Flynn’s grandfather flopped down into a Barcalounger beside his wife. ‘Company, old girl,’ he said. He did not offer Eden a seat.
The old woman peered up at Eden, as if she had difficulty with her vision. ‘Who is it, Michael?’ she asked in a querulous voice.
Eden walked over to the wheelchair and bent over, offering the old woman her hand. ‘I’m Eden Radley. My mother was married to Flynn. Your grandson. I’ve just come back from the funeral.’
‘Whose funeral?’ the woman asked in confusion.
‘Her mother’s,’ Michael Darby shouted at his wife. ‘And Flynn’s kid. I told you about this. The mother killed herself. Took the boy with her.’
The old woman pressed her lips together and tears rose to her rheumy eyes.
‘Oh yes. Terrible. Just terrible.’ She clutched Eden’s warm hand in a cold, clawlike grip.
Eden disengaged and straightened up. ‘I understood that you couldn’t make it because of your health.’
‘We could have made it. He didn’t want us there,’ said Michael.
Looking at the two of them, Eden doubted very much if they could have negotiated hotels and airports. Not without considerable help. And, judging from the deteriorating condition of the house, help was in short supply for these two.
‘Well, in any case,’ she said, ‘I brought you both a copy of the program from the funeral service. Flynn wanted you to have it.’
‘Oh he did, did he?’ said the old man combatively. ‘That would be the first time he ever thought of us.’
‘Michael, don’t be like that,’ said the old woman in her thin, plaintive voice. She looked up at Eden hopefully. ‘Flynn is a nice boy. He always tried his best. He had a lot of problems.’
‘Nice boy, my ass. He was always nothing but trouble,’ said Michael Darby.
For a moment, Eden almost felt sorry for Flynn. ‘Well, he wanted you to have this.’ She put the program in the old woman’s hands.
The paper shook as Flynn’s grandmother held it, frowning at the picture. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.
Michael Darby’s pale cheeks reddened. ‘I told you,’ he cried. ‘Flynn’s wife and kid.’
The old woman’s eyes softened. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she said. She looked up at Eden. ‘She looks like you!’
Eden did not know what to say. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘How is Flynn?’ asked the old woman.
Eden shrugged. ‘He’s … having a hard time.’
‘Why a hard time?’ Flynn’s grandfather demanded.
‘His wife and child are dead,’ said Eden, affronted by his tone.
‘Are you kidding me?’ said Michael Darby. ‘His wife was old enough to be his mother, and the kid was nothing but a drooling mess. It’s a blessing he got rid of both of them. Your mother did him a favor, checking out like that. Flynn’s on easy street now. Got the life insurance for the both of them. He’ll be off on a world cruise. No, we won’t see him again. He won’t come back here until we die and he can get his hands on this house and make a bundle selling it to some developer who will pay him a king’s ransom to knock it down. You mark my words. All we sacrificed for him, and for what?’
Somewhere in the middle of this diatribe, Eden realized that this visit to the grandparents must not have been Flynn’s idea at all. This was just something that Lizzy, in her innocence, thought would be nice. A nice idea in theory, Eden thought. But, in reality, completely pointless. ‘Well,’ she said brusquely, ‘I’ve delivered the program to you. I’m going to go now.’
‘Oh, don’t go,’ the old woman pleaded. ‘Stay and have some cookies. Do we have cookies, Michael?’
‘I don’t know,’ Michael grumbled, twisting forward to get out of his chair. ‘I’ll check.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Eden. ‘I can’t stay. I’ll show myself out.’
‘Please stay. Make her stay, Michael,’ cried Flynn’s grandmother.
‘Leave her alone, Mother,’ Michael said in a long-suffering tone. ‘She wants to go. Let her go.’
Eden did not hesitate. She left the house without a backward look. She was shaking as she drove home. The old man was so vile, that it made her wonder what Flynn’s years growing up had been like. Obviously, raising Flynn after his mother died was not something they had undertaken willingly. How often did his grandfather remind him of that? she wondered. How could Flynn ever have felt at home in that house?
