The Accidental Bestseller

by Wendy Wax

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself without me.” Kendall was relieved to hear a teasing note in Mallory’s voice.

  “You’d be proud of me, Mal. I haven’t exactly kicked the habit, but the pages do come first. When it gets really hard, I stop and ask myself, ‘What would Mallory do?’ And the compulsion usually passes.”

  Mallory laughed, which Kendall took as a personal victory. “I’m glad to hear I’m hanging over your head even when I’m not there.”

  “Believe me,” Kendall said. “You’re almost as big a pain in the ass long distance as you are in person.”

  “Good.” There was another pause, but not as weighty. “Tell James I said hello. And don’t let him sell you any more power tools.”

  “Will do,” Kendall said as she signed off. “Though I can’t imagine what makes you think I expect to see James there.”

  James’s face eased into a smile when he spotted her. “There’s my best customer!” he said as he came up to greet her. “What perfect timing. We just got in those pneumatic power nailers I was telling you about. I put one aside for you.”

  He led her over to the information desk and stepped behind it to hunt on a bottom shelf. “Take a look at this beauty.”

  He pulled out the power nailer, which Kendall had to admit was gorgeous. Reverently she reached out to take it from him and their hands brushed. Both of them pulled back at the same time.

  When she looked up, he was studying her out of those faded blue eyes that had intrigued her from the beginning. They made her think of old blue jeans that had been washed a million times and the sky on those perfect summer days at the beach. Her writer’s mind had already created a thousand backstories to explain the things those eyes had seen.

  “You must know I’ve been wanting to ask you out since the first day I met you,” he said.

  Kendall nodded tentatively, her hand still tingling from the unexpected contact.

  “So I was wondering.” He paused for a moment as if to gather himself. “Would you like to have dinner with me one night this week?”

  Her sharp intake of breath surprised both of them.

  “We could just make it coffee.” He looked into her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. She wished him luck, because she didn’t fully understand it herself. “In a public place,” he added.

  She took a half step back.

  “Have I made a mistake?” he asked quietly. “Have I been reading interest where none was intended?”

  Still she didn’t speak and so he began to apologize. “If I’ve presumed, I’m sorry. I . . .”

  “No, no.” Her mind was tiptoeing through the potential minefields his invitation seemed to carry. She had been attracted to him from the first and flattered by his attention. But was she ready to actually date someone right now?

  “We can just pretend I never asked,” he said. “Really, it’s not . . .”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Please don’t apologize.” She looked down for a moment and realized she was cradling the power nailer in her arms like a baby. She had to smile. “You’re completely right. I’ve been interested in you from the beginning, too. And you’ve fueled my fix-it mania, which, frankly, I think has helped to keep me sane.”

  He waited while she spoke, his whole being calm and comfortable, just like his eyes. She had the sense that nothing would shake or surprise him and one day she wanted to know what had made him this way. But not today.

  “It’s just that I’m going through a really difficult patch right now. I’m separated from my husband, and I’m on a book deadline, and . . .” She took a deep breath before plunging on with her disclaimer. “Anyway, it’s not at all about you. I mean you’re . . .”

  She paused a moment to search for the right adjectives and this time he shushed her.

  “It’s OK.” His quiet warmth seemed as far from Calvin’s bluster as it was possible to get. “I understand,” he said, and she could see in his eyes that he did. “It’s not a problem. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” His smile was as gentle and as full of wisdom as his words.

  “You just go on about your business. And when and if you feel ready to get better acquainted, you just let me know.”

  Kendall felt a soft flush of gratitude along with a sharper pull she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Sounds good,” she said, still holding the power nailer in her arms. “I’ll be looking forward to that.” She set the power tool in an empty cart and pulled her list out of her purse to show him. “I’m thinking bead board for the second bathroom. And some kind of molding just above it. Do you have any of that in stock?”

  Faye might have benefited from some do-it-yourself instruction. Or a power tool that could take the threads of her life that had begun to unravel and twine them back together.

  As she drove toward Rainbow House, Faye reflected on the previous night’s conference call. It had gone well. They were all making good progress on their parts of Sticks and Stones and Faye had noticed that the love scenes written by her character, Faith, were now garnering more compliments than surprise.

  Still she hated keeping yet another secret from Steve, though her involvement in Sticks and Stones was nothing compared to her secret career writing erotica, the weight of which seemed to grow heavier each day.

  At the front desk, she signed in wondering, yet again, how Rainbow House would survive if she were ever exposed as Shannon LeSade.

  As she passed through the administrative offices on her way to the day care center, the irony of the situation smote her. It was her earnings from the very thing she was now afraid to admit to that had brought Rainbow House and its myriad services into being. It was her continued monetary support, much of it derived from her secret career, that kept it growing and attracted other large donors.

  Once Faye had believed that the source of the money was insignificant in comparison to the good it achieved, but the world was a different place today. And she’d come to realize that if the true source of Rainbow House’s funding were ever revealed, Rainbow House and those it served would suffer. As would her husband.

