by Wendy Wax
Through late October and early November the vibrant color that set the hills and mountainsides aflame began to fade. The deep wine colors became a mottled red and the heavenly golds turned a paler yellow-brown. As they dried and stiffened, the leaves’ grip on their branches loosened and strong autumn winds pried them loose and sent them spiraling to the ground. By mid-November they lay in piles and drifts all over the forest floor.
As the temperatures dropped, Kendall no longer ventured out onto the deck to write, preferring the cozy warmth of the kitchen where she spent her mornings, her notes strewn across the kitchen table. Her gaze occasionally strayed out over the increasingly barren landscape, but her attention remained focused on Kennedy Andrews and her frantic attempts to salvage her life and her career.
In the afternoons, when the day had warmed as much as it was going to, Kendall bundled up and went out for a hike, her boots crunching through the piles of leaves, the sun glinting through the bare branches to places it never reached in spring or summer.
Her work on the house continued, but she could feel the compulsion lessening. Now she chose a project because it needed to be done or because she knew she’d enjoy doing it—not because she couldn’t stop herself.
She and Calvin communicated through their lawyers in a complex and sometimes unfathomable language that had everything to do with their things and very little to do with them. The negotiations dragged out interminably, but Kendall was not inclined to rush them, because once the divorce was final, Kendall knew she’d have to tell Melissa and Jeffrey. And start thinking of herself in a whole new way.
When the vision of her soon-to-be single self became too real, Kendall calmed herself by thinking of only the next step. Just do this now, she’d tell herself, and then you’ll worry about that. Do five pages now, two more this afternoon. One conversation with Anne Justiss today, a trip to Home Depot tomorrow.
In this way Kendall inched through the days doing what had to be done, relying on Faye and Mallory and Tanya to see her through when even the smallest bite seemed too much to chew.
The unexpectedly bright spot in all of it was Sticks and Stones. She’d originally agreed to Tanya’s idea of a group effort because she’d been so lost and afraid she would have agreed to most anything that would allow her to fulfill her commitment. But she hadn’t really stopped to think about what their involvement would do to the project.
A talented and imaginative writer could put herself into numerous characters’ heads and do a credible job of presenting their points of view in noticeably different ways. It was not only possible, writers did it all the time. But having those points of view written by different people added a dimension that she’d never experienced before. The book was good, better than good. In fact, it was far beyond what she’d originally envisioned—much bigger and of greater depth than she could have dreamed up or written by herself.
Kendall tried not to think about what Jane Jensen would do with this book. How wasted it would be.
That night they rendezvoused on the phone to discuss the recently completed chapters. They’d completed almost three hundred fifty pages and were nearing the black moment, where everything would appear to fall apart for all of the key characters. Then would come the resolution that would reflect the characters’ growth and pave the way to the end.
The call began, as they all did, with teasing and chatter.
“I just want to know when Tanya’s character, Tina, is going to go ahead and have sex with that cook,” said Faye. “I mean what is she waiting for?”
“And I’d like to know when Faith is going to stop writing about it!” Tanya replied. “Just reading those scenes gets me all steamed up.”
“I agree,” Kendall said. “I think Faye’s missed her calling writing inspirationals. She writes some of the best sex I’ve ever read. Frankly the sex she writes is better than most of the sex I’ve had!”
“Amen to that,” Tanya chimed in. “Maybe we should warn that Shannon LeSade to step out of the way and make room for Faye Truett.”
There was laughter all around, though Kendall thought Faye’s sounded a bit forced.
Mallory was unusually quiet and Kendall sought to put her at ease. “I think your Miranda Jameson is a fabulous character,” she said. “It would have been easy to make an automatic New York Times Bestseller seem unsympathetic. But giving her that traumatic past to overcome makes us all root for her.” And then she asked what she’d wanted to ask since she’d read Mallory’s first scene. “But why wouldn’t she share her past with her closest friends? Or at least with her husband? Why would she keep everything to herself that way?”
The question hung in the air, filling the sudden quiet on the line with an almost electrical charge.
When Mallory finally spoke, she sounded unusually tentative, as if she were hearing the words for the first time along with them. “I’m not sure. I think she’d been through so much she just wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened. I mean, two parents blowing their brains out—that would leave a person feeling pretty unworthy, don’t you think? She’d have to believe that neither of her parents thought she was important enough to stick around for. If people knew, they’d look at her differently. They’d pity her.” Her voice trailed off. “She’d be vulnerable.”
