by Maria Geraci
“It’s called Spanx. Don’t you think I look like Farrah Fawcett?” She carefully pats her blonde curls. “It’s a wig. But don’t tell anyone.”
“What’s up with your face?” asks Mom, making her my new personal hero.
“Botox. And a makeover at the Clinique counter at Dillard’s.”
“Don’t you think that long, blonde hair looks a bit … too much for a woman your age?” Mom says, trying to be tactful.
Betty Jean makes a huffing sound. “If Christie Brinkley can get away with it, why can’t I?”
“For one thing, Christie Brinkley is younger than you,” I say. “Plus, you know, she’s a supermodel.”
“Phooey. The only difference between me and Christie Brinkley, besides a few years, is that she has a really good team behind her. I’m thinking of getting my neck done. What do you think? And be honest.”
Before I can give Betty Jean what she’s asked for, Mom discreetly elbows me in the ribs. “Whatever makes you happy, dear. Now tell us, because we’re dying to know. Have you met J.W. yet?”
“I’ll say.” Betty Jean makes a growling sound. “And I’m happy to report that he’s just as yummy in person as he is on the phone.”
Mom leans in. “What’s he like?” she asks eagerly.
“Terribly handsome. You can all thank me later.”
“Why should we thank you?” I ask.
“Because, Lucy McGuffin,” says Betty Jean with attitude, “if it wasn’t for me, J.W. wouldn’t even know that Whispering Bay exists. If I hadn’t reached out to him, tonight would never be happening, so you’re all very welcome.”
I’m not sure how much more of this foolishness I can stand. Betty Jean does a double take like she’s just now noticing my dress. “Yowza. I’m impressed. I didn’t think you could pull it off.”
“Pull what off?” asks a deep male voice from over my shoulder.
I turn around to see Will. Next to him is Brittany, who practically wilts with relief at the sight of my dress. “Thank goodness you came to your senses,” she says.
“Came to her senses about what?” asks Will.
“Betty Jean dared Lucy to look sexy tonight,” explains Brittany. “And at first … well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she got it right in the end. Did Travis go crazy over your dress?” she asks me.
I feel my face go hot. “He liked it all right.”
In what is undoubtedly the most awkward moment of my life thus far, Brittany turns to Will. “Don’t you think Lucy looks fabulous?”
Will and I lock eyes in a guilt-ridden gaze. It’s not fair to keep my feelings for Will from Brittany, especially when I know how much she likes him. Sure, Will might have told her that he just wants to be friends, but knowing Brittany, she probably doesn’t believe him. Once this J.W. Quicksilver business is taken care of, I need to have a long talk with all the parties involved in my messy not-so-love life.
“I always think Lucy looks great,” Will says diplomatically.
Travis and Dad come back with drinks in their hands, and everyone starts making small talk.
The lights in the room dim, then flash back on. “That’s my cue!” Brittany hands me her champagne glass. “I have to introduce J.W.” She makes her way to the front of the room and picks up a mic. “Good evening, y’all!” It’s amazing how Brittany’s Southern accent goes up two notches whenever she’s in front of an audience. “If y’all wouldn’t mind taking your seats, it’s time for our program to begin.”
I hurry to get the best seat possible in the front row. Travis sits on my right, and Shirley Dombrowski takes a seat on my left. I lean over and whisper, “I didn’t know you were a J.W. Quicksilver fan.”
Shirley’s cheeks pinken. “Don’t tell Father, but I’ve read chapter fifteen from Assassin’s Creed four times now!”
“We all have,” I mutter.
I crane my neck and spot Will seated next to my parents a few rows over. Mom and Dad look practically giddy, while Will’s expression remains grim. The air around us is thick with excitement. My heart thumps with anticipation. I can’t wait until Will tells everyone the truth. People will be shocked, yes, but they’ll also be excited when they realize we have an honest-to-goodness celebrity living right here in town.
