by Melody Anne
A silver letter opener and some mail sat in front of me, the only indication the room was used at all. I inched an unopened envelope toward me and squinted at the name on the front. Veronica Wilde. At least I had my imposter’s real name now.
As I waited, I bounced my leg up and down and wondered how the woman upstairs would approach me. She’d been so nasty at the door, I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which this conversation would go well. Perhaps she was upstairs calling the police to have me carted away as a crazy fan. Or maybe she was plotting a way to make me disappear. After all, I was the one thing standing in the way of her secret.
And she was the person in the way of mine.
I reached forward and plucked the letter opener off the table, stuffing it behind the chair cushion.
There, at least she wouldn’t have any sharp objects in her vicinity when I confronted her.
Ten minutes had passed, according to my phone, by the time she came into the living room. She moved to a bar in the corner and picked up a crystal bottle of brown liquid before turning to me.
“I need a drink,” she said. “You want one?”
The staleness of the old home settled in my throat and dried my tongue. I swallowed and nodded. She poured two glasses of the golden liquid and handed one to me.
I took a sip and gagged. The fluid burned my tongue and throat, the warmth marking a trail down my esophagus and into my chest.
“Not a fan of whiskey?” she asked.
“I guess not,” I said. I set my glass on the table in front of me and watched as she downed her drink in one swift gulp. She parked herself on the couch and leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.
“So,” she said. “What’s this about you being Aubrey Lynch? You look a little young to be a bestselling author.”
“I’m nineteen,” I said. “I wrote the first Viking Moon when I was fifteen and it was published when I was sixteen. Young, yes, but not impossibly so.”
Veronica stood. She poured herself another drink and held up the container to me in question. I shook my head and she plopped the decanter on the table and took her seat on the couch.
“That’s quite an accomplishment, Aubrey,” she said. “Can I ask why—if those really are your books—my picture is in the back of them?”
I twisted my fingers together, wringing them back and forth. “My name’s actually Elise. Aubrey Lynch is a pen name.”
“Veronica.”
“Nice to meet you, Veronica.” I unfurled my fingers and held a hand out to her. She stared at it as though I were offering her a dead puppy. I retracted my hand and clutched it to my chest. “Anyway, as you can see, I’m not exactly book-cover material.”
She raised a perfectly arched brow and made a gesture as if to say, Well, isn’t that obvious? I shot her a glare and continued.
“Anyway, when my publisher asked for my photo for the bio, I kind of panicked. I scoured the Internet for a picture of someone who looked the opposite of me and found you. I don’t know what I was thinking when I sent it to them. I suppose if I’d have pleaded my case, they probably would’ve printed the book without a photo, but I was sixteen and naïve and it seemed like the best solution at the time.”
Veronica dropped her hand to her lap and narrowed her eyes. “You do realize my life flipped upside down when you did that? People came up to me at school, congratulating me on publishing some novel I’d never even heard of. Then strangers approached me on the street. Slack-jawed, acne-covered teens expressing their love for people named Dag and Theresa.”
“Thora.”
“Whatever.” She sat back on the couch. “It was messed up. I had no idea what was happening.”
“I can only imagine. I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t even think about the person in the photo. It never occurred to me what would happen to her until the book was in my hands and I saw the picture in print.”
“It freaked me out at first,” she said. “I ended up grabbing some kid’s book to see what they were fussing about. I kept his copy and went home to read it.”
I grabbed my glass from the table and downed the rest of the liquid. My hands shook, but the whiskey quickly took care of that. I traced the rim of the glass with my index finger.
“What did you think?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It was okay. Not really my cup of tea. I mean, teenage Vikings? Not enough sex and violence, if you ask me.”
“Okay.”
“I was in my first year of college and failing everything. My profs hated me. Then this book became popular and everyone took notice. My grades increased without me changing a damn thing. Apparently, being a bestselling author guarantees you an A in English or something. I got free meals in restaurants, free drinks in bars. Basically, anyone who’d read the books recognized my face and sucked up to me. So I decided it wasn’t that bad a deal. I started telling people I was Aubrey Lynch. I booked hotel rooms and trips and if I flirted with the teenage boy at the counter, they’d comp everything.”
I gulped in a breath of stale air and gripped my glass so hard, I worried it might shatter.
“Wow. I had no idea that kind of stuff happens for authors.”
“Me neither. I mean, I spent most of my life avoiding reading. Now, I was waiting right along with everyone else for the next book to come out. Not because I gave a crap about the characters, mind you, but because I wanted to see if the popularity would hang on. Imagine my surprise when it only increased. Thanks to your books, I coasted through college.”
“So,” I said, “you’re not mad at me for using your photo?”
“Hell no.” She shook her head and her still damp, dark bob swung around her face. “I sucked the fame up like a vacuum. It gave me an excuse to leave my own crappy existence.” Her eyes flashed—dark evergreen amid the emerald—but she lowered her impossibly long eyelashes to block me out. By the time she looked back up at me, any trace of pain or regret had vanished. “I even moved to this shitty town last month, since the bio said I lived here. It’s good for my backstory. Do you really hike and water-ski? ’Cause you do not look like the water-skiing type.”