When she got home, exhausted by the whole ordeal, Eden went up to her room and took a nap. She was awakened by her father gently shaking her. The afternoon dusk was deepening into night.
‘Sweetie, don’t you think you ought to go back?’ he asked.
‘You want me to leave?’ Eden asked plaintively.
‘No,’ said Hugh. ‘But I know you should. You have work.’
Eden knew he was right. It was time. Even though she was eager to escape the memories which surrounded her here, she dreaded saying goodbye to her father, who looked utterly drained after the week’s events. It was only his urging that forced her out of the nest.
At the train station, she kissed him tenderly on the cheek and noticed how pale and papery his skin seemed. They embraced for a long time.
‘I’m worried about you, Dad. You seem … a little tired,’ Eden said, sniffling into a tissue.
‘I’m fine,’ Hugh said. ‘Don’t worry about me. Stop worrying.’
Eden hugged him again, thanked him for everything and climbed aboard the train. She found a seat and leaned her forehead against the cold train window. Although it was only a short, thirty-five-minute ride on the train from Robbin’s Ferry to New York City, the psychological distance was vast. By the time Eden had reached Grand Central, and taken the subway out to Brooklyn, the winter day had grown dark. The subway was a short walk from her apartment, which was on the second floor of a brownstone, in the front. A bay window, nearly obscured by the branches of a London plane tree, looked out over the city street. A fabric artist who lived in the next block had come in to water her plants, and left the lights on, as Eden had requested. She couldn’t bear to come home to complete darkness. There was enough of that in her life at the moment. Eden let herself in. Her friend had left a note of condolence and a little box of candy on the table. Eden felt both relieved and lonesome to be back in her own place, her own world.
She was looking glumly into her empty refrigerator when she got a call.
Her friend Jasmine, who was a waitress at the Black Cat across the street, was purring in her ear. ‘You’re back?’ Jasmine said. ‘Come over here. Right now. Have dinner with your friends.’
Eden hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said.
FIVE
The dinner was a little awkward at first, but a few drinks, and universal good intentions, smoothed out the evening. Eden’s friends would not allow her to pay for anything. She looked around fondly at the motley group of actors and bloggers, artists and waiters who had gathered to welcome her back, with no questions asked. The topic of her loss was avoided by tacit agreement. It was not a subject to be discussed in a large, lively group. But their banter distracted her, and their concern for her was palpable. She felt lucky to be among them. Late in the evening, Vince, the bartender from the Brisbane Tavern, came in and was immediately invited to join their table. Eden could feel his gaze on her during the evening and they exchanged a nod and a smile. He was undeniably attractive, and ordinarily she might have flirted with him, but she was too exhausted tonight, and too fragile. She sank into the supportive kindness of those at the cheerful table like a warm bath, and when she got up to leave, she quickly accepted the offer from her gay barista friend, Drew, to walk her back to her apartment.
She barely slept, and thought about calling in sick when the alarm went off, but, finally, Eden told herself that she would have to face it sooner or later, and there was no point in putting off the inevitable. She wore sunglasses on the subway to Manhattan, even though the day was cloudy, and,
when she entered the building on 57th Street, she avoided eye contact with anyone she passed. In the elevator she kept her gaze straight ahead. Even though she recognized some of the people who worked at DeLaurier Publishing, she pretended not to see them. She entered the reception area and waved at Melissa without stopping to chat.
Once she was burrowed in her own office, she felt safer, and the anxious racing of her heart settled down to a normal rhythm. A bouquet of flowers arrived from the company, and were set on her desk. Sophy came in, as she always did, and settled herself in the chair in front of Eden, ready to listen. Sophy could be a wonderfully matter-of-fact person, and she did not avoid the difficult subject of the murder/suicide. Her questions were both unabashed and tactful. Eden admitted helplessly that she could not explain it, and Sophy agreed that it was utterly baffling. Somehow, Eden felt better. She had said it out loud to someone who did not know her family, and she had not turned to stone as a result. It would be easier to say it aloud the next time.
