He cut the deals his boss told him to cut. But on his lunch breaks, and when he went home, and on weekends when his friends went out rock climbing or drinking, he wrote. He wrote different versions of the cases where things worked out the way they should. Part of it was that he needed to understand why the violent criminals he prosecuted did what they did. But the much bigger part was that he needed to give the victims justice. In the fictionalized versions he wrote, the criminals got the fullest possible penalty. Sometimes it wasn’t even criminal justice: for a couple of the really bad guys, they got street justice.
He’d written the first one because he needed the outlet. He’d never had any intention of getting it published. But he’d been second chair on a case he and another prosecutor lost. Badly. They got the conviction, but they’d had to let the guy—a sex trafficker—plead to lesser charges so they could get the guys higher up. Logically, Aidan always knew this was the best way to eventually get the worst guys. But the guy who’d gotten the lighter sentence was as bad as anyone he’d ever prosecuted. He just hadn’t had as much time to do as much damage. It killed Aidan that the scum would be out within five years to unleash his particular brand of evil again.
So Aidan had written the outcome the way he wished it had happened, a fictionalized version that he knew the other assistant DA would recognize immediately, and when he’d finished the draft, he’d given it to him as a way to . . . make it better? Not that, exactly. But to make it right, at least in a parallel creative universe.
What Aidan hadn’t known was that his friend’s father was Gary Reznick, the head of the Muses Agency. He’d given it to Gary to read, and it turned out that the American appetite for justice was deep and driving. The rest was history.
Catherine had hated every minute of it. The money never mattered to her. She’d seen his writing as lesser work, and the more important it became to him, the more she hated it. Ultimately, she’d claimed he wasn’t the man she married and walked out.
And he’d let her go, because he recognized the truth: he hadn’t really known who he was when they married either. But he’d figured it out, and he was becoming more of the person he knew he was meant to be, making a difference in ways she didn’t understand. He didn’t want her back because he didn’t want to go backwards in his own life.
The memory of her increasingly less subtle criticism of his writing and his priorities still stung sometimes. But they’d split up three years ago, and the hurt had largely faded.
Or so he’d thought, until Emerson Lindsor came along, poking him hard in all of his bruises.
That’s why you like her, a voice in his head said.
“I don’t like her,” he told the room at large. “And if I did, that crap isn’t healthy.”
That was true. Saying it, hearing it, sunk it in. It was not healthy for him to try to prove to Emerson that his words had value. He’d already had that relationship, and one of the big lessons he’d learned as a prosecutor was how destructive toxic relationships could be. Not that Catherine had been toxic. But their dynamic had. He’d watched a lot of otherwise decent men and women dragged down in their lives because they kept choosing the same “type” of partner over and over again, and it obviously said something about him that he was drawn to someone like Emerson when she had the same opinion of his work that his ex had.
And he was drawn to Emerson. That was the crux of it.
“Fine. I like her,” he confessed to the empty room. “But I still see that it isn’t healthy.”
This was something that was totally within his control. They’d lived on the same island for years without running into each other. There was no reason they ever had to cross paths again after this weekend.
By the time he’d showered, changed, and poked at his manuscript some more, he had his head back on straight as it related to Emerson Lindsor. She might have a sharp mind and clever comebacks, qualities he appreciated in a woman. And she might have a quiet, sexy thing happening that was obvious to anyone who looked past her muted clothes and understated makeup. He definitely saw through it. Her personality slipped through the cracks of that camouflage, a vibrancy and edginess that only made him pay more attention.
But not anymore.
He was done with her and ready to enjoy the rest of his weekend. He liked hanging out with other authors and talking shop, and there were dozens of people for him to talk to and learn from. Emerson Lindsor was officially off his radar.
He pulled up the schedule and noticed that the midafternoon keynote and tea were about to begin. The speaker was a woman whose work he’d blurbed. She wrote true crime books but they were about odd and utterly fascinating nonviolent crimes he’d never have considered, including her massive new bestseller about the complicated intrigue of exotic bird feather theft. Who knew?
He headed down to listen and enjoyed it even more than he’d expected to, giving her a standing ovation when she concluded her message of how fiction—just as much as nonfiction—had to tell the truth above everything else. Afterward, he headed for the generous spread the agency had again provided, in search of mini onion tarts. He wasn’t a fussy food kind of guy, but those had been really good. Now where were they?
“Aidan?”
He froze in the act of reaching for a tart. It was a softer tone for a voice he’d mostly only heard when Emerson was taking him down a notch.
He turned to face her, fixing a politely distant expression on his face. He was glad he’d learned the art of the inscrutable expression during trial days, because her appearance caught him completely off guard. She was dressed in a pinkish-orange dress, soft-looking and sleeveless, a matching shade of gloss on her lips, which he’d been staring at for just a second too long, he realized, when she bit them, a distinct air of nervousness hanging over her. It was almost as discernible as the light vanilla scent she was wearing.
“Emerson,” he said.