There was a pause and then Mallory cleared her throat. “I decided it would be easier for her to be strong and act strong if nobody knew. It would give her the chance to re-invent herself.”
They were all silent as they weighed what Mallory had said.
“But to not even tell her husband? Or her best friends?” Kendall just couldn’t grasp it. If she hadn’t had the three of them, she never would have survived the last months.
Mallory spoke quietly but with a growing intensity. “But those would be the last people she’d tell. Because of how important they are to her. Because if she lost them—well, it would be like losing her parents all over again, wouldn’t it? Only worse. She’d be alone again. With no one to rely on but herself.”
There was a heavy silence as they absorbed what Mallory had said. Then Mallory laughed, breaking the somber mood. “See how bad you feel? How sorry for her you are? That’s why she doesn’t tell anyone. Because then she couldn’t be who she wants to be!”
Mallory’s tone lightened even further. “Pretty good, huh? I spent a long time coming up with Miranda’s rationale and it works, doesn’t it? All the pieces fit for the character. I love when that happens!”
Faye was the first to recover. “You’re right, Mallory, it’s brilliant.” She paused as if searching for the right words. “Some things are better kept to oneself. And that applies to people and characters. Because the information colors everything. And it changes how people react to you, I mean, the character.”
“Too true,” Tanya added. “And to go back to our earlier conversation about my character, Tina? I think having sex opens you up too much, too. Even when you say it’s just going to be sex, it never really is.” Her voice faltered for a moment. “Especially when it’s with someone who’s acting like they want more.” She cleared her throat. “That’s why I, um, don’t think Tina should cave to the cook.”
“Well, I have a question for you,” Mallory said, earning gratitude from all of them with the change of subject. “How inept do you think we should make Plain Jane’s assistant, Lucy Simmons?”
They debated this briefly, enjoying themselves but not really deciding.
“I have a more pressing question,” Kendall said. “I’m not at all clear about how this book is going to end. We’re awfully far down the road not to have committed to that.”
Everyone spoke at once, their ideas spilling out on top of each other’s, but it was Mallory who had the final say. “I don’t think there’s any question how the story has to end.”
They all waited to hear what Mallory thought because while they all had their own opinions and could argue them with complete conviction, no one could ignore the fact that Mallory had
been the most commercially successful of them all.
“I just don’t think there’s any question,” she said again. “If we’ve done our job right, the reader is going to be rooting for Kennedy and her friends all the way through the book. Sticks and Stones is going to hit the New York Times list and become a runaway bestseller. And its author is going to live happily ever after.”
27
Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one’s luck.
—IRIS MURDOCH
Tanya spent the night starring in a fairy tale, though it was hard to tell which one. Brett picked her up at 7:00 P.M. in a washed and waxed Jeep that shone almost as brightly as his eyes did when he spotted her.
“Wow!” That was all he said when she opened the front door and struck a pose for him in the red satin cocktail dress that made her feel like Marilyn Monroe. She teetered slightly on the red stiletto heels and one hand fingered the strand of faux pearls nervously, but he seemed not to notice. His gaze slid slowly down the form-fitting red silk, over her bare legs to the dyed-to-match shoes, and back up again. The girls giggled behind her; they’d spent the day watching her primp and dress and were as thrilled as she was by the end result. Even Trudy was breathless with excitement over the mystery date.
Almost as much for them as for Brett, Tanya let the fake fur stole slip further down her bare shoulders and shifted her weight slightly so that she could jut out the other silk-clad hip. Her lips, which she’d painted a matching shade of red, curved into a pouty smile, in her best Marilyn imitation.
“Did I say ‘wow’ yet?” Brett’s smile was warm, his voice thick with admiration. Chill bumps rose on Tanya’s bare arms and they had nothing to do with the night air.
Without a backward glance at her audience, she stepped out onto the front stoop and closed the door behind her, suppressing a smile at the collective groan of disappointment that arose from inside the trailer.
She had to admit that Brett had cleaned up pretty well himself. He had on gray pants and an open-necked white dress shirt and blue blazer. His blond hair looked freshly cut and his face newly shaved. A hint of something male and spicy clung lightly to him.
“Yes, I think you’ve got ‘wow’ covered,” she said.
He leaned down to kiss her hello, a simple brush of his lips across her cheek that made her goose bumps goose bump.
