing I thought, wouldn’t it be something if she recognized her photo from the book and realized that I’m Georgia Kinsey and came to seek me out?”
Oh my God. I study the picture closely and run my finger over the photo. The woman has changed dramatically since then. Her face is darker now—tanned—and haggard from what I can only imagine has been a hard life.
“She wouldn’t be able to find you like that,” I say. “Georgia Kinsey is a pseudonym.”
“Right,” Grayson says. “Right.”
“But you came back to live closer to home. Maybe you wanted to be found.”
“I don’t,” he says.
I step away from the subject. “I’ve read this book. It was good. Why would you not want the world—your fans especially—to know who you are?”
Grayson takes one of the books from my hands. “The world could use a bit more mystery, don’t you think?”
“This is how you built your empire.”
“Partly, yes. I started writing them independently as a way to amuse myself, test the waters. I wasn’t really confident anyone would buy them, but they did. And after my third romance book, things really took off for me. I didn’t want the world to know who I was, partly because I was embarrassed and partly because I enjoyed the mystery.”
“The mystery of people not knowing who you really are?”
“Yeah. Then I branched out and starting writing nonfiction work and they succeeded even more. My publishers wanted to merge the two brands, but I wasn’t comfortable with that.”
“I can’t believe you know these words,” I say, remembering some of the steamy love scenes contained between the covers.
“Would you care to reenact a few scenes?”
I elbow him playfully. “We’re being serious here. Gray, Dad would’ve been so proud of you. He was always worried you’d end up in jail or something.”
“Yep, I know.” He’s quiet for a moment, then chuckles at some memory but doesn’t share. “It’s amazing what a person can do when there’s someone in their life who cares.”
“Gray, about your mother. If you had a chance—”
“No more about my mother, Callia.” His voice is adamant. “Before I forget, I have something for you.”
He withdraws from the bag a golden-edged leather journal.
“You found my grateful journal? Where was it?”
“It fell under the bed in your room.”
I flip through the pages. “Where’s the necklace?”
“What necklace?” he asks.
“Our necklace,” I say, “I left my half in here.”
Grayson shrugs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see it. I can ask Gail about it, but I know she was vacuuming the room.”
My heart sinks a little. “Maybe she can find it?”
“Callia,” Grayson licks his lips and struggles at containing a smile. “I’m flattered and all, but it was cheap silver.”
“It meant a lot,” I say. I thumb through the journal and see Grayson’s name in it on page after page. My heart starts to pound. “Did you read it?”
Grayson hesitates. “I wasn’t sure what it was so I opened it up.”
“It says grateful journal on the front,” I say, although I’m not upset.
“I know, but that could’ve meant anything,” he says, waving off my words. “I only saw a page. You wondered if maybe I wasn’t happy.” Grayson looks at me with golden eyes. “I’m happy now.”
He leans over and kisses me in such a way that makes me question the existence of heaven. If this isn’t it, then what is?
Grayson pulls away and whispers, “There’s only one thing that could make me happier.”
“And that is?”
“If you let me teach you how to swim.” He nuzzles my neck with his lips.
“You’re really big on this whole staying-alive-by-not-drowning thing, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s kinda important,” Grayson says. His lips find their way to my collarbone and travel the length of it, kissing along the way.
“Or, I can just learn to stay away from water.”
“There’s that,” he concedes. “But if you’re ever going to live in my home, you’ll need to learn how to swim.”
“Who says I want to live in your home?”
He sits up. “You’ll have to live somewhere when this place sells.”
“I’ll stay in my own apartment when I get one. We need to go slow, Gray. And be proper. You come over and pick me up for dates like a normal guy.”
“Like a normal guy?” he says with mock incredulity. Grayson hops up and pushes the books to the floor. “I’ll show you a normal guy.”
He grabs my robe and begins to hungrily kiss my body. I squeal in delight, loudly to give my audience across the hall exactly what I know she wants to hear.
Chapter 42
Harrisburg CPA is a small accounting firm. The office is a stand-alone brick building spread over a couple acres of land on one of the main roads running through Trinity. I am there early and introduce myself to the receptionist. She looks as modern as the decor of the room. She’s a petite Asian-American with her bone-straight black hair cut into a short bob on one side and completely shaved on the other. The front is dyed deep red and she has two piercings in one ear and a single piercing in the other. Like a flute of good champagne, she is bright and bubbly. I see the beginnings of a tattoo beneath her black jacket when she opens the door of the small conference room for me.
It’s a good thing I made time this morning to review my résumé because the door reopens not more than a minute after I take a seat.
“Dave Rivers, how are you?”
I turn around and think for a second I’m in the middle of a joke. There is no one there. My eyes shift down. There is a man standing about as tall as my knee cap.
Is this the guy who’s cheating on his wife?
“Callia Cole,” I say and shake his hand.
Dave walks around the circular table and hops onto a chair. He presses the lever beneath until we are eye to eye.