I exhaled the breath I felt like I’d been holding in for three years. She wasn’t going to kill me. This could actually work.
“No,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve never water-skied in my life. My publisher thought it sounded better than ‘sits in her room and does nothing all day.’ ”
“Hmph.” Veronica took a swig of her second drink. “So, why are you here, then? It took all these years for you to track me down. Why now?”
“Well, I don’t know if you heard, but they’re filming a Viking Moon TV show.”
She set her glass down on the table and licked her lips. “With Gavin Hartley. I heard. What does that have to do with me?”
I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and placed my cup beside hers.
“They expect Aubrey Lynch on set to oversee production. They want my input so the show stays as true to the books as possible.”
Veronica pursed her berry-red lips. “Well. That’s quite a predicament for you. I assume you’re not who they’re expecting.”
“Exactly,” I said. “They’ll be looking for you.”
“And you want me to, what, show up and pretend to be you?”
“It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Except this time I’d be with you. I figured I could pose as your assistant or something. I’ll do all the actual work when it comes to consulting on the books. I can read and note the scripts, and supply you with answers if they ask you any questions. All you’ll have to do is stand there and say you’re Aubrey.”
“Interesting.” Her gaze never wavered from my face, and I shifted under her scrutiny. “What’s in it for me?”
“Well, you can keep up your guise of being me. It seems to be making your life way easier than it is mine. Plus, you’ll be on a television set. With Gavin Hartley and Leila Clarke.”
“That’s all well and great.” She blew on he
r nails and buffed them against her sheer white blouse. “But I think, if I’m going to do this for you, I should get something more.”
My mouth went dry and I looked at my empty glass with longing. Perhaps I should’ve accepted that second drink.
“What exactly do you want?” I asked.
She looked up from her nails and her smile sent a shiver down my spine.
“Well, I hate to be a cliché, but it is what it is. I want money,” she said. “More specifically, I want half your royalties from Viking Moon.”
Veronica’s face spun before me as all the air left my lungs. “You . . . you what?”
She crossed her legs and the chic navy skirt she was wearing slipped higher on her thigh. “I want half your royalties. I mean, I’m partly responsible for your popularity. I could’ve said something a long time ago. Perhaps retained a lawyer, sued you for using my likeness without permission. But I didn’t, because, to be honest, I felt sorry for you. Even before I met you today, I felt sorry for you. It’s pretty sad you had such low self-esteem you needed to use my picture instead of your own.”
My voice seemed to have jumped out of my mouth and headed for cover. I closed my eyes and tried to find it. When it finally came, it felt small and weak on my tongue.
“I don’t have the royalties,” I said. I opened my eyes and met her gaze. “My parents are holding the money in a trust until I’m twenty-one.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. If I didn’t agree to her terms, I’d have to find another way. But I’d thought of everything else already. And this was the only workable solution. My parents were reasonable people. I could tell them I needed the money for school or something. They might believe me.
“Fine,” I breathed. “I agree. But it could take some time for me to get the money. I might not have it all right away. And we start filming in two weeks.”
“That’s okay,” Veronica said. “You can give me part of it now and part of it at the end of filming. I’m reasonable.”
My head nodded of its own accord. The room suddenly seemed far too small, and I struggled for a proper breath. I needed to get out of there.
I stood on shaky legs and held my hand out again. This time, she took it. I handed her my phone so she could input her phone number and e-mail address.
“So,” I said, “I’ll send you an e-mail transfer this week. And I’ll let you know the production schedule when I get it.”
“I look forward to it.”
I bet.
“Sure. Thanks for the drink.”
My body felt numb as the door swung shut behind me. I barely registered getting into my car. Leaning on the steering wheel, I took a deep breath, then screamed.
• • •
Since my parents lived only a few blocks away, I figured I might as well get my plea for money over with. I knew there was no way I could be honest with them. If I told them the money was to pay a woman to pretend to be me, they would either laugh in my face or have me shipped off to the nearest crazy house. They’d never approved of my decision to put Veronica’s picture on the cover, but they’d silently accepted it because they felt guilty about what happened to me. This seemed above and beyond what they might consider acceptable.
I pulled into their driveway and turned off the car. My father sat on the porch, a glass of iced tea in his hand as he rocked in his favorite chair. His face broke into a grin as he spotted me coming up the walk.
“Elise!” He pulled me into a hug, the iced tea sloshing against my back and dampening my shirt. I shivered as the cold liquid hit my spine.
My father indicated for me to sit in the other rocking chair and set his glass on the table beside him.
How are you? he signed. How’s school?
Good, I signed back. I like my classes. American Literature is my favorite.
Despite my ability to read lips, my parents had a rule that I was to sign as often as possible around them. My mother felt it was important both for me and for them to keep it up.
That’s with the author you like? Is he nice?
I thought back to Professor Creed signing my book. The way he lit up as he talked to the class about American classics.