“Ready?” He gave her his arm and escorted her down the rickety aluminum steps to the hardscrabble lawn as if leading her down a marble staircase onto a ballroom dance floor.
Her heart twisted in her chest as he helped her into the car.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he put the Jeep in gear and headed out of the trailer park. He’d refused to answer this question for a full two weeks, saying only that she’d want to dress up and that she should save her appetite for the meal he had planned.
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “I think I mentioned that before.”
No one had ever gone to such effort for her—no one. The fact that he’d spent weeks planning and building up to a surprise just for her was inconceivable. All day the excitement and anticipation had simmered inside her, stoking her imagination, lighting her internal furnace. There was a fine tightening inside her, an ache that began deep at her core and vibrated outward. She’d written this kind of intense physical desire many times, but had never actually experienced it. She’d had sex many times before, too, but had never felt this keening want that had begun in her brain and somehow taken over her body.
Sexual energy filled the space between them and it wasn’t all coming from her. She imagined it pinging off the dashboard and ricocheting through the car. She wasn’t sure how to control it, but she knew if they didn’t do something about it soon, she was going to pull him into the backseat, have her way with him, and end up at a drive-thru.
Tanya clenched the evening bag between her hands and dug deep past all the humming and tightening, searching for the one thing that might save them: her sense of humor.
“I’m going to feel real silly in this getup if we end up at Ci-Ci’s all-you-can-eat pizza bar or the China King Hunan Buffet,” she said in as flip a tone as she could manage.
Brett smiled, and she thought it might have been from relief. “Trust me when I tell you you’re perfectly dressed for the evening.” He slowed to a stop as the light turned red then faced her. “The only thing I can imagine you looking better in is nothing.”
So much for the elimination of sexual tension. Tanya groaned as her entire body went warm and liquid; of its own accord and without a speck of permission from her, it strained toward his.
She didn’t answer because her mouth was too dry to form words. They stared at each other, their gazes frighteningly hungry, until the light finally changed. It took the honking of horns behind them to turn Brett’s attention back to the road.
Tanya gave herself a stern, if silent, talking to.
Sex with Brett was not a foregone conclusion, she reminded herself, and not a particularly great idea either. This . . . humming and tightening . . . was a result of her overactive imagination. A culmination of all the sex scenes she’d written. And all of Faye’s that she’d read. She’d simply let Brett’s interest in her become something more than it was. They were just going out for a nice dinner; it didn’t have to lead to anything else.
Her body, which was still tingling and straining and hadn’t had sex for longer than she cared to remember, told her to shut up.
They crossed the Gandy Bridge to Tampa in silence then turned onto Bayshore Boulevard. Stately homes and high-rise condos whizzed by on their left; the concrete balustrade framed glimpses of Tampa Bay on the right.
By the time Brett pulled into valet parking at Bern’s Steak House and she was handed out of the car like a piece of delicate china, Tanya had resolved to stop analyzing and start enjoying.
Brett was Prince Charming as he led her into the famous restaurant’s red velvet and brocade lobby and she was Marilyn and Dorothy and Cinderella all rolled into one. With Brett’s hand pressed lightly to the small of her back, Tanya floated behind the maitre d’ to a linen-draped table in an intimate corner.
They chose from twenty-six types of caviar to start, had their dry-aged chateaubriand for two carved table side, and washed it all down, if such a phrase could be used for such a place, with one of the fifty-five hundred available bottles of red wine from the Bern’s wine cellar.
The meal passed in a haze of pleasure. The food and wine were miraculous, the service flawless, and the prices, at least in Tanya’s menu, blissfully nonexistent. Afterward they lingered over chocolate soufflé and French brandy in the dessert room upstairs and Tanya knew that somehow Brett’s Jeep had turned off of Bayshore Boulevard not onto South Howard Avenue as she’d thought, but onto the superhighway that led to Oz.
Tanya, being the practical, responsible, thinking mother of two that she was, was very careful during the longest and most wonderful evening of her life so far not to click her ruby slippers together. If there was anywhere she didn’t want to go right now, it was home.
It was the Saturday evening before Thanksgiving, and Mallory, who still hadn’t heard from her husband, resorted to subterfuge. Using the caller ID block on her cell phone, she dialed Chris’s number. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, Chris, it’s me. Mallory,” she said.
Mallory had a brief, horrible flash of him taunting her with “Mallory