Kat kissed me and then whispered in my ear, “It’s the perfect gift for my favorite jock. Now all you have to do is sleep, or you’ll be put on the naughty list.”
“Does that involve Kat-style torture?” I quirked one eyebrow at her.
She walloped my arm, but I zeroed in on the desire in her eyes.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said and stroked her cheek.
“Roger, can you throw another steak on the grill, please? Harold’s joining us.” Barbara smiled sweetly.
“Yes, Roger. Back outside. Be a good boy.” Mom shooed him to the door, as if commanding the family dog.
“Of course, my love.” His gaze landed on Barb’s, ignoring his sister-in-law who stood three feet away. I had to admire his skill at brushing off my mother. Nell Tisdale wasn’t easily ignored.
***
Harold arrived right as Roger came inside with his steak. Barb had kept the rest of the food warm in the oven. I met Kat’s eyes. Harold had a sixth sense when it came to food, always showing up at the most opportune moments.
“How’s it hanging, Harold?” Roger coiled an arm around his shoulders. Harold had become a de facto family member a few years back. During the past year, his presence had become even more frequent.
“To the left,” he replied, blushing as he swiped his dishwater brown hair out of his eyes.
Mom hefted an eyebrow, and Kat laughed into her hand, initiating a belly laugh from Roger.
“I got us a new after-dinner drink.” Roger poked his elbow into Harold’s side.
Harold’s pallor turned slightly green. Roger, a whiskey man, had been trying to broaden Harold’s drinking choices. Lately, Harold had been on a Smirnoff Ice kick, a beverage I was certain my uncle had never sampled until Harold brought a six-pack in watermelon flavor two weekends ago. To his credit, my manly uncle drank one without complaint.
My mind doubled back to my conversation with Roger earlier—the four miscarriages. Was that why he’d always acted like a parent to me, to Kat, and now to Harold? Was it a need that had gone unfulfilled for so many years? So many heartbreaks? Perhaps that was also the source of his countless infidelities, filling a hole that never could be filled. Did Barb understand that? Was that why she’d turned a blind eye for almost four decades of marriage?
Kat leaned her head on my shoulder. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Later.”
Her finger snaked down the side of my face. “Oooh. I won’t forget to cash in.”
I ringed her waist with my arm and walked us into the dining room. A place had already been set for Harold.
Everyone took a seat, immediately passing all the side dishes and salad bowl.
“How have you been, Harold?” Barbara dipped an artichoke leaf into a creamy Parmesan sauce.
He shifted in his seat. “Good. You?”
“Uh-oh. Out with it.” I motioned with a hand to lay it out on the table.
“Now?” He eyed his fillet.
“Cori!” Barbara admonished. “No business during dinner. Let the man enjoy his steak.”
I groaned. “Is it business related?” I leveled my eyes on Harold, who nodded. “Pass the broccoli, please.”
Mom handed me the bowl with a taunting smile. I stuck my tongue out at her. Barbara cleared her throat. “Children.”
Harold grinned triumphantly.
“Enjoy your last meal,” I mumbled into my napkin. His eyes widened, and he rotated to Barbara, who luckily didn’t hear. Score one for me!
“Where’s Amber tonight?” Roger bit into a burger, and a trickle of grease dribbled down his chin.
I loved that my family sat in the formal dining room with China plates, silver cutlery, a fancy tablecloth, and a centerpiece befitting George Washington, to enjoy all meals, including hamburgers.
“Out with the girls.” Harold puffed out his chest.
“Girls?” Kat pushed.
“Simone and some of her coworkers from the library.”
“Why didn’t you go out with them?” Kat tapped her newly manicured fingernails on the base of her wineglass.
He pointed his steak knife at my chest with disappointed eyes.
“I ruined your night out with the girls?” I placed a hand on my chest.
“You ruined my week. This may take days to clean up.”
“Geez, just tell me. Put me out of my misery.”
“Candace Sams.”
“What about her?”
Mom’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t!”
