by Brea Brown
I call my publicist, Jules, to see if she’s heard anything. She tells me she’ll get back to me in a few, but not before she reminds me to get ready for my reading and signing this afternoon at a place called Vine Street Reads in an affluent neighborhood. Oh, shit! Life has to keep moving? For real?
“Can’t we cancel?” I whine.
“Because your editor was in a house fire?” she asks skeptically. “Why would you even want to?”
After a deep breath, I reveal, “He’s not just my editor.”
“Oh.” After a befuddled pause, she croons, “Ohhhhh! Really?! Lucas Edwards? And you?”
And this is why I don’t tell people things. But I got a huge lecture from Tullah about trusting my “team” and confiding in them so nobody’s blindsided again like they were when my personal history was revealed.
So, I sigh and confirm, “Sort of. Yes.”
“Wow.” Typical publicist, she barely misses a beat. “Well… we still can’t cancel this afternoon. Sorry. I’ll find out what I can about Lucas, though.”
After we hang up, I go back to my computer, but there’s nothing else to learn about the fire from the Internet. I’ve barely missed the local midday news, so the TV won’t be any help, either. I sit on the bed and chew at my chapped lips while I wait for Jules to call me back.
When my phone finally rings after what feels like hours, I’m devastated to hear her say, “I can’t get anything. I called Thornfield’s PR department directly and got nowhere. They said what you already know: he was treated at a Boston-area hospital. They did tell me what the injuries were, though. Broken leg. Smoke inhalation. They’re not releasing any further information at this time.”
To my dismay, my frustration makes me start crying. “But I need to know!”
Jules snaps, “Well, I’ll keep trying to find stuff out, but for now, you need to focus. He’s fine. And you have to be at a signing in two hours. Your car will be at the hotel in an hour. Are you ready?”
“No. I don’t want to go.”
“Too bad!” She’s using her scary publicist voice, the one that makes my butthole tighten.
“Fine,” I back down in a sulk.
“Good. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“You better have news for me,” I assert semi-bravely.
“Don’t get all high-maintenance on me, Jayne.”
“Sorry,” I grumble. “I’m worried, that’s all.” And that’s all I’m willing to admit.
“Yes, I’m getting that impression. But you have obligations. And we’re going to fulfill them. And tomorrow, you can drive all over the greater New England area looking for him, if you want, but today, we have things to do.”
I’m beginning to despise this published author gig.
*****
I don’t know anything new the next morning. I still don’t know anything new after waking up Jules to ask her what she’s heard. I still don’t know anything new after checking the television and online. I still don’t know anything new after running downstairs and buying a newspaper.
Then I call Sally as soon as 8:00 finally rolls around.
“Sorry, Jayne. They’re not telling us anything.”
“Well, didn’t you send flowers to him at the hospital… or something?” I ask, trying to jog her memory.
“Oh, he’s not in the hospital anymore. I do know that,” she says, sounding proud that she can help in some way.
“He’s not? Well, that’s good, right?” I say, grasping at the tiny morsel of good news. “So, he wasn’t hurt that bad.”
There’s a shrug in her voice. “I guess not. He hasn’t called once to check in, though, so he may have a traumatic brain injury. He’s never been out of touch this long.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have his address in the city, would you?” I inquire ultra-casually.
“Oh… I can’t tell you that.”
“Sally… Please. I, uh, want to send him a card,” I lie.
She brightens. “How nice! You can send it here. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
I smack my forehead with my palm. “Never mind. Hey!” Again, I pretend we’re talking about nothing more sensitive than the weather. “Blanche wouldn’t happen to be around, would she?”
“No,” she informs me regretfully. “She’s taking some personal days. It’s so quiet around here!”
“Damn,” I can’t help but say out loud.
“If you need Luke for something, I can give him a message or have him give you a call when he checks in,” she offers generously. “I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.”