Work had piled up on her desk and computer, and even though she had little appetite for it, she forced herself to begin working on manuscripts. Gradually, she found her interest returning. She hid out in her office for the rest of the work day, and no one tried to coax her out. When her mind wandered from the task, she chided herself into refocusing. She was lucky to have a job that interested her. Getting back to work felt like a relief.
Over the next few days, life as it was, far from Robbin’s Ferry, began to resume a semblance of normalcy. Eden called her father every night, reassured by the sound of Hugh’s voice. Her friends were solicitous, and invited her to dinner. She ate in someone else’s kitchen, or as their guest in one bistro or another, for the better part of two weeks. Her crying jags became less frequent. Her mother’s suicide had been a shock and a loss, but, in many ways, she told herself, she had grieved for her mother years ago. When Tara left Hugh for Flynn Darby, life as Eden knew it was torn apart. While Tara’s death was much more final, the feeling of losing her mother was not new to her. She had survived it once, she reminded herself. She would survive again.
One day Hugh called, and asked if he could come into Manhattan and take her out to dinner after work. Eden was surprised, but glad for the opportunity to see him. After they had eaten at a Chinese restaurant on the West Side, Hugh got around to the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m going to Florida for two weeks,’ he said.
Eden was delighted to hear that news. ‘Oh Dad, that’s great. You gonna do some fishing?’
‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a little worried about going so far away from you at such a difficult time.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Eden reassured him. ‘My friends are looking after me. I haven’t had dinner alone since I got back.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m okay,’ said Eden, and she did not allow even a shade of sadness into her voice. She wanted him to go to Florida, and rest in the sun, without worrying about her. ‘Who are you going with?’ she asked. ‘Are you going by yourself?’
Hugh looked a little pained. ‘Actually. No. Um … I’m going with Gerri. Her cousin has a condo down there that he’s lending us for the week.’
‘Gerri?’ said Eden, taken aback. ‘I thought you two were just … friends.’
‘We are friends,’ Hugh said firmly. ‘And my friend asked me if I wanted to go to Florida.’
‘Okay,’ said Eden slowly. ‘How long have you known about this?’
‘Not long. It was kind of spur of the moment.’
‘Dad, you’re not spontaneous,’ said Eden.
Hugh smiled shyly. ‘Okay, okay. It’s something we talked about on and off for a while. Gerri was thinking of asking her cousin, and then the cousin just called and offered. So, it seemed like … the thing to do.’
‘Well, great,’ said Eden, trying to mean it. My father is going away with a girlfriend, and I can’t even get a date, she thought. But whatever.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said sincerely.
‘It’s only two weeks,’ said Eden.
‘I always miss you,’ he said.
‘I know, Dad. Listen. You have a wonderful time.’
Their parting was fond, but not sad. Eden was proud of herself for that. Part of her wanted to just climb into his pocket and stay there. But her life had to go on.
And so did his.
A few days after she bid her father farewell, Eden got a call from Rob Newsome, the editorial director.
‘Eden,’ he said. ‘Mr DeLaurier would like us to come to a meeting in his office at four o’clock.’
‘What’s it about?’ she asked. She had never been summoned by the publisher before. It was a family business, one of the few left in New York publishing, which had been started by Maurice DeLaurier’s great-uncle nearly a hundred years earlier. Maurice was widely considered to be a shrewd CEO, who had grown the business from the small house it had been when he inherited it. Eden had met him when Rob Newsome hired her, but after that she had done little more than exchange polite greetings with the impeccably turned-out executive.
‘A new project. I really can’t say any more than that. I’ll see you at Maurice’s office at four.’
‘Okay,’ said Eden.