Harold nodded vigorously.
“Didn’t what?” I tossed my napkin onto my half-eaten veggie burger.
“You got into an online battle with a troll,” he said, slicing off another chunk of sirloin.
I blinked. Had Harold finally lost his mind and disappeared into a Neil Gaiman fantasy novel?
Kat cleared her throat. “Can someone fill me in on Candace Sams?”
“She was an author who responded to a one-star review on Amazon, posing as another reviewer, not the author of the book. When she was discovered, she claimed she’d reported all the haters to the FBI, as if disparaging a book was a federal crime.” Mom shook her head. “Every author knows never ever to respond to a bad review or a troll.”
I nodded in agreement.
Her eyes narrowed further, cat-like. “Then why’d you pull a Candace Sams?”
“I didn’t.” I rapped my spoon on the tablecloth.
Harold ran from the room and returned with his iPad. “Then who is Finndale? Seriously, didn’t you read the blog post by Gaiman about Sams years ago?”
“How do you fit Gaiman into every conversation? But to answer your question, I have absolutely no idea about Finndale.”
“It’s a mash-up of our last names.” Kat’s voice contained a hint of accusation.
“Still doesn’t mean I did it. Besides, don’t ya think if I was trying to con the world, I’d come up with a better identity? I’m not a full-fledged moron.”
“So you didn’t belittle this person on Twitter who attacked your mom’s latest book?”
“Me? Who attacked me?” Mom signaled for the tablet. Her jaw dropped, and then she read aloud: “When a subpar author decides to write serious fiction, it falls flat and is a complete waste of space in all libraries and on bookshelves.” She tsked. “Who wrote this?”
“G-Dawg,” Harold said.
“G-Dawg! I’m supposed to take criticism from someone named G-Dawg seriously?” She adjusted in her seat.
Roger coughed into his napkin.
Harold shrugged. “I always advise clients to avoid getting into pissing contests on social media.”
“Clients,” I scoffed. “All of your clients are at this table.”
“I signed another author last week,” he crowed.
“Really? Who?”
“Lucy.”
I laughed. “Basically still in the family.”
“Neither here nor there.” His brows met in the middle.
“Cori, focus.” Mom turned to Barb. “What should we do?”
“Can we ignore it?” Barb asked Harold.
“A couple of book bloggers have latched onto the story. One is a buddy of mine, and she reached out for comment before publication. Some Twitter uses have weighed in, but not any heavy hitters. The conversation has spiraled and claims Cori got a publishing contract because of Nell.”
“But I thought G-Dawg said I was subpar? Doesn’t make sense.” Mom closed one eye.
“There’s one bright spot, though.” Harold met my eyes. “A book blogger—granted one unknown to me and who only has a handful of views—has rushed to Cori’s defense, claiming Cori would never be so stupid to concoct such an obvious nom de plume.”
“At least someone is on my side.”
“Unfortunately, the haters think this blogger, In the Shadows, may also be Cori. The blogger is a super fan. She claims literature didn’t fully exist u
ntil Cori penned her first novel. However, some argue In the Shadows refers to how Cori feels about being eclipsed by Nell.”
“Man, I just can’t catch a break. The one person who comes to my aid is nuttier than fruitcake and I won’t even respond to the bogus shadows comments.” Ever since high school people had been saying this about me.
“In the Shadows, G-Dawg, and Finndale—people are hiding behind fictitious names. For all we know, it’s one puppet master fucking with Cori.” Roger shifted in his seat.
“Are you suggesting an angry ex?” Barb asked.
“I was the one who was usually dumped for being too independent or busy with activities, especially in school. Kat’s been with me most of my adult life.”
“And I thought you were way too independent, at first. Luckily I tamed that aspect.” She winked.
“Psychoanalyzing Cori could take years. Right now, let’s focus on this problem.” Barb made eye contact with Roger.
“I think we should zero in on the pot-stirrer G-Dawg,” Roger said.