“It’s my turn to apologize.”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. He kept his mouth shut and waited to see what had prompted it.
“I was so rude by the lake. You just have a habit of catching me in embarrassing moments.”
He didn’t point out that they’d both involved her being slightly less than truthful about things like berets and reading material. It wasn’t like he’d been trying to catch her out. He waited for her to finish so he could get back to his onion tart hunt.
She pushed her hair behind her ear, and he realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen her wear it down instead of in her low ponytail. “The thing is, I really don’t wear berets. Or I do, but only in an ironic way. My friend Maggie gave me that hat as kind of a good luck thing. But also,” and she paused to swallow, “also, I’m sorry I said what I said about your book.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know it’s not your thing.” It wasn’t a validation of his work by any means, but he had enough grace to accept the apology. He gave her a polite nod and turned to scoop up a tart.
“It’s not,” she agreed. “I guess that’s why I was surprised by how absorbing it was.”
He twisted back around, too surprised by this admission to keep his courtroom face on. He didn’t even know what to say to that, and he stared at her while he tried to find words.
She seemed to interpret this to mean that she had to explain herself further. “I couldn’t put it down,” she admitted. “I haven’t read much genre fiction since . . .” She looked down at her feet, which were in white sandals that showed her toenails polished in bright blue. He wouldn’t have pegged her for blue toenails.
“Since?” he prompted her. It suddenly mattered a great deal to him that she finish the thought.
“In a long time,” she finished. But he knew she hadn’t given him the whole story. “Anyway,” she continued, “I want to finish your book.”
“I’ll have a room porter send it over.” He hoped he didn’t look stupidly pleased by her admission.
“It’s okay. I ordered it for my
tablet and read another hundred pages this afternoon.”
He couldn’t fight a smile this time. “You’re forgiven.”
She drew a deep breath and blurted, “I think it’s my turn to buy you an apology dinner. Tonight, my treat?”
He only hesitated for a split second. It was the polite thing to do, not the unhealthy moth-to-flame tendency he’d already scolded himself for earlier. This was much different than Catherine’s refusal to even read his work had been. Besides, Emerson had been gracious enough to let him apologize when he’d been out of line.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take you up on that.”
Her shoulders eased a bit and she smiled and reached for an onion tart—the last one, as it turned out, and he stifled a sigh. “I’m going to be done reading your book by then. I’ll have lots of questions.”
“Bring it.” That won the first real smile of the afternoon from her. “So what did you think of the keynote?”
“I didn’t think it would have much application to my work before she started talking, but she said a few things that gave me a new angle to consider in this book I’m fighting,” she said.
“Like what?”
And for the next several minutes, they had exactly the kind of writing conversation he loved to have with other writers. It ranged from books they’d both read and books on craft they’d each found helpful, and he was enjoying himself so much that he even forgave her for the thing she hadn’t apologized for: eating the last onion tart.
“So I guess what I’m saying,” he concluded, “is that genius writing is the backbone of everything, genre or literary, and that’s why stuff like Star Trek is an enduring part of our cultural fabric.” He expected her to tease him about Star Trek. Giving her the opening was his way of signaling that he really was cool with her now.
Instead, she said, “Only the Picard episodes.” And then she got a funny look on her face, like she’d swallowed a fly. “Anyway, I get what you’re saying, but that’s why I feel Swedish television offers so much to think about. Thank goodness for Netflix, right?”
“Wait, you watch Star Trek?” He peered closely at her, studying her like she was an opposing witness he was about to dissect on the stand. “Don’t try to pivot with that Swedish red herring. I heard you.”
She glanced around, the look of someone seeking escape, another look he knew well from his trial days. But there was nowhere to run, then or now, and he wanted to pull on this thread.
“Which is the best episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “I’m not that much of a fan.”
She was lying. He had a finely honed instinct for liars. “Let me help you out: it’s an episode called ‘Code of Honor.’” It was a trap. It was easily one of the worst episodes of all time.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He said nothing, just pursed his lips in the universal sign for “interesting reaction.” Her mouth opened, closed, pressed tight, opened again, closed, and this time smiled. “It’s ‘Lower Decks.’”
It was his turn to be surprised. “That’s a boring episode. Nothing happens.”
“Everything happens,” she said. “It’s the one episode where we’re really grounded in the small details of their lives. That makes it more real than any other episode.”
“You’re crazy. It’s ‘Inner Light.’” These were the kind of fundamental philosophical disagreements that led to full-fledged brawls at fan conventions. He knew because his office had to process a bunch of simple assault pleas after a Star Trek convention one year. He was just looking forward to digging into the argument when he felt a shift in her and knew her attention had gone elsewhere. He followed her gaze to a tall man on the other side of the patio. He didn’t recognize the man, but whoever he was, he had all of Emerson’s attention, and Aidan sensed a distinct return of the nervous energy she’d had before she’d gotten her apology out of the way.
“I’d like to talk about this some more over dinner, but there’s someone I need to catch.” She said all this as she kept her eye on the man in the distance. “Meet you in the restaurant at 7:00?”