I hate how desperate I sound when I say, “Yes! Please do. Ummm… tell him I’m glad he’s okay, and I’m sure he’s busy, but, uh…” Shit. Now what? What professional reason would I have for him to call me? “Uh… uh… I’ve started my new book!”
“Oh, good for you, Jayne!” she enthuses.
“Yes. And I have a question about… grammar… and stuff. I’ve tried to look up the answer, but I’m still not sure, so…”
“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Sure, Jayne. I’ll pass along the message and have him call you back.”
“Don’t forget to tell him I’m glad he’s okay. Because that’s the most important thing. But… I need him to call me, too.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry. He’s not gonna think you’re a jerk for asking for his help.”
I pretend to be relieved. “Whew. Thanks, Sally.”
“No problem.”
I have no appearances until this evening, at another small store tucked in a tiny town in the ’burbs. Am I supposed to sit here in my hotel room, waiting for my phone to ring? I won’t be able to do it. It’s a weekday, so Gus can’t keep me entertained. Jules is about to wring my neck. So…
I call down to the front desk. “Hey. I was wondering… could you recommend a car rental place that would bring the car to me here at the hotel?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Self-Awareness Lesson #1: I am not an attentive passenger. Therefore, I have no idea how to get to Marblehead. Thank goodness for technological intervention (a.k.a., GPS).
Self-Awareness Lesson #2: Being in love sucks. It makes me feel and act like an idiot.
Self-Awareness Lesson #3: I’m an impulsive idiot. What am I going to do when I get to the house? And how is this going to make me feel better? Am I even going to be able to handle seeing another house that I’ve inhabited—however briefly—burned into mounds of ash, blackened boards, and warped furnishings?
Self-Awareness Lesson #4: Despite all these doubts and reasons that I shouldn’t go anywhere near the beach house, nothing could stop me. Therefore, I must be an unreasonable idiot, as well.
Summary of Self-Awareness: I’m an idiot with a poor sense of direction.
When I get to the house, I’m faced with more proof of this. There’s yellow tape everywhere. And a police officer guarding the property line. Pretend like it’s completely logical and natural for you to be here, I instruct myself as I park my car across the street and walk confidently to the police car.
He rolls down his window. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks in a heavy Boston accent that makes me want to curl up on his lap and ask him to tell me a story (okay, add “random idiot” to the list).
I pour on the charm. “Good morning, Officer. Hey, I, uh… lived in this house fairly recently… last summer, as a matter of fact, and I forgot a few things when I left, and I was wondering if… I mean, when you’d be releasing the scene, so I could go through and look for my stuff.”
Considering I came up with it off-the-cuff, I’m pretty impressed with my story. He’s not. “I don’t have an answer for you, ma’am.”
I remember it was about a week before I was allowed to try to salvage anything from our house in Indiana. Not that I tried.
I smile self-consciously. “Oh. I’m only in town for a couple of days, so… I don’t know… Maybe I can poke around a little bit now?”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. For
one thing, it’s not safe. And second of all, it’s a crime scene.”
“What?!” I play dumb. “A crime scene?” I laugh, as if I think it sounds melodramatic. “Good grief! What do you mean? Like, insurance fraud or something?”
Patronizingly, he answers, “As in, attempted murder, Miss. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to move along. The people in this neighborhood don’t want a lot of gawkers. And I know the owner of the property wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“I know. He’s one of my very best friends,” I stretch the truth. “You know, that’s why I was staying here?”
He looks nonplussed.
“Hmm. Well… I see some of the property isn’t cordoned off. So… I take it that it’s okay for me to walk around and look at the house from outside the yellow tape?” I fold my hands under my chin. “Please?”
“Still private property. No.”
He’s a bigger idiot than I am if he thinks I’m going to accept that answer, but I sigh and say resignedly, “Okay. Well, thanks anyway. I’ll ask Luke to keep a lookout for the really important stuff I’m missing.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says dismissively. “Have a nice day now.”