Very nice, I signed. I think I’ll learn a lot.
Good. Have you made any friends?
My roommate’s pretty nice. And there’s this cowboy.
I hoped he couldn’t see my face flush in the shade of the porch.
Cowboy?
He just thinks he’s a cowboy. My father continued to stare at me with question in his eyes. It’s not like that, though. He’s just a friend. Besides, I’m pretty sure my roommate likes him.
Well, I’m happy you’re meeting people. Good for you. It’s about time. Now, not that I’m unhappy to see you, but what brings you back here after only a week?
I took a deep breath. Here went nothing. I was wondering if I could have access to my book royalty trust fund.
My father released a long breath and leaned back in his chair, his body rocking away from mine for a moment before swinging back.
We’ve talked about this, he signed. Your mother and I chose twenty-one because we wanted you to be old enough to be responsible about having so much money.
My hands shook too much for me to sign without revealing my nerves.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m nineteen. And I’ve proven over and over I’m responsible. I’m living on my own at college; I’ve written three bestsellers and am writing the fourth. I don’t go out partying. I don’t even like being around many people. What else do I need to do to prove myself?”
My father’s body deflated as he exhaled. He took a cue from me and chose to speak instead of sign.
“This is all true. You’ve grown into a wonderful young woman, and I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished.”
I sagged back in the chair with relief. “So I can have my trust fund, then?”
“Not so fast,” he said. “I want to know why. Why now? What’s so important you came rushing here on a Sunday night?”
My father leaned forward, the bottom of his chair partially edging off the wooden planks of the porch. He took my hand and held it to his chest as he looked into my eyes.
“Elise, are you in trouble?”
The words sliced through my skin and dived into my heart. An ache spread through my body to my feet. I reminded myself he wouldn’t understand if I told him the truth. I swallowed the lump that had clawed its way up my throat and shook my head.
“No, Dad,” I said. “No trouble. It’s just . . . school is expensive. Books, food, and tuition. I’d feel a lot better knowing I didn’t have to rely on an allowance each month.”
My father released my hand and sat back in his chair. He rocked back and forth for a few moments. I studied his face each time he swung closer. I’d gotten my light hair from my mother. My father’s mane was dark, with a mustache in the same shade. Lines stretched beneath his eyes and chin, but I could still see why my mother had fallen for him when they’d met in high school. His smile was infectious. It overtook his face and brightened his eyes. I’d always felt a rush of pride when I made my father smile.
At that moment, however, his mouth looked strained and his eyes were crinkled in thought. He rubbed his mustache and took a sip of tea. I stared at my hands, but could feel his eyes on me as he decided my fate.
I risked a peek up at him as he broke out of his thoughts.
“Fine, Elise,” he said. “I trust you. You are a responsible girl.”
I jumped out of my chair and threw my arms around his neck. “Oh! Thank you, Daddy! I promise I’ll take care of it.”
He pried my hands apart and pressed my shoulders so I could see his face.
“Don’t thank me yet. I need to talk to your mother about it first.”
“Oh.” I sat down in my rocker. “Where is she?”
“She’s out shopping with a friend, but I expect her back for dinner. Did you want t
o stay and talk to her with me?”
I thought about lying to my mother as well as my father and shook my head. One of them was hard enough.
“I have lots of homework,” I said. “I need to get back to the dorm.”
“Okay,” my father said. “I’ll talk to her tonight and let you know what she says.”
“Thanks, Dad.” We stood and hugged. I closed my eyes and breathed in his familiar scent. Irish Spring. Hugs from my childhood flooded my memories, and guilt bit at my stomach with jagged edges. I pulled away from him and turned to head to my car.
He tapped me on the shoulder and I peered back at him.
I love you, he signed.
Love you, too.
• • •
Reggie was in our room by the time I returned to the dorm. She managed to convince me to head down to the dining hall, even though my stomach still churned as it digested my day. I questioned whether a spoonful of greasy mac and cheese was really going to make me feel any better. But I shoveled it in anyway as Reggie yapped beside me. She hadn’t stopped talking about Clint since the night before. I stared at her forehead, giving myself a break from hearing about cowboy hats and ropes.
My phone vibrated against the table and my father’s number lit up the screen. I choked on a mouthful of partially chewed macaroni as I opened the message.
DAD: Talked to your mother and she agreed you’ve proven yourself responsible. We’ll be transferring the trust fund to your account tomorrow. Please be careful, Elise. Don’t go crazy. We’re trusting you. Love you, Dad.
I stared at the message for a long time, wincing as I tried to swallow a too-large bite of pasta. Then I pushed the plate away.
Well, that was that.
I had the money. I had the fake me.
Now I just needed the guts to pull it off.
Production of Viking Moon started on a Saturday, at a time earlier than I thought possible for the day to begin. I dragged my body out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. At five a.m., I had the place to myself. I took my time under the hot water, letting the droplets wake up my body bit by bit. After I’d brushed my teeth, I stood in my robe in front of the closet, trying to decide what an author’s personal assistant would wear.