“I’ve heard good things about you from our mutual friend,” he begins and runs a hand through thick, sandy blond hair. Dave Rivers is an attractive guy, with slate gray eyes and a light beard. His tie is loose and the top button of his shirt is unbuttoned. Despite his good looks, he appears preoccupied.
“Vivian was kind enough to recommend me to you and I’m grateful.”
“Air Force, huh?” he nods. “My brother’s in the Air Force. Going on twenty years now. Biggest drunk you’ll ever see, but hey, I guess he isn’t piloting aircraft, so it doesn’t matter. You ever flown a plane?”
“I’ve flown in a plane, if that counts.”
“Stupid question, I know,” he admonishes himself. “I’ll start by giving you some background. My wife owns this company. We’re doing some reorganization around here and we need to bring on board an accountant to take over a couple of our corporate accounts. The work would entail making G/L entries, billing, and handling payroll. I see here that you’ve worked in financial management. Tell me about it.”
I spend the next few minutes running down my list of duties and achievements during my military career. Dave asks me a series of accounting-related questions, soft at first, then tougher as the interview goes on. I am confident in my general accounting abilities, but admit that I’d need to do research as far as specific New York State laws are concerned.
“We understand that,” he says. “There’s always a learning curve and after a few hours studying specific tax codes, I think you’d do fine. We also have a top-notch mentoring program here. Many of our folks go on to one of the Big Three firms in Manhattan.”
Dave tells me more about the specific duties of the p
osition, then about the office in general. As he speaks, his dialogue slows and his eyes begin to wander.
“I’m sorry,” he says and scratches his forehead. “My mind is in a million different directions right now.”
“It must be a busy time for you,” I say with a smile.
“Not nearly as busy as tax season.” He runs a hand over his beard and looks as though he’s contemplating his next words. “Are you looking for full-time work?”
Here’s my chance to be honest. Not just with Dave, but with myself. Am I looking for a firm, solid rope to cling to? Do I want the security of a biweekly paycheck, 401K, and a nice warm office—okay, cubicle—to work in for the rest of my life? Or am I ready to embrace becoming an independent business owner? Am I brave enough to make this next step?
“No,” I say. “I’d like part-time work because I’m looking to start my own bakery.”
“Bakery? What’s your specialty?”
“Cupcakes.”
“If you’re just getting started, it could be awhile before you’re ready to be on your own. A year, maybe more.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I need a steady income, and a break from thinking about the cost of flour.”
“We’d need someone to work about twenty hours a week, no benefits. In the next few months we can both see where we are and make any necessary adjustments to the arrangement.”
“That would work for me,” I say, keeping my optimism to a minimum. This process could take weeks and I still might not get the job.
Dave smiles. “Never much wanted to own anything myself. I like leaving those worries to my wife. I love leaving those worries to my wife. She’s in California right now.”
“How soon are you looking to hire someone?”
“She’d like to hire someone within a month,” he says. I deflate a little inside. A month isn’t so bad. I can live off my savings for a month. I just hope the house doesn’t sell before then. A new apartment will set me back a couple of grand for the security deposit, plus first and last month’s rent. “But,” Dave continues, “my wife isn’t here to make that call. How much money do you need?”
“Excuse me?”
I see for the first time a mischievous glint in his eye and that’s when I get it. Dave’s up to something.
“Money. How much do you need?”
I throw out a number that’s a bit high but leaves me room for negotiation.
“Done,” Dave says. “We’re a small operation but we do have a few amenities around here you’ll be able to partake in: a catered lunch every Wednesday, a fancy coffee machine, nice employee lounge.”
“Hold on,” I say, confused. “You want to hire me on the spot? Shouldn’t I interview with someone else? Your wife, maybe?”
“My wife loves surprises. She must—she keeps springing them on me.”
“I just want to be clear. I don’t want to start and then get fired when she gets back.”
“Neither do I,” Dave says. “No worries. You’ll do fine here. Lots of friendly folks and she’ll like you. Just tell her you’re starting your own business and she’ll probably throw money at you. She likes independent women.” His eyes drift for a minute. “Did you meet Mindy?”
“Uh, you mean the receptionist?”
“Yeah,” he says, a smile brightening his face. He is all gums and beard at this point. “She’s nice, isn’t she? Very talented young woman.”
“She looks very…fashionable.”
Dave chuckles. “I’ll tell her you said that. She’s always willing to go the extra mile and I know she’s just a receptionist now, but Mindy has the level of ambition that can take her anywhere. She’s just terrific.” At this point Dave is near salivating at the mouth. He catches himself and says, “Well! I think we’re done here. Take some time to think about the offer and let me know by tomorrow afternoon. Before you go, I’ll walk you around the office, introduce you to some of the team.”
“That’ll be nice,” I say. And it will be. It’ll be very nice having some steady cash coming in, more than I’d expected, even if I would have to work for a short time in modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.