I trot across the street and get back into the rental car. As I drive past him, I wave as if he’s been most helpful and friendly instead of a big douche-and-a-half. Then I drive where Mr. GPS tells me there’s a public access beach not too far (a mile or so) from Luke’s house, park my rental car, grab my coat, sunglasses, and keys, lock my purse in the car, and take off on foot up the beach.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sneaking over the dunes like a not-so-graceful Navy Seal and running, hunched over, to the gazebo, which looks incongruously pristine and white against the blackness of the nearby house. Once inside the gazebo, I can’t see the police car, so I know he can’t see me, either. If he does foot patrols, I may be in trouble, but I’ll deal with that if the time comes.
When my heart stops thudding from the exercise and risk, I breathe in through my nose, and close my eyes, and I’m seized by a sense memory so strong, it brings tears to my eyes. That smell. Smoldering house fire. It’s distinct. And sad.
I open my eyes and peek through the lattice toward the house, the entire back of which is exposed to the elements. Luke’s room (or where it used to be) appears to be the ignition point. Even to my untrained eye, it’s obvious. There’s nothing left of that area of the house. That’s where it’s the blackest. The damage radiates from there, becoming less extreme the further out it goes. But the entire house is still a ruin. Destroyed.
I watched porn in that house.
Yes, unfortunately, that’s the exact thought that comes to mind first. After that, I think, I kissed Luke in that house; I finished my book in that house; I fell in love in that house. But the first thing I think: I watched porn in that house.
What an idiot.
I’m marveling at my idiocy when I hear two car doors and voices. Oh, fuck. Maybe Deputy Dawg does go on periodic foot patrols. But there were two car doors slamming. And who is he talking to? Maybe the arson investigators are here. If that’s the case, they won’t come near the gazebo. And they won’t see me in here. Probably. I lie flat on my belly on the bench, just in case, and watch through the slats.
I hear a woman’s voice, followed by a laugh that’s familiar somehow, but I can’t place it. It’s not Paulette or Caroline or anyone else I associate with this house. Who is it? I can’t see her! The house is still blocking the arrivals from my view—and vice versa. Now there’s a murmury man’s voice and more laughter from the semi-familiar female.
Their voices are louder and closer. Shit! They must be walking around the side of the house, along the side lawn, surveying the damage from a distance.
“Those crutches are useless! Throw them down and hold my hand.”
“The grass is too soggy!” the man grouses. Before he comes into view, I know it’s Luke. I don’t know whether to hide from or run to him. I decide to sit up and do neither.
“You’re going to kill yourself trying to walk on those crutches.” Now I see it’s Blanche with him.
“Well, won’t Caroline be overjoyed? I’ll finish the job for her.”
“Enough of that shit talk,” she scolds.
Chastened, he says, “Okay. Fine. Anyway. This is good enough. I can see okay from here.” He sounds out of breath. “Holy fuck.” He’s staring toward his bedroom.
“You can say that again,” Blanche agrees. “Damn. What’d she do? Start a bonfire on your bedroom floor with gasoline and newspaper?”
“She may as well have,” he answers. “My lawyer says she purchased a blow torch with her credit card last weekend. I’m guessing she simply lit my bed on fire. The heat and smoke woke me up.”
“Thank God.”
“Yeah. I guess.” He doesn’t sound very thankful, though. Actually, he sounds miserable and regretful.
After a long pause, Blanche says quietly, “At the party last weekend, I suggested Jayne call you while she’s in town.”
He shrugs and loses a crutch. She bends down to get it for him.
“It’s fine. I don’t expect her to get in touch with me. She thinks I was somehow in on what went down with the mess about the autobiographical material, and any contact she had with Arthur on the matter didn’t suggest otherwise.”
“How could she think that of you?”