At four o’clock she refreshed her make-up, straightened her form-fitting knit dress, and walked down the corridor toward the publisher’s office. She got a nod to enter from his assistant. Eden tapped on the door then went in. The office had a wall of windows overlooking 57th Street, and the afternoon sun had turned the room, which was lined with bookshelves and furnished in leather and rich-looking carpets, to a blinding red gold. Eden closed the door and approached the conversation area where the two men were sitting. Maurice DeLaurier stood up politely and indicated a club chair.
‘Eden, thanks for coming. Won’t you have a seat?’
She glanced at Rob, and sat down in the empty chair.
‘It’s good to see you back at work. You’ve been through a difficult time.’
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ said Eden. Although she doubted that he even knew about the flowers, he nodded graciously.
‘Little enough,’ he said, ‘under the circumstances. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve asked you both here because I’ve been having some conversations with Gideon Lendl. He has made us a most interesting proposal.’
Eden immediately recognized the name of one of the most powerful literary agents in New York. ‘Gideon Lendl himself?’ she asked. She knew that it was unusual for Gideon Lendl to personally represent an author. His authors tended to be quite literary but also commercial, often landing on the best-seller list. Usually, the bigger, better-known publishing houses landed Gideon Lendl’s clients. She felt a little thrill of excitement at this news.
She glanced at Rob. His face was expressionless and his eyes were fixed on the publisher. Eden felt as if he was avoiding her questioning gaze. She turned back to Maurice. ‘Is it a celebrity author?’ she asked. They were all well aware of the clout a celebrity could bring to the sales of a book.
Maurice shook his head. ‘No. Up to this point, this author has only published in small literary magazines. But circumstances conspire to make this a very interesting property. I must tell you that the situation is a little delicate, though.’
Any book which was being fronted by Gideon Lendl himself was bound to be an important property. What does this have to do with me? she wondered. She had worked closely on big books with various editors in the company, but had not handled any major projects herself.
As if he had read her mind, Maurice addressed her. ‘Eden, this particular book has … personal implications for you.’
‘For me?’ she queried.
Maurice pressed his lips together and leaned forward. ‘Eden, the author wants you to be the editor of this book.’
‘Me? Why in the world? Do I know the author?’
Maurice nodded. ‘In fact, you do. His name is Flynn Darby.
I believe he was married to your late mother.’
If Maurice DeLaurier had smacked her across the face, he could not have stunned her more effectively. Eden blinked at him, as if trying to summon her senses after a knockout punch.
‘Mr Darby is a very talented writer, and the novel he has written makes for compelling reading. But, I feel I must warn you that it’s … somewhat grim, and very clearly about his life with your mother. There’s a great deal in there about their … marriage, and their struggles with a disabled child. Apparently, Mr Darby had been working on it for several years, and it was nearly finished when this terrible tragedy occurred.’
Eden stared at Maurice DeLaurier. The publisher was about to offer her a chance to instantly gain status in the company. In the publishing world in general. All she had to do was betray her family. She felt the old familiar hatred for Flynn Darby wash over her, and she began to shake all over. ‘And now, my mother’s suicide, my half-brother’s …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘murder’. ‘It would be good for sales,’ she said bluntly.
‘Eden,’ Rob said in a warning voice.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘Eden,’ Maurice said kindly, ‘I’m the one who’s sorry. I realize how difficult this must be for you. I don’t have to tell you that authors cannibalize their lives rather shamelessly. Frankly, it can be a little … repulsive from time to time. Your stepfather is far from the only writer who has chosen to do this. No sooner does a personal tragedy occur than many an author is trying to use it to advance his or her career. Mr Darby is not unusual in that regard.’
Eden was not able to look him in the eye.
‘But I have to be very honest with you,’ said Maurice. ‘The timing on this, while unfortunate in some ways, is very significant for us. It makes his book very topical. This book has the potential to be a major best-seller. First of all, it’s very well written. I want you to know that. This isn’t some hack job. Then, there is the disability angle, which he handles sympathetically. And then, undeniably your mother’s tragic death and the death of their son—’
Don't Believe a Word Page 5
