by Britney King
Our eyes lock, and I wonder if this is a dig. Certainly it has to be. “Internal or external?”
A smile lights up his face first, and then he cocks his head as though something brilliant has just occurred to him. He retrieves a notepad from my desk and jots something down. Finally, he looks up at me. “Internal.”
“The liver, why?”
“The body is such a mystery, don’t you think?”
I shrug. “Speaking of—I’ve taken a look at your notes.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you only ever work on mysteries?”
He isn’t expecting the question, I don’t think, which is maybe why it takes him awhile to answer. “I work on things I think will sell.”
“Mysteries hardly sell anymore.”
“That’s not true. Who doesn’t like a good whodunit?”
“What people like is sex and violence. The world is different than when I first started—back when I was your age. These days…everything has to be fast-paced. Attention spans are shot to shit. People need to be shocked out of their normal lives. And it needs to happen quick. There’s no room for mystery in that.”
“What’s more mysterious than sex and violence?”
“I don’t know—maybe I’m just jaded. I’ve seen too much.”
He jots something else down. “How so?”
“There are only so many ways to kill and fuck.”
“Ah, I don’t know. I bet if we put our heads together, we can come up with something.”
I lower my gaze and then swivel my chair around so that I’m facing outside. “I won’t get another chance, you know.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
Sighing heavily, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. “This is it for me. Which is why I’m telling you—there aren’t many of us mystery writers left making an actual living. It would be prudent of you to find something else to study—something more profitable in the long-term.”
“Maybe.” I hear his pencil brushing the paper, scratching. “But before I give up on my dream completely, I figure I’ve got at least one more book in me.”
I don’t know whether to be annoyed or inspired. One thing is for sure, he sounds a lot like me at that age.
“Oh,” he says. “And before I forget—” I swivel back around to face him. He reaches into his bag, pulls out a slip of paper, and hands it to me.
I glance down to see that I’m holding a sizable check. “I wanted to repay you guys for letting me stay in the guest cottage.”
I slide it across the desk. “I don’t need your money, kid.”
“Just keep it. You know—for a rainy day.” He flashes a grin. “Just in case we never finish this book.”
We work past lunch and well into the afternoon. Liam spends a lot of time scrolling, reading news articles, doing whatever he does. Every once in a while, he’ll pick up his copy of the manuscript and make a couple of notes.
I write some, but not much. Mostly, I pretend to edit words, and type lines. The majority of my time I spend staring at the ink-stained pages Liam has placed in front of me.
Ever since he tried his hand at the first quarter of my manuscript, the project has gone from bad to worse. Scribble-scrabbled notes line every margin. Some of the ideas, as much as it pains me to admit, aren’t half bad. And yet, I’m appalled at what he’s done. So appalled that I haven’t been able to make any significant progress for the better part of a week. Which is why we’re sitting here in silence, him scrolling, me pecking the keyboard at a snail’s pace.
All I see is red.
As the sun sinks low in the west and the sky fades to a purplish hue, I begin wrapping things up. I haven’t seen Eve all day. She’s been sleeping, and surely she must be up by now.
Liam clears his throat. “There’s something I wanted to ask you—a favor.”
Our eyes meet. I expect him to just spit it out, but of course he doesn’t. “My ears are waiting.”
“I was wondering if you’d mind if I had a couple of friends over. For Memorial Day.” His eyes shift toward his screen and back. “To the cottage, I mean. We wouldn’t bother you—or Eve.”
I shrug. What do I care?
“Actually, I was thinking I might invite her—you know, get her out of that room.”
“Eve hates parties.”
“Well”—he offers me a charming grin that probably works on women but stiffens my spine—“I’m sure you could convince her.”
“We’ll see.”
“Look, George. There’s something I’ve been meaning to say…”
I study his tweed suit. It looks similar to one Eve bought me a long time ago. I hate suits, but I had a television interview, and neither the time nor forethought to figure out what to wear. She rescued me. She was always rescuing me. I probably wasn’t as appreciative as I should have been.
“You were going to say something?” I ask as he folds his laptop, tucks it under his arm, and walks to the door.
He leans back against the frame and starts to speak but pauses long enough to stick his neck out into the hallway. He ducks in carefully, as though what he is about to say must be kept in complete confidence. “I’m sorry I brought up the children. It wasn’t my place.”
My stomach settles. “It’s fine.”
“I should have stayed with you at the hotel.”
“I’m a little too old for a babysitter.”
His voice low, he says, “I think Eve’s angry with me.”
“I don’t think it’s you she’s angry at.”
“I just want you to know—” He swallows hard before continuing, and it’s then that I notice how flushed his face is. “Look, I hate conflict. But I want you to know…I don’t blame you for what happened. I would have done the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…it’s only normal for a man in your position to have a fling here and there.”