“I’m with Barb. Can’t we ignore it? Sounds like blogger-Dawg isn’t a big fish in the social media pond, since the story hasn’t caught fire,” I said.
Harold released a frustrated sigh over my social media disdain. “So far, it hasn’t, but my fear is that it’ll become a garden-variety social media lynching unless we jump in front of the story to stop it from becoming anything memorable. The last thing you want is for this controversy to appear on your Wiki page and in all upcoming media interviews and spotlights.”
“How bad has it gotten so far?” Barbara motioned for Harold to fill us in completely.
He remained quiet.
“Come on. I can take it.”
Every pair of eyes at the table focused on me and then on Harold.
“I haven’t finished my steak yet.” Harold fashioned his cutlery in his hand as if expecting a frontal assault.
“Wise man,” Barbara bellowed. “After you finish, can you reach out to your blogger buddy? Find out if she’d like an exclusive on the Finndale scandal? Get in front of the social media train, as you say?”
Harold nodded.
“Would it be wise to reach out to the other blogger, In the Shadows? Cori’s new super fan?” Kat posed the question to Barb. “Maybe this person isn’t completely crazy.”
“Might be wise to make tentative overtures, but not a full-court press.” Barb paused for a sip of wine, or was her problem-solving mind whirring faster than the speed of social media feeds. “I need to check out the site—see if it’s a true fan or some wacko. Recruiting a crazy won’t help our cause in the long run. Harold, can you send me the link to the blog?”
He thumped his iPad several times. “Done.”
“I need to call Floyd. See what he can dig up about G-Dawg and this fake Finndale account.” Roger exited the room.
“What’s for dessert?” Mom asked. “Cori’s humble pie?”
“You’ve been sitting on that for some time, haven’t you?” I downed the rest of my beer in three long swallows.
“I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon. Roger’s right. Floyd and Harold can help us cut it off before it gets overblown. Finish your dinner.” Barbara motioned to my half-eaten burger, dismissing the conversation for the evening.
Roger returned with a tray holding a liquor bottle and seven shot glasses. “Got the pros on the matter at hand. Let’s have some shots to forget the unpleasant business.”
“Shots?” Harold’s shoulders drooped.
Roger twisted the bottle’s cap off. “Do you like black jelly beans?”
“They’re my favorite.” He perked up in his seat.
“Mine too. But last year I didn’t get one. I think you were the reason.” He waggled a finger. “Every time you came over, all of them disappeared.” Roger poured from the bottle. “Drink this, and tell me what you think.” Roger circumnavigated the table, giving everyone a shot glass.
My glass had measurements ticked on the side according to four Ivy League colleges, ranking from Princeton to Dartmouth to Yale to Harvard at the top. Roger had filled mine to Princeton, the bottom rung.
“Roger, you, of all people, should know I graduated from Harvard. How many of my games did you attend?”
“Every single one.” He grinned. “But until your name is cleared, you only get Princeton servings.” His phone bleeped, and he turned his attention briefly to the text message.
“I’m not Finndale!”
“We only have your word, dear. And it wouldn’t be the first time you’d flown off the handle. Hopefully, this episode won’t amount to a hill of beans, but it’ll be a good lesson.” Barbara hoisted her shot glass. “To Harold, who saved the day once again!”
“Here, here,” added my father.
I tossed back the Sambuca. “Jesus, that’s sweet.”
“Just like Harold.” Kat strolled around the table and placed a sloppy kiss on Harold’s cheek, earning herself an aw shucks grin.
“Another round?” Roger asked, shaking the bottle.
Chapter Three
Sam texted first thing Monday morning, suggesting we meet at a popular pizza joint in Cleveland Circle for lunch. It was at least a twenty-minute subway ride from the financial district, smack dab in the middle of the day, but I suspected she’d chosen it for my benefit. I rode the subway to the university and back, but when I could, I preferred getting places on my own trusty two feet. Kat, however, preferred public transportation now. I was sure her memory of that horrific day was lodged deep in a recess of her brain, hopefully never to resurface.