He chuckles bitterly. “She’s seen me at my worst. And the more I tried to convince her that it was the exact opposite, that I tried to distract Arthur from the truth and lead him in other marketing directions—to the point that I was completely and obviously overstepping my bounds—the less she believed me. So I stopped trying.” He snorts disgustedly. “She’d even started believing that Caroline was part of some complicated scheme to trick her into sympathizing with me so that I could get close to her and get information from her or… something. I don’t even know what she thinks, to be honest. Gus couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me anything.”
“That guy’s a piece of work,” Blanche mutters.
They move even closer to the gazebo. Luke looks a little surer on his crutches. I know at this distance, if I move, they’ll see me. I don’t want to be seen yet—if ever—so I remain motionless.
“He’s a good guy. And a loyal friend. I’m glad Jayne has someone like that who she can count on. And I’m glad he told off Arthur in front of all those people. Arthur deserved it.”
Neither says a word while they stare at the house for a while. Then Blanche says, “You better be careful who you say stuff like that around.”
“Well, duh.”
“No, really. All it takes is one slip-up, and your career at Thornfield is done.”
He shakes his head. “You know what, Blanche? I don’t give a shit at this point.”
“Come on, now.”
“I’m serious.” Taking his eyes off the house for the first time, he looks at her. “Do you like working for a place that did what it did to Jayne? I don’t.”
“Yeah, but you can do her more good by working there than you could if you got fired, and she had nobody on the inside on her side.”
Grudgingly, he agrees but asks, “Why don’t we ever screw over numb-nuts assholes like Tom Ridgeworthy, though? Why do we have to screw over good people? Because they’re easy targets? It makes me sick.”
She says nothing to that. Instead, she nods toward the house. “What’re you going to do with this wreck?”
He sounds tired when he answers, “I don’t know. My first instinct is to make Malcolm Fucking O’Shea rebuild it for me. But then I think, why? What’s the point? Maybe it’s better to bulldoze the damn lot, sell the property, and walk away. I’ve put myself through a lot of grief trying to hold onto this place.”
“Why is that?” she asks him, bemused.
Shifting his weight against the crutches, he answers, “I don’t know. At first, it was mostly to spite Caroline. It was the only bargaining chip I had. Not that I ever had i
t. But you know what I mean. I thought I did. I’ve always loved the house, and I thought I deserved to have one place I could go where she wouldn’t be allowed to bother me. Ironic, in light of recent events, huh?”
Blanche nods. “Very. You said, ‘at first,’ though, which implies that’s not why you’ve held on more recently.”
He says nothing at first, but then he finally replies, “I had good memories in this house. And I wanted to make more. I began to think that I would, anyway. Foolish hope, as it turns out. But… in a way, letting go of the house feels like giving up on those hopes.” Impatiently, he adds, “Anyway, it’s stupid and sentimental. I need to reclaim my inner cynic and get on with life, apparently.”
“Don’t give up hope yet, alright?” She puts her hand on his arm. “I could see it the other night; the divorce was news to her. When I told her about what Caroline’d been putting you through lately, her mind was racing in a thousand directions. She wanted to call you right then. I recognized that look in her eye. She had a very itchy dialing finger. She and her friend were talking a big game and giving me the cold shoulder, but… they both have terrible poker faces. Give her some time to process what I told her. And surely she’s heard about the fire by now. Maybe she’s already tried to get in touch.”
“My phone is melted somewhere in there,” he says, pointing toward the charred rubble with one of his crutches. Then he abruptly laughs and says, “Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
He looks down at the ground while he continues to laugh. Eventually, he stops and tells her, “During one of my first meetings with Jayne, I told her that fires were the biggest clichés in literature. Of course, at the time, I had no idea her book was based on her life and that the fire in it wasn’t a random tragedy that she pulled from her imagination. Still… Look at this. Look at me! I’m paying dearly for being such an insensitive dickhead, aren’t I?”
“Fires are cliché,” she defends him. “I can’t believe you almost died in one. It would have been extremely poor taste.”
“Sticking with the poor-taste theme running through my life right now.”