I have no idea what he’s getting at, or how, or why he thinks this is any of his business, but he’s such a good liar that I almost believe him.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m awakened by the sound of a chainsaw. At first I think I must be dreaming, but then no, there are other noises too. When the screeching grows louder, and it sounds like a freight train is about to barrel through the wall, I propel myself out of bed, flinging my body toward the noise.
At the window, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. After wiping the sleep from my eyes, I shake my head, certain that I am seeing things.
There are trucks scattered about the property, at least ten of them, some of which are on the lawn.
There are teams of people. Gardeners planting rose bushes, shrubs, workers clearing brush. Closer to the house, men are dropping paint cloths, as others tape things off and prepare to paint my house. Windows are being scrubbed, the pavement pressure washed and gutters cleared. The fountain in the garden is running and the pool sparkles like I haven’t seen in a decade. As though drawn toward the window by some unseen force, my nose pressed firmly against the cool glass, I conclude, I am obviously dreaming. Then I spot Eve standing on the lawn with her hand cupped over her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun. She’s smiling, and her hair is pulled up. She’s dressed in something other than pajamas. It is then that Liam comes into focus. He’s taking deep strides in her direction.
Snatching my robe off the bathroom hook, I manage to get it halfway on just as I bolt out of the house.
“What is going—”
“George!” Eve’s face is slightly twisted. She chews at her bottom lip, the way she always does when she’s perplexed. “This—”
“This is amazing!” Liam shouts over her, placing his hand on my shoulder. He gives it a good squeeze. “I can’t believe it. It’s like one of those makeover shows.”
“This place hasn’t looked this good in years,” Eve laughs.
“Well done, George,” Liam says. “Well done.”
My eyes widen. A forklift offloads p
allets of sod. “I did—”
Liam gives my shoulder another squeeze. “Everything is turning out just how you said it would.” He turns to Eve. “George has been talking about this for weeks. It’s all I’ve heard about.”
I give him the side eye. “You haven’t even been here for weeks.”
“Ah, come on, George,” he says playfully, swatting the air with his free hand, digging his fingers into my shoulder with the other. “You of all people should know you have to allow for a certain amount of creative license.”
Eve looks from me to Liam and back. She doesn’t know what to say.
“This is all he could talk about—how surprised you were going to be. It’s been killing me not to say anything. Killing me. When you were so worried that he’d stayed behind at the hotel—you have no idea how hard it was not to confess what he was up to.”
“We can’t afford this, George,” Eve says nervously. “Or we’d have done it a long time ago.”
I don’t say anything. I’d planned to have a painter come out and the lawn guy, but she’s right. We can’t afford it.
The get-together Liam asked me about. Well, it’s not at all what I was expecting. It’s not a small affair. It’s a full-blown party. The cars keep coming and coming and coming. They line the drive and spill over to the grass, where an area has been roped off. Valets take keys.
Eventually I count well over a hundred people. And that’s just the ones who are scattered across my lawn. There are more by the pool and in the cottage.
It is catered, and all day, as vans arrived with flowers and whatnot, I stayed locked away in my office with little idea what was about to befall me.
“Don’t worry about the cost,” Liam told me. “Fixing this place up, for you guys, it’s the least I can do.”
At the time, I didn’t know that taking the liberty to practically renovate my property would pale in comparison to the liberty he would take throwing his party.
But then night fell and guests arrived. Tents have been erected, lighting installed, a stage built for the band and an open bar. Floating candles glide on the surface of the pool.
My wife dresses up. She puts on makeup and curls her hair. She looks different than she has in a very long time.
I hide in the office, finally able to get words on the page. That is, until Liam calls up the stairs for me, which I ignore, and he finally barrels up the stairs, taking them two at a time as usual. “Come out to the garden,” he says. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
On the way down, he is distracted by a guest looking to make small talk. I scoot out the door and into the night to find Eve. Eventually, I find her sitting alone in a corner. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she says, patting the seat next to her. “To have this place come to life again.”
I roll up my sleeves. It’s warmer out than I thought. Easing into the lounge chair beside her, I exhale for what feels like the first time all day. “Is it?”
“Don’t you think?”
“Only if you do.”
“I want to bottle it up,” she tells me, and at first I think maybe she’s talking about all of the rented furniture. “This energy. This night. I want to remember it forever.”
“Why? You’re sitting alone in a corner.”
“True,” she says. “But who knows how many nights like this we have left?”
Eve has always had a flair for the dramatic, but even so, it’s hard to discern her level of seriousness. Trying not to read too much into it, I allow myself a drink, and then another, and another, until I officially lose count.
Maybe it’s the liquor, but even I have to admit the party feels magical. The scent of fresh-cut grass along with the fragrant roses, and the wafer moon overhead, it felt like a new beginning. A beginning where anything was possible, even finished manuscripts. The weekend that marks the start of summer, and with it, so much promise. “There you are,” Liam says. He finds me at the bar staring up at the moon. My face turns to him, and it’s the first time I notice how truly young he looks. How necessary, and how temporary.