  That was what she knew. What she didn’t know was what to do about it.

  In the shiny new library a group of preschoolers sat in a semicircle around a Rainbow House volunteer. The children’s eyes shone with excitement as they listened to a spirited reading of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. Faye watched for a few moments, breathing in the heady smell of new books and remembering when she’d first read the story to her children and then to her granddaughter, Becky.

  After the story there’d be a snack and supervised play followed by nap time; for most of these kids this would be the closest to a normal life they’d ever gotten.

  Faye shelved the books she and Becky had chosen and then checked “the closet” where new arrivals, who often fled their homes with little more than backpacks or belonging-stuffed pillowcases, were brought to “shop” for clothing and accessories.

  Beside “the closet” was the computer center where women could formulate resumes and do class assignments. Those who wanted to improve their skills got on-site computer training.

  How could she pull the plug on all that she’d worked so hard to create?

  How could she not when every day the chance of exposure and scandal increased?

  Her last stop was the office, where she met with the administrator and her assistant to go over the plans for a playground expansion. And then she was on her way to meet Steve for lunch, something they hadn’t been able to work into their schedules since she’d gotten back from Kendall’s last month.

  As she waited for him at a favored table at Café Central, a small French restaurant near home, she realized how much she wished she could discuss her dilemma with her husband. In the past he’d been her most reliable sounding board and she had been his. But every time she imagined the relief she might feel in telling him the truth, that happy picture was wiped out by the vision of his shock and dismay.

  A stir
near the doorway halted her internal debate. Faye glanced up to see her husband striding toward her.

  “You look . . . elsewhere,” he observed as he leaned down to kiss her cheek then took the seat opposite her. In one smooth motion, he unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “Is everything OK?”

  As opportunities went, Faye thought, it didn’t get much better than this. All she had to do was open her mouth, explain the situation, and ask for his input. Simple. Clear. Like they’d always done.

  Despite the trappings and the fame, she reminded herself, this was still Steve. Her husband. Who’d known her since her freshman year of college and with whom she’d had three children and . . . OK, built an evangelical television empire.

  Others, like those checking them out over their own lunches, knew him only as Pastor Steve, font of patience and wisdom with a pipeline to God. But Faye had been in love with him before he became a pastor. When he was just Steve Truett, the best-looking guy in her comparative lit class.

  She looked into her husband’s eyes trying to gauge his mood, imagining his reaction, looking for some sort of sign.

  Was this the time and place to tell him that she was not only Faye Truett but Shannon LeSade? Would there ever be such a time or place?

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she began when his gaze began to cloud with concern over her continued silence. She drew a deep breath. “But you see I . . .”

  “Welcome, Monsieur and Madame Truett,” the waiter, who’d apparently materialized from thin air, said. “What may I get you to drink?”

  And that easily, the moment, if it had been one, was lost. They placed their drink orders and Steve’s gaze fell to the menu. The next thing Faye knew, she was telling him about the new library at Rainbow House, her plans to go back to check on Kendall after Thanksgiving, and the funny thing Becky had said to her on the phone that morning.

  A flashbulb went off and Faye realized that a shot of them dining at Café Central would most likely end up in the next morning’s Chicago Tribune, or at least that week’s Highland Park News. She had no doubt that those who saw the photo or paused now in their own lunches to observe them would see Pastor Steve and his wife, Faye Truett, the novelist, engaged in a steady flow of what would appear to be intimate conversation.

  But Faye knew just how lacking in intimacy their conversation really was. Because as far as she was concerned, there could be no true intimacy without an underlying foundation of truth.

  26

  There are three rules for writing a novel.

  Unfortunately, no one knows

  what they are.

  —W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

  The first e-mail took Lacy completely by surprise. It was waiting in her in-box when she got to work, just another communication in a long line of interoffice directives that ended in scarsdale.com. It was only when she noticed the c.simpson, which stood for Cash Simpson, that preceded it that her pulse sped up and the blood began doing a strange sort of happy dance in her veins.

  “Hope things are good in the fields,” it read. “Don’t toil too hard.” It was signed, “Cash.”

  Lacy had spent a full fifteen minutes trying to come up with a clever response, checking surreptitiously over her shoulder for any sign of Jane Jensen as she did so. Unfortunately between her excitement at hearing from him and the performance anxiety that struck at the mere thought of him, she’d finally settled for, “Birthing no babies today. But toiling mightily.” She signed it “Tillie the Toiler” and hit Send before she could chicken out.

  His reply came almost instantly. “Dear Tillie, Can’t wait to find out how old you actually are! First Russian peasant girl now WWII toiler.” This time he signed it, “Intrigued, but unfortunately out of town.”

  At this admission, Lacy began to relax and enjoy herself. Without thinking she typed. “Taking secret to grave. Only plastic surgeon and devil with whom bargain was made know for sure!” Without rereading or editing she hit Send.

  “Devising top-secret plan to discover truth,” came the speedy reply. “On way out now to purchase trench coat and secret passwords. Heard of special store on Miracle Mile.”

