by Dara Girard
Rick laughed. “Don’t try to mother me now. You know I always do what I want to.” He stood and went to his mother’s bookshelf and took Suzanne’s book from it. He looked at the worn spine and battered pages. “I’ve always wondered why you’ve read it so many times, if you hate it so much.”
“I have my reasons.”
He replaced the book. “I’m sure you do. And I have mine so don’t worry about me. I’m not interested in her.” That was a lie, but he lied well, and his mother sat back and relaxed.
Suzanne stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, willing herself to sleep. She was still trying to get used to the quiet. She was used to the cacophonous noises of a bustling city and the silence of the town had become foreign to her. But she knew her sleepless night had nothing to do with the sound of crickets. She couldn’t sleep because of Rick.
For years she’d tried to convince herself that the time she had spent with him had been a harmless flirtation. A rebellion. That it hadn’t meant anything. But now she knew she’d been deceiving herself. No matter how he made her feel, she couldn’t succumb again. She knew she had terrible taste in men and her present circumstance proved it. Her father was a bastard leaving her nothing but his debt and memories of his overbearing reputation. Her ex-husband shamed her every day of their marriage by sleeping with any woman who was willing and there were plenty. Then there was John Peckman, her agent. The man she’d at one time thought she was in love with. The man who had helped her get a six-figure contract for her novel and guided her through the shock of sudden fame and fortune. The man who helped her invest in a bad prospect, then developed a drug and gambling habit and ran off with the rest of her money. What a fool she’d been to trust him so completely. She decided she would never trust a man again.
The investigator she had hired couldn’t find him and Suzanne soon realized that she was quickly going through the advance for her second novel, and she wasn’t close to finishing her next manuscript. Everyone thought she was a rich, successful novelist, but she was nearly broke. She felt like a failure. If she didn’t sell the house soon everyone would discover her lie and her shame. She knew she had no other place to go. She’d left her apartment in New York with the rent two months past due.
Had her mother been alive, she wouldn’t understand Suzanne’s predicament. Leslie Rand believed that a woman should always have a man pay for everything. “Always let a man pay your way,” her mother had told her. And she meant in all things from a meal to a mansion. Her mother expected men to take care of women. With a coy smile and a compliment her mother had turned the strongest men into mush. “You use the right words, baby, and any man will be yours,” she said.
“The right words?”
“Yes, words of seduction. You seduce them with praise, you feed their ego and let them think your advice comes from their own minds and you’ll be indispensable. Your compliments will become like a drug and you’ll have them coming back for more. Your power comes down to three things—E.T.W. Eye contact, touch and words. Use those three things in the right manner and no man can resist.”
And her mother taught her all that she knew, but she hadn’t taught her which men to choose and that men could be betrayers. She preferred to be alone and the only seductive words she used appeared on the page. No man was going to help her out of this situation, but fortunately she had friends and they would come to her aid if she needed them. She knew she’d never be homeless.
One of her best friends, Noreen Webster, had offered her a room in her three-story luxury town house, but Suzanne didn’t like that option. Noreen was still reeling from the demise of her marriage and dealing with her unstable sister. Then there was Claudia Madison, her other best friend. Suzanne loved her, but knew she could never live with her. She was too free-spirited for Suzanne’s more conservative ways. No, Suzanne knew she would have to find a way to survive on her own. And there was one thing she knew for sure. She didn’t need another man to cause trouble in her life. Once she found a way to get out of this mess she was moving away and starting over.
The next morning Suzanne overslept. She hadn’t meant to. She was usually good at keeping to a schedule, but after staying up late last night thinking—or trying not to think—about Rick, the ringing of the alarm clock didn’t wake her but the phone did. She pounded the alarm with her fist then grudgingly picked up the receiver.
“Where are you?” an anxious voice said. She recognized the formal Bostonian tone as her friend Noreen’s.
She wiped sleep from her eyes. “What?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you forgot it.”
She sat up alarmed. “Forgot what?”
“The book signing event.”
Suzanne jumped up and swore. “That was today?”
“Yes.”
Suzanne swore again. The signing was a huge media event with more than twenty authors, including her friends. She glanced at the clock. She had two hours. One hour to get ready and another to get there. She would be cutting it close, but she could make it. “I’ll be right there.”
“Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll be fine. See you soon.”
Suzanne quickly changed into a pair of black tailored slacks and a white fitted shirt, then grabbed a bagel with strawberry jam before racing out. But when she took a bite of her bagel some red jam dropped on her top so she had to rush back inside and change into a wrinkled blue blouse she didn’t have time to iron. An hour and fifteen minutes later, she raced through the mall, trying to find the author’s booth. The event, which was being sponsored by one of the largest book chains in the area and the local writers’ association, was an annual event that Suzanne had always attended, since the release of her novel four years earlier.