He smiles politely. “I have someone I want you to meet,” he tells me as he scoots to the side. I don’t know how my expression reads, but I can only assume it isn’t good. Standing in front of me, wearing a huge grin and a very short dress, is the woman from the hotel.
“This is Leslie,” Liam says, placing his hand on the small of her back. He inches her forward.
She offers her hand, and, after a long beat, I take it. “A pleasure.”
“It’s lovely to see you again Mr. Dawson,” she says doing that schoolgirl giggle thing that causes bile to rise in my throat.
“So you two have met,” Liam remarks, his brow reaching upward toward the stars. “How am I not surprised? Leslie knows everyone.”
Chapter Fourteen
The morning after the party, I wake early, long before the sun is up. Eve is curled into me, her forehead pressed firmly against my rib cage. I’m not sure that either of us had intended to change our sleeping arrangements, but after I’d helped her precariously take on the stairs, tipsy, we made love.
“I don’t know how you can drink so much and still have your senses about you,” she told me afterward.
“Who said I have any sense?” We fell asleep laughing, drunk on the possibility that it would last.
Eve sleeps in, as does Liam, or so I presume. It’s Saturday, and apparently he doesn’t work weekends. When he told me this, I can’t say I was surprised. He’s exactly the type to believe all of that work/life balance nonsense people like to spew these days.
But then he said something interesting. Something worth writing down. He said, “George, if you want to chase an elusive feeling of self-worth that you’ll end up dying without claiming, be my guest. But don’t expect me to. Weekends are meant for living. Isn’t that what writing is about, after all? I mean…explain it to me. How can you possibly tell a good story if you don’t live one?”
He had a point. I know that. I wish it were something I’d embraced when I was his age, and I wish it were something I could swing now.
But stories don’t come on a nine-to-five schedule. The muse doesn’t give a shit if it’s Tuesday—or if it’s Saturday. The muse shows when he shows.
And this morning, he saw fit to make an appearance well before dawn on a Saturday. Luckily, I awakened with only a slight headache, not the raging hangover I expected.
Ideas popped all over the place, like the small fireworks display Liam organized last night. Not one to let a good opportunity go to waste, I grabbed a water and two aspirin and sat at my desk.
With the manuscript spread out in front of me, as my fingers moved effortlessly over the keys, I did my best to put Liam and the girl out of my mind. Every once in a while my thoughts wandered, combing through the details of last night: the girl showing up here, the party, the fireworks, Eve’s naked body sweaty against mine.
This can’t last; I know that. But now and again, I suppose we all want to be seduced. Even if it’s not real, even though favors come with a cost. It’s intoxicating.
I realize I have to nip it in the bud.
But first, coffee.
Down in the kitchen, while the coffee brews, I scramble eggs for breakfast. I’ve just finished buttering toast when the phone rings. My agent’s name displays across the screen. Cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I don’t even get a proper hello in before Alan is screeching at me. “Congratulations!”
“Alan?”
“George, my friend…what the hell?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
There’s static on the line and already I regret taking the call. Alan is a lot to take at any hour, on any day, and maybe Liam has a point. This is the weekend, and it’s still early yet.
As Alan complains, explaining that he tried calling three times last week, I reach for the knife, dip it into the strawberry jam, and spread it on the toast.
“George?”
Stuffin
g half of the piece of bread into my mouth, I mumble that I’m still here. The shower turns on upstairs.
“Your housekeeper said you weren’t taking calls.”
“I’m working on a book,” I say when I can manage, practically swallowing the mouth full of toast down whole. Alan knows my habits when I’m writing, which means that he knows I don’t take calls that aren’t emergencies.
“I had to ring on a Saturday, for God’s sake.”
Glancing out the window, I see movement in the direction of the cottage. “As they say, no rest for the wicked.”
“I guess you don’t check your email, either.”
Across the lawn, Liam emerges from the cottage. He steps out onto the porch, squinting into the buttery morning light. First, he surveys the grounds, and then lasers in on my house before turning his head to speak to someone inside. “I’ve been busy.”
“Damn right you have. So I assume you haven’t heard…”
“Heard what?”
“Ah, George. This is so typical of you. I don’t see how you manage to stay so out of touch in this day and age.”
“Hmmm.”
“You hit the best sellers list.”
The girl from the hotel comes out onto the porch. “Fuck.”
“I know,” Alan snorts. “I hate to say it—but I thought the same thing.”
Jesus. I really should have fired him a long time ago. The girl inches forward, feline-like, nuzzling her cheek against Liam’s chest. She’s leggy and thinner than I recall. Long blonde hair, the Barbie type. Typical. It almost makes me disappointed in Liam. It certainly makes me disappointed in myself. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?”
Liam pulls her in close and strokes her hair. My chest tightens. It could be a heart attack. It could be my sudden stroke of bad luck. “I just wasn’t expecting this is all.”