Brittany begins her introduction, reading off a list of J.W. Quicksilver’s literary accomplishments. So far, everything is straight out of his website bio. “One more thing,” she adds, her voice turning stern. “As you’re all aware, Mr. Quicksilver is a very private person. Absolutely no photography is allowed tonight.” Brittany lets everyone absorb this a minute. “It’s now my great pleasure to give you the one and only bestselling author Mr. J.W. Quicksilver!”
The room erupts with applause. A man in his early sixties emerges from a side door and walks up to the podium. Tall, with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he’s wearing a waist-length black jacket with a bowtie and a green plaid kilt.
What? A kilt?
He flashes us a roguish smile. “Good evening, Whispering Bay,” he says in a deliciously deep Scottish brogue. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Shirley gasps, then clutches my hand. “Oh my God. It’s Sean Connery!”
While the rest of the crowd is taking in the fact that J.W. is apparently Scottish, I give this faker a thorough perusal. No, not Sean Connery, but close enough. Movie star good looks and a Scottish accent. This guy is good. No wonder Betty Jean is running around town making a fool of herself.
I try to catch Will’s attention, but like the rest of the crowd, he’s riveted by this fake, who begins reading a passage from the latest book in the series, Assassin’s Revenge. I’ve read the book, so none of this is new to me, but holy wow, this guy with his deep Highland brogue is putting a whole new spin on things. He looks up occasionally to make eye contact with the audience. His gaze drifts slowly until it reaches my row. We lock eyes. Then he winks at me. The nerve.
Shirley sucks in a breath. “Lucy, J.W. Quicksilver just winked at me!” She nearly squeezes the life from my hand. “Do you think he’s wearing anything under his kilt?”
“Shirley, for Pete’s sake, control yourself.” I disentangle my hand from her grasp.
“Sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed.”
I’ll say. Poor Shirley. I don’t want to burst her bubble and tell her that he was winking at me and not her. At least, I think it was me.
I glance around the room. Nearly every woman appears to be mesmerized by this fake J.W. Including my own mother. I take it back. This guy isn’t just good. He’s dangerous. The sooner Will tells everyone that he’s the real J.W., the better.
The impostor finishes reading, and the room once again goes wild with applause. This is Brittany’s cue to walk back to the podium. “Wasn’t that just brilliant?” she gushes, causing the applause to start up again.
This time, I’m able to catch Will’s gaze. I’ve never seen him look so furious. To everyone else he probably seems pensive, but the cold glint in his blue eyes sends a shiver down my spine. Not that I blame him for being angry.
“Ms. Anita Tremble, Mr. Quicksilver’s personal assistant, will go around the room with a mic, so if you have any questions, please raise your hand,” Brittany instructs.
I wait for Will for say something, but he doesn’t. Instead we spend the next hour listening to this guy field questions about everything from his writing process to how he got his first “break” into publishing.
Why is Will letting this go on?
Maybe he’s waiting for this guy to sink himself, only he doesn’t. It’s amazing how he manages to answer each question with just enough details to sound credible. How long has he been rehearsing this? I take it back again. This fake J.W. isn’t just dangerous; he’s a sociopath.
“We have time for one more question,” says Brittany as she scans the upraised hands in the audience. “Oh! Let’s hear from our very own head librarian.” She points him out to Anita, who hands the mic over to Will.
; Finally. I thought this would come sooner in the evening, but leave it to Will to wait until the last minute for maximum drama. I can hear him now. In a scene straight from Spartacus, he’ll calmly pronounce, “I’m J.W. Quicksilver!” I can’t wait to hear Mr. Highlander try to wiggle his way out of that one.
We wait for Will to say something, but he’s silent.
The audience turns around to look at him. Will is staring at “J.W.” with the same cold blue gaze as before. I’m starting to get twitchy. Do it! I scream inside. Tell everyone that you’re the real J.W. Quicksilver!
The audience begins to shuffle nervously in their seats. Everyone is getting the impression that something isn’t right.
“Well, man,” drawls the fake J.W. “Spit it out. I canna answer a question unless you ask one.”