Right outside the main bookstore, tables and chairs were arranged in a semicircle, sporting larger-than-life silhouette cutouts of fictional characters, several book displays and grinning authors sitting behind tables waiting to sign books. A long line of fans started to form. Book signings were not one of her favorite activities, but Suzanne knew that any amount of publicity would be better than none. She hated the lookie-loos who walked by slowly, just to look at her, and made comments such as:
“She doesn’t look very much like her picture.”
“I hated her book. I don’t know why it sold so well.”
And sometimes men would approach with lame lines like “Hello my Nubian princess. I would like to make you my queen” and then slip their phone number to her, expecting her to call.
And, naturally, every author at a book signing expected the following question:
“Do you know where the bathroom is?”
But Suzanne didn’t have time to worry about the headaches the day might bring, she needed to find her spot. Fortunately, one of the organizers, a heavyset man named Mr. Whimple who had a thin mustache and a fat bowtie, saw her first and led her to the right place. She sat down at the white covered table where stacks of her books sat off to the side with a supply of pens. She sank into the seat exhausted.
“Are you okay?” Noreen said, coming up to her table with a worried look. Her brown eyes looked large behind her black-framed glasses that matched her equally black suit, which gave her the appearance of an executive. But her unruly curls held back by a patterned cloth headband destroyed that image and made her look like a kid playing dress-up. Her petite size didn’t help the matter, but in spite of her youthful appearance Noreen was tough and shrewd and used that shrewd gaze now.
“I’m fine.”
“But—”
“You made it!” Another voice interrupted. Suzanne turned and saw her friend Claudia who was dressed in a flowing chiffon dress that draped her willowy frame perfectly. Her black hair fell to her chin and at that moment she could pass for a twenties’ flapper. All she needed was a string of long pearls and a thin cigarette. She dashed over and quickly kissed Suzanne on the cheek. “I’m a few tables over, but I had to say hello. You look great.”
Noreen frowned. “She looks harried.”
Claudia made a face; Noreen ignored her as she studied Suzanne more closely. “It’s not like you to miss something this big,” she added.
“But I didn’t miss it,” Suzanne said, wishing Noreen would drop the subject.
Noreen wasn’t ready to. “You would have if I hadn’t called.”
“Yes,” Suzanne reluctantly admitted. “I’m glad you did. I had a long night. A lot to think about.”
“Like what?”
Suzanne glanced at her watch. “We don’t have time to talk about it now.”
“Then we’ll talk about it later.”
Behind her Claudia rolled her eyes. Although Noreen was the youngest amongst them, she deemed herself the leader.
Suzanne forced a smile, she didn’t want to talk at all, but she knew Noreen wouldn’t let it rest. “Okay.”
“Good. And don’t even try to sneak away.”
“Do you have spies?”
Noreen smoothed out a wrinkle on her sleeve. “I don’t think you want to find out,” she said, then walked over to her table.
Claudia shook her head. “She’s a strange little thing. There’s so much I still don’t know about her.”
“But we love her anyway.”
Suddenly, a voice came over the loud speaker. “Authors please get to your tables so we can begin.”
“That’s my cue,” Claudia said. She blew her friend a kiss then left. Suzanne watched her go, again struck by the contrasts of her friends. They were complete opposites in looks and their work. She’d met them four years ago at a national writers’ conference in Raleigh. Noreen had relocated to the area because of her husband’s job. She was already an established author. Claudia had left her successful psychology practice after her first novel became a bestseller, and was working on her second novel while Suzanne was the unpublished newbie.
It was only after she’d checked into the hotel that she’d learned that her assigned roommate wasn’t coming and Suzanne couldn’t afford the full price of the room. Noreen overheard her talking to the registrar and offered to stay with her even though she lived close by and could have easily gone home. They met Claudia in the hallway as she tried to get into their room with the wrong key. They laughed at the mix-up and had clicked over food and drinks and had been friends ever since.
Noreen was now a top romance novelist whose passionate tales constantly hit the bestseller lists. Claudia’s deep family dramas had twice been turned into TV movies and she also used her degree in psychology to pen several bestselling nonfiction relationship books for women. Both women were a lot more prolific than Suzanne, who felt like a one hit wonder in their presence. Her book, Beneath the Ashes, had been an unexpected blockbuster and had put her name on the map overnight. But could she write another hit?
Suzanne didn’t have much time to wallow in her fears once the signing officially began. For the next two hours she smiled and posed for photos with adoring fans, autographed books and graciously accepted compliments. The day would have been perfect if one of her fans hadn’t asked the one question she dreaded.
Chapter 4
“When will we see your next book?” the woman asked with an eagerness that was palpable. She blinked as though she were about to cry and trembled with such excitement it seemed possible that the butterfly prints on her shirt were about to fly away.
Suzanne focused her gaze on her inscription. “Soon. Hopefully.” She snapped the book closed then handed it back.
The woman leaned closer. “Will it be another book set in Waverly?”
“No. This one will be different.”