  This had gone on for a week now and although he remained in Chicago and she therefore knew she wouldn’t run into him at the office, Lacy could hardly wait to get to work each morning to check her e-mail.

  Cash Simpson’s attention had gone straight to her head and, if she were honest, to other body parts as well. Somehow this simple flirtation made her feel entirely different about herself. Where before she’d looked in the mirror and seen too tall and too awkward, she now saw statuesque and exotic. Her already half-full glass of optimism got fuller and then began to spill over. She caught herself smiling at the oddest times and for no reason at all.

  Lacy Samuels had always prided herself on her intelligence so even as she enjoyed Cash Simpson’s e-mail flirtation, she realized that someone only got this good at something with lots and lots of practice. Still she was thrilled that out of all the women who lusted after him, he’d chosen her as the recipient of his attention. And she wasted a great deal of time imaging what else he might have had lots of practice at.

  Jane was already in a meeting when Lacy arrived that morning and so after getting herself settled at her desk and positioning her double latte just so, Lacy logged on eager to see what waited for her.

  The first e-mail was from Kendall Aims offering an enthusiastic update on Sticks and Stones. Lacy took a long sip of her latte and read the e-mail; she’d expected some resistance or negativity given the situation and adversarial relationship Jane Jensen had created, but Kendall’s e-mails were consistently positive and upbeat. Lacy e-mailed back that she was looking forward to reading it, and she let herself imagine the thrill of editing her first real manuscript.

  The next e-mail was, happily, from Cash. She opened it, smiling even before she read it.

  “Dear Tillie,” it read. “Still awaiting arrival of trench coat. Must resort to plying you with drinks to ascertain secrets in meantime. Due back in NY tomorrow. If willing to participate in alcoholic interrogation, meet me at Grand Central Oyster Bar at 6:00 P.M. tomorrow after work. Cash.”

  Lacy smiled and took a sip of her latte. She was trying to come up with something a little less obvious than “YES! YES! OH GOD, YES!” when she realized that someone was standing behind her.

  Jane’s gasp of outrage startled her so completely that she didn’t even move to delete the incriminating e-mail.

  “Is that Cash as in Cash Simpson?” Jane demanded, as if there might be a thousand men with that name currently employed by Scarsdale Publishing.

  Lacy didn’t like the idea of lying outright, but one look at Jane’s mottled face told her that the truth was not going to be her friend. She remained silent.

  “You know that fraternization between employees is not allowed at Scarsdale.” Jane said this with a straight face, as if she or any other female in the organization would have turned down Cash Simpson’s attention on these or any other grounds.

  Lacy nodded.

  Jane Jensen stared at her for a long moment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was cold and hard-edged. “I’d like a cup of coffee,” Jane said. “And be sure to make a fresh pot.”

  Not expecting or awaiting a reply, Jane turned on her heel and went back to her office. Lacy practically ran for the break room, where she dumped the used grounds and washed out the pot while she tried to think of what she could say that might smooth things over without constituting an admission of guilt.

  Fifteen minutes later she was standing in Jane’s office, trying to keep her hand from shaking as she placed the cup of coffee on her boss’s desk.

  Jane didn’t even look at the coffee that Lacy had placed in front of her and from which steam was still rising. Her attention was focused on her assistant and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that what was going to come out of her mouth was not going to be good.

  “Since you seem to have so much time on
your hands, I want you to begin working your way through this pile of unsolicited submissions.” She pointed to a chest-high pile of manuscripts stacked in a far corner of the office. In all the times Lacy had been in Jane’s office, she’d never seen anyone even look at them. “This is just the first stack; the rest are in the sixth-floor storage room.”

  Lacy took a step toward the pile and peered down at the cover page on the top manuscript. “But the return address is a correctional institution.” She lifted the top manuscript and sneezed as a puff of dust rose to meet her nostrils. She leafed through the next few, her horror growing. “And this one’s from the state mental hospital.” She looked into Jane Jensen’s eyes—wondering briefly if they’d been submitted by Jane’s previous roommates.

  “Yes.”

  “I, um, thought the rule of thumb was not to read or respond to these, um, kinds of submissions,” Lacy said.

  “That’s normally true,” her boss acknowledged. “But that’s primarily because we don’t have anyone with the time to do it.” She stared directly into Lacy’s eyes. It took every ounce of willpower Lacy possessed not to look away. “Now we do.

  “I want you to read, write a report for, and then respond to every one of them. Maybe that will leave you with less time for personal e-mails on company time.”

  Lacy had always considered herself more competent than competitive; she was much more interested in getting a job done well than in competing just for the sake of besting someone. But this was a punishment pure and simple, personal retribution for Cash Simpson’s interest in her. As she stared into her boss’s vindictive gaze, Lacy vowed then and there that if Cash Simpson could, in fact, be had, she was going to have him.

  “Is there anything else?” Lacy asked carefully.

  Jane Jensen smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Not at the moment,” she said. “But I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”