Laughter sweeps through the room, causing Will’s face to go red. “No question,” he says tightly. “I just want to thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to come here tonight.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” says the fake J.W., oblivious that he’s addressing the very man he’s impersonating.
Will hands the mic back to Anita.
Wait. That’s it?
Brittany adds her thanks and instructs everyone who wants to purchase J.W.’s latest book to form a line to the right. I want to shout at the top of my lungs that they aren’t getting an authentic J.W. Quicksilver autograph, but of course, I can’t do that.
“Aren’t you getting in line, Lucy?” asks Travis, shaking me out of my stupor.
“Maybe. When it dies down a little.” I want to talk to this guy and see if I can figure out what his deal is, but more importantly, I need to talk to Will. “These heels are killing me. I’m not sure I’m up to standing in them for the next hour.” Which isn’t exactly a lie.
“I can hold your place in line for you,” he offers.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Sure. I have to admit, after listening to the guy, I’m intrigued. I might just have to buy a book for myself.”
This is getting worse by the second. Betty Jean, sure. Shirley and the rest of the audience, understandable. But if someone as sharp as Travis can be taken in by this con man, then this town is in trouble.
I glance around the room at the few scattered persons who aren’t in line and spy Will over by the bar. “Thanks. I’m going to take you up on your offer while I get a refill on my drink.”
I head over to the bar, where Will is staring down into his glass like he’s just lost his best friend. Which might very well happen if he doesn’t man up soon. I liked angry Will better than this dejected version.
“What happened?” I hiss. “I thought you were going to tell everyone who you were.”
“Not here, Lucy.”
Not here? Then where? And when? I want to scream.
I glance over to see a familiar-looking door. If the layout of this place hasn’t changed since my high school days, I’m pretty sure it leads to a storage room. Before he can protest, I grab Will by the elbow and drag him into the room, shutting the door firmly behind us.
Chapter Five
I flip on the lights. Good. The storage room is just I as remembered. No one will bother us in here.
“What are you doing?” Will asks, wild-eyed.
“What am I doing? What are you doing? What happened to telling everyone the truth?” I point to the door. “There’s a con man out there impersonating you, and now he’s taking money for a book he didn’t write and signing your pen name to them. Don’t you care?”
Will shoves a hand through his hair. “He must have bought those books off Amazon or ordered a bunch of copies from some other online site.” He looks me in the eye. “He isn’t making money off them. He would have to pay retail for those copies. And even if he didn’t, he could make what? Maybe a few hundred dollars selling them? It makes no sense.”
I’m a little less angry now, so I concentrate on what he just said. He’s right. This doesn’t make sense. “So, what’s his angle?”
“I have no idea,” he says grimly. “Other than to get his jollies pretending he’s me.”
“You have to admit, being you is pretty awesome. Did you see all those people out there? They’re here because of you, Will. Because of the books you write. You should be the one out there reading your book out loud and getting applause. Not that … Dougal MacKenzie wannabe.”
He snickers at my Outlander reference. “Can you believe that phony accent?”
“You think it’s phony?”
“It’s about as real as the Loch Ness monster. The thing is, what’s he up to? He has to know he’ll get caught.”
“How? Unless the real J.W. Quicksilver comes forward. Did you see how sneaky he was? Requesting that no one take pictures?”
“That doesn’t guarantee anything. What’s to stop someone from taking a picture and posting it online? Or telling the world on Facebook that they’ve met J.W. Quicksilver in the flesh?”
Will has a point. In this day of social media, there’s no way this guy is going to get away with this scam. “I need to talk to him. Maybe I can ferret out what he’s up to.”
“You’ll do that?”
“Yes, but you have to promise to tell Betty Jean the truth. You need to go to her book club meeting tomorrow night as yourself and schmooze up to everyone. Sign books. Answer questions. Pet Betty’s Jean’s cat. It’s the only way you can make up for tonight’s fiasco.”