“How different? I’d love another Waverly story.” The five women behind her agreed and then spent the next five minutes telling her about plot points they’d like to see and who should be with whom. “They’re all great ideas,” Suzanne interrupted. “Who knows what the future holds.” She continued to smile, wishing them to disappear.
The woman would have continued to press her, but thankfully Mr. Whimple came to her rescue and quickly and effectively shuttled them through the line.
By the second hour everyone’s faces became a blur, but Suzanne was careful to make sure that each fan felt as though she thought they were special. And they were, but she felt like a fraud. Her readers thought she was a glamorous rich author. Would they still want her autograph if they knew the truth? That she wrote fiction, lived fiction and had a fictional persona to maintain.
“Hello, Suzanne.”
At the sound of her ex-husband’s voice, Suzanne nearly snapped her pen in two. She took a deep breath before looking up at him. She wished he’d changed. Gotten fat or thin, or grayed or bald. But he was still tall and good-looking with a smooth charismatic smile that swayed most people into believing he was trustworthy. He was the same handsome bastard she’d divorced five years ago. “Did you get lost?”
“I came to see you. It seemed the only way, since you won’t return my calls and pretend not to be home when I stop by.”
“You sound paranoid.” Suzanne averted her gaze and looked at the anxious ladies standing in line.
“Speaking of paranoid, I haven’t seen you in town. Are you hiding?”
“No.”
“I know you, honey. You can’t lie to me.”
“What do you want?” she said through clenched teeth.
“I want to talk to you.”
“This is not the place.”
“I’m not moving until you promise to see me.”
Suzanne snatched the book in his hand and quickly signed it, resisting the urge to write something obscene. She closed the book then held it out to him. “Thank you, sir, now have a nice day.”
He shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”
Suzanne glanced at the interested faces behind him and groaned. She didn’t want to cause a scene. “I saw a diner close by here.”
“Nelly’s?”
“Yes,” she said although she didn’t know the name. She’d find it anyway. “I’ll meet you there at three.”
“Good.” He turned to the women behind him. “Sorry for taking up your time, ladies,” he said, then walked away, and the women watched him go as though they’d just developed a new crush. Suzanne had to resist snarling.
When the event ended, Claudia raced up to her. “Let’s go for drinks.”
“I have to see Wallace,” Suzanne said, flexing her hand.
“Why?” Noreen asked, joining them.
“I don’t know, but I might as well get it over with. We’re meeting at Nelly’s.”
“We’ve got your back,” Claudia said.
Noreen furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means that we’ll be spying on them from another booth.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Noreen said.
Suzanne agreed, but Claudia was already headed in the restaurant’s direction. “I want to get good seats,” she called back to them.
“I’d better make sure she also gets a good location,” Noreen said, then followed her.
Suzanne sighed and walked at a more leisurely pace.
She didn’t want to see Wallace again. What did they have to say to each other? She entered the restaurant and saw him flirting with a waitress and groaned. She caught a glimpse of Claudia who was miming a gagging reflex and stifled a grin before heading to Wallace’s table. He stood when he saw her.
“Stop being a gentleman,” she said, annoyed. “Nobody’s watching.”
He sat down. “You look good.”
“Did you get her number?”
“Who?”
“The waitress.”
He frowned, wounded. “I was just being friendly. You’re the only one I care about.”
Suzanne sat back amazed. Even his lies were the same. “What do you want?”
He sighed. “So much for small talk.”
“We’re not going to talk at all if you don’t get to the point.”
&
nbsp; “You still hate me,” he said with a grin. “That means you care.”
Suzanne rested her chin in her hand, bored.
He reached across the table and rested his hand on hers. “Suzanne, it’s been so long and—”
She pulled her hand free. “What do you want?”
“How come you haven’t remarried?”
“Too busy enjoying those alimony payments.”
“I doubt they amount to much compared to what you’re making now. I think there’s another reason. You don’t want to forget me.”
“Wallace,” Suzanne said with thinning patience. “What do you want?”
“Besides a second chance?”
She squeezed a slice of lemon into her water. “Yes, besides the impossible.”
He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “I’ve got an idea for a book.”
She sipped her drink. “So?”
“I’m willing to give it to you and we could split the proceeds.”
“I don’t need your idea. Why don’t you write it yourself?”
“You know I’m no good with words.”
“You’re an attorney, you’re very good with words.”
“I mean putting stories on paper. Don’t shoot me down. This could be another bestseller for you. As a lawyer I have seen and heard things that would amaze you.”
“Find a ghostwriter. I am not interested in working with you.”
“If you’re so full of ideas how come you haven’t published anything new in years?” he said, his proper Southern drawl taking on a nasty tone.
“Because I’ve been busy. Not all writers have a book out every year.” She scooted to the end of the chair ready to leave. “Is that it? Are we through?”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
Suzanne shook her head in disgust. “Stop it.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
She stood.