Cleveland Circle was a fifteen-minute walk from our home, although I ducked out an hour early and stopped off at Chestnut Hill Reservoir. I sat on a three-day old newspaper on a bench and watched a gang of geese hiss and spit at all the walkers and runners. My intention had been to read a book I’d promised to blurb for my publisher, but I failed to crack it open. I stared absently at Boston College’s football stadium across the water. Scattered beer bottles poked through last night’s six inches of snow. The wood was slightly damp, hence the newspaper that had been left by a previous bench-sitter. How many others had claimed this lonely spot by the side of the water on a frosty December day to contemplate this thing called life?
Most runners in sight wore long sleeves and jogging pants, except for the occasional crazy or brave one dressed only in shorts and a T-shirt. Vapor expelled from my mouth with each breath, generating a temporary trail, yet the cold hadn’t set into my bones. Sometimes I toyed with the idea that the accident had left me impervious to unimportant things, like frigid temperatures. I shared this thought with Kat, who now insisted I wear a long black winter coat, beanie, scarf, and gloves—another reason I didn’t bother opening the book. Gloves and turning pages didn’t mesh.
It wasn’t that she didn’t understand. She did. Years ago, Kat had a shopping addiction that nearly brought us to financial collapse. Since the accident, she hadn’t stepped foot into a store. Weeks after coming home from the hospital, I’d discovered her tossing out clothes that still had price tags attached. Roger had hauled three overstuffed thirty-gallon garbage bags off to Goodwill.
The beeping on my iPhone alerted me I had five minutes before my lunch date. After I had missed several appointments with friends and family, including a meeting with the dean of the English department, lost in my own world, Kat purchased the phone and encouraged me to maintain the calendar. She must have plugged in today’s event for me, knowing I’d forget. It was another way she took care of me.
Part of me smoldered with shame that Kat insisted on babysitting me, a woman in her thirties. The other part loved her for understanding. We both needed help since that horrific day. I squeezed the bridge of my nose, willing the tears away.
With a sigh, I rose from the security of the isolated bench and ventured across the street to Cleveland Circle. My eyes wandered along the wires draped over the subway tracks and intersecti
on. This particular juncture provided several challenges, with trains pulling in and out of the depot. Motorists heading toward the reservoir had three lanes on one side of the intersection, but only one lane on the other side, forcing assertive Bostonian drivers into a survival-of-the-fittest mentality.
I flinched when a train on the C-line screeched to a halt outside the restaurant.
Sam sat in a plastic yellow booth on the far side of the pizza joint. The place was deserted, except for two men who were frantically prepping and boxing pizzas for delivery. It was only a matter of days ’til Christmas, and the bleak weather outside kept most indoors.
“Goodness, your cheeks look like radishes. How long were you outside in this?” She motioned to the low-hanging clouds that threatened more snow.
I smiled weakly and shrugged.
“I ordered a large cheese pizza.”
“Large, huh? Is it that bad?” I slipped into the seat opposite Sam, set the unread book off to the side, and shed my coat, scarf, and gloves. Compared to my lunch companion, I was severely underdressed in jeans and a ratty Harvard sweatshirt from my college days. Sam wore a brilliant white blouse and perfectly pressed navy blazer. Her blonde hair was swept neatly back into a stern ponytail, and her makeup was flawless.
“Before we discuss my mess, how are you? Harold stopped by late last night to discuss a book event with Lucy and he mentioned G-Dawg and Finndale. Everything okay?”
I shrugged. “Harold and Floyd are on it.”
“Floyd?” Sam blinked.
“One of Roger’s guys who steps in when things get weird. He’s worked with my uncle since his politician days.”
“Was he the big black guy that used to escort Roger to some of your games in high school?”
“That’s him.”
“Shit. I wouldn’t mess with him.”
“That’s his purpose.” I winked.
“Why would anyone believe you’re Finndale? It’s so obvious as to be obvious.”
Confessions From the Dark Page 4