He tries to hide his smile. “Betty Jean has a cat?”
“I have no idea. But if she does, you’ll do it. And anything else she asks. Within reason,” I add quickly, because let’s face it, this is Betty Jean we’re talking about.
“Okay. You’re right. I’ll go to Betty Jean’s and tell everyone I’m the real J.W. Quicksilver.”
I heave a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’ve come to your senses.” Will still looks miserable, so on impulse, I reach out and hug him.
The door to the storage room flies open, and we jump apart like a couple of guilty teenagers.
Travis stands in the doorway. “What’s going on? I looked over and saw you pull Cunningham into the closet.”
“I … it’s a storage room, not a closet,” I clarify. “We were discussing, um, what kind of muffins I should bring to the book club meeting tomorrow night.”
Ack. This is so lame.
I glance between both men. Travis and Will are staring each other down like they’re ready to reenact the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Over me?
I brush past Travis. “What’s the line situation?”
“It’s moving along,” he says, still scowling. “I was standing behind a guy in a tweed suit and glasses. He’s holding your place.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I’ll join you in a minute. I want to have a word with Cunningham first.”
Will grunts in agreement.
Oh, boy. The last thing I want is to leave these two alone, but I have no choice. Travis is right. The line is moving at a nice pace, and I can’t miss this opportunity to have a talk with the fake J.W.
I weave my way back into the line, which is mostly composed of familiar faces, but there are more than a few people I’ve never seen before. Tourists, probably. It’s not hard to find the gentleman Travis described. He’s maybe in his mid-sixties, bald, and gives off a strong ex-professor vibe.
“Excuse me,” I say. “My friend says you were saving my place in line?”
He nods pleasantly. “You must be Lucy. He didn’t want you to lose your spot.”
“Great reading, huh?”
“It was delightful,” he says.
I try to hide my smile. Delightful isn’t exactly how I’d describe Assassin’s Revenge. “Big fan?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve read all the books in the series. How about you?”
“Only the last two, but I plan on catching up.” I extend my hand. “Lucy McGuffin.”
“Hoyt Daniels,” he says, shaking my ha
nd. “Nice to meet you.”
A breeze swirls through the air, catching the little hairs on the back of my neck. That’s odd, considering that we’re indoors.
“You don’t live in Whispering Bay, do you? I grew up here, and I’m pretty sure I know everyone in town. Unless … you’re a donut person?”
“Donuts?” He shudders. “No, I’ve never cared for them. All that sugar and I don’t get along. And you’re right. I don’t live here in town. I was passing through, and I heard about this wonderful opportunity. I simply couldn’t pass it up.”
“You’re lucky you got a ticket. I hear they sold out in the first hour.”
“Right place at the right time. I thought I’d stay for a couple of days and enjoy the local hospitality.”
“Then you should come to my café. The Bistro by the Beach. We make the best muffins in town. If you’re concerned about your sugar intake, no worries. I always have one low-fat, low-sugar muffin on the menu. As a matter of fact, I’m working on a vegan low-fat chocolate zucchini muffin right now. I’m on my third round, and each time they get better.” I dig into my purse and hand him a card. “First muffin is on the house.”
He looks at the card, then places it inside his suit pocket. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll have to check it out.”
The line moves up a few people, and we move along with it. A woman’s high-pitched laugh draws my attention. Shirley is getting her book signed, and whatever this fake J.W. is saying to her has her giggling like a schoolgirl. “It appears our author has quite a way with women.”
Hoyt follows my gaze. “It appears you’re right.” He frowns for a second, then his face smooths into a smile. “Tell me more about these muffins of yours. Do you have a favorite?”
“Not really. It depends on my mood. The apple walnut cream cheese is my signature muffin, but the mango coconut is pretty popular too. And there’s the usual—lemon poppy seed, oat bran, chocolate chip, and of course, blueberry.” I mention the blueberry because most people expect it, but it’s my least favorite muffin to bake. It’s not that I dislike it. It’s just boring.