“Sure.” He was too proud to compete for her attention. She shot him a quick smile before she excused herself and crossed the patio to the new arrival.
Aidan watched her as she approached him. The man was tall, maybe even taller than Aidan who was a little over six feet. He had Scandinavian features, hair so blond it was almost white. He couldn’t discern the other man’s eye color, but he was slim and carried himself with confidence, and Emerson leaned toward him and touched the man’s sleeve lightly as she spoke.
He knew that move. Women did it to him all the time.
But Emerson never had.
He was uncomfortable as he realized how much that bugged him. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. He might need to take another head-clearing swim in the lake.
That was all he needed. That, and an onion tart. That weird feeling in his stomach was hunger, nothing more.
Chapter Nine
Emma wished she hadn’t worn the coral dress. Maggie had been right, it was flattering on her, and she’d chosen it because she’d needed the extra armor of looking her best when she went down to make her apology to Aidan after being such a jerk to him by the lake. She wasn’t above using her feminine wiles to get him to go easy on her when he rightly could have chewed her out for her behavior. She was a feminist, but a feminist with a toolbox that included a really pretty dress.
She just hadn’t counted on running into Luther Van Dijk at that moment, and for him she’d have used a different armor: the tidy shirt dress that showed she meant business. Still, she couldn’t let the moment pass to establish a connection, so she’d excused herself from Aidan—even though it was so hard to leave the argument when he was so wrong about Star Trek—and gathered up her courage to approach Luther. Thankfully, she’d rehearsed a million different approaches until she found the right one.
“Excuse me, Mr. Van Dijk,” she said, when there was a pause in the conversation he was having with an older man. “I’m Emerson Lindsor.” There was no recognition on his face, but why would there be. She forged ahead. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your insights on Digging In.” It was the name of his book review podcast. “You often express ideas that end up shaping my own writing. I’d be stuck more often if it weren’t for those nuggets you share.” She tried very hard to keep from cringing at the word “nuggets.” It didn’t seem like the kind of word a serious author should use in a conversation with a critic of Luther’s caliber, but it had popped out.
“It’s kind of you to say so.” He turned his full attention on her now. He was about fifteen years older than her, but striking in his classic Scandinavian looks, like a middle-aged Viggo Mortensen. She waited for him to ask what she wrote, a common question at writer gatherings, but instead he gave her a dazzling smile and asked, “Which episode have you liked best so far? And call me Luther.”
“When you made the case for the essential function of literary theory in college programs.”
His expression went from a look of practiced charm to slight surprise. “Really? That one seemed to have been fairly controversial to a number of my listeners. I’d begun to wonder if perhaps I’d gotten it wrong.”
“Oh no,” she said, touching the sleeve of his jacket lightly to reassure him. “It reflects what I see in the superficial analysis from my literature survey class.”
“You teach as well?” He skimmed her head to toe, as if surprised that this colorful sundress wearing woman had an academic career. She knew she should have stuck with her own wardrobe.
“I do, at a small liberal arts college.”
“I’d love to hear your thoughts on New Historicism. Would you care to join me for dinner?”
She almost said yes, until she realized she’d already made plans. She couldn’t cancel a dinner that she’d specifically scheduled so she could apologize, even for an opportu
nity to talk to one of the foremost critical theorists currently publishing. Could she? But her hesitation was enough to close a door on the opportunity as Luther’s expression tightened and he murmured, “Another time, then,” before turning back to the other man he’d been talking to.
It would definitely be wrong to cancel on Aidan. And she didn’t want to, anyway. But this moment from Luther was rapidly tipping from a missed opportunity to a borderline social disaster, and she needed to fix it quickly.
“Sorry,” she said, sliding into his conversation as the other man paused for a moment. “I’d love to discuss New Historicism, but I’m already committed to dinner elsewhere.” And then she did the one thing that she hated to do. “It’s a shame. I would have loved to tell my mother I’d compared critical theory notes with Luther Van Dijk. She admires your work.”
She had his attention again. “Your mother?” His tone was quizzical. She let him make the connection. “You said your last name was Lindsor? Is Arianna Lindsor your mother?”
“You’ve heard of her?” She knew he had. He’d been the one to call her mother the greatest literary voice of her generation.
“Of course. I’d love to hear how she’s doing. It’s a shame you have dinner plans, but I like to close my evening with some Macallan single malt. If you find yourself in the direction of the bar, perhaps you’ll join me?”
Emma rarely drank. Maybe a glass of wine now and then, but she knew better than to turn down the opportunity again, so she smiled. “I’m sure I’ll see you there.”
She was afraid to linger in case it turned into awkward lurking, so she smiled and excused herself before she fled for her room.
Maggie glanced up from her laptop as she walked in. “That was a fascinating keynote, wasn’t it?”
“A lot to think about,” Emma agreed.
“It looked like an equally fascinating conversation you were having with Aidan. What was that all about?”
Always & Forever: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection, Books 1 - 4) Page 8