Grateful Journal
I don’t think it’s possible for me to get any happier. I’ve just scored a part-time job as an accountant and I’m about to build myself a bakery business. I don’t expect to have a billion-dollar empire anytime soon, but if I can do something that I love, have something to call my own, then I’ll consider myself a success.
And then there’s Gray. No, I still don’t know what secret lies between him and Carmen, and I’m starting to think that whatever it is probably isn’t as big a deal as I’m making it out to be. Neither of them seem all that affected by it, so why should I be? He and I are magical together. Our reality is better than any dream I’ve ever dreamt.
We are invincible.
Chapter 43
Grayson follows the directions I give him until it becomes obvious where we are headed.
“The state fairgrounds?” he says after we pass another sign on the highway.
“Yeah, I saw a commercial for it the other day and thought it’d be fun.”
“I don’t ride roller coasters, you know,” he says.
“Oh, Georgia, stop being such a scared little girl.”
“Do not call me Georgia,” he says, although he bears a wide, relaxed grin.
“Do you prefer Ms. Kinsey?”
“I prefer Grayson. Gray, if you’d like.”
“Thanks for swinging Mom by this morning. I’m sure she and Carmen are going to have a grand old time going through boxes.”
“She was looking forward to seeing the place again,” Grayson says.
The sunroof is open and the breeze feels wonderful blowing through my hair. It’s going to be a mess by the time we get there, but I don’t care. Today is not the day for beauty—or sadness about letting go of my childhood home. It’s a day for relaxation and fun.
“The reunion’s tomorrow night,” I say by way of conversation.
“I know. The dates come quickly. Do you have a dress?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
I notice that Grayson is wearing the jeans I bought him. He looks better in these than the pair that burned in the fire.
From the highway, we can see a Ferris wheel already in motion. We ate a light breakfast at a local diner before hitting the road, but even still, I don’t think I want to ascend to those heights anytime soon. Grayson exits the highway and makes a series of turns before pulling into the gravel parking lot.
“I have an idea,” he says as he follows the hand signals of the teen directing traffic.
“Better than my idea of a dizzying ride after eating pancakes?”
“Why don’t you hang out at my place tonight and get dressed over there before the reunion?”
“That might be a possibility. I guess it’ll kind of be like the prom we never had. Except this time I can make sure you show up.”
Grayson throws the car in park and closes the sunroof. “Yeah,” he says, avoiding my eyes. He looks as though I’ve wounded him and I suddenly hate myself for not letting it go.
We spend the first hour at the park playing games that we have no chance of winning. Still, it’s fun to watch Grayson toss ten bucks worth of basketballs at the hoops.
“You know the game’s rigged, right?” I say as we walk through the crowd. My arm is twined casually in his and I feel like the angels in heaven are cheering and high-fiving each other all over the place.
“You think?” he says.
“The hoop is oval-shaped instead of round, so your ball will never go in.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been around.”
“That can’t be true for all of them,” Grayson says.
“Maybe not all. But probably most. All of these games rely on deception so that they can keep the money coming in.”
“You’re not about to start a conversation about my pseudonym, are yo
u?”
“No, Georgia, I’m not,” I say and squeeze his arm. “How about that ride over there?”
Grayson looks at the ride; it’s shaped like an octopus. Two riders can sit together while their seats spin in circles.
“That looks nauseating,” he says.
“I know.” I pull him into the line.
We spend our morning like this: him balking, me dragging, us laughing until our sides hurt. At one point, Grayson goes off to find the restroom and must have gotten lost because he takes forever to get back. When he returns he’s carrying a snack for us. We nibble on greasy French fries and drink Cokes and get in a serious debate about what is the greatest television comedy ever. Grayson and I have the chance to catch some musical acts, but we prefer to stay in the open air and people-watch when we are tired of the rides.
“So, about what you were saying earlier,” Grayson says as we share a bench and watch a slow-moving line of riders waiting to get on a roller coaster. “About deception. Do you think it’s wrong for these carnies to employ deception if it serves a greater purpose?”
“What’s the purpose?” I ask. “They’re taking money from honest people who think they’re playing a fair game.”
“True. But they’re taking money so that they can feed their families.”
“By lying.”
“Deceiving for a greater cause.”
I take a deep breath. This conversation is making me feel a little nauseated. Or it could be the fries. There’s no way Grayson could know I’m holding back about his mother. Am I doing the right thing? It isn’t like I haven’t tried to tell him, but he seems adamant that he doesn’t want to know anything about her.
“I suppose it would take a little fun out of it for the customers if they came up to play a game and saw a sign that said Oh, by the way, this game is rigged,” I said. “And I don’t think the carnie would be too happy if the game wasn’t rigged and Michael Jordan plunked down ten bucks and won all of the stuffed toys.” My eyes catch a small boy carrying a blue elephant that’s almost as big as he is. “And sometimes people do win, so…”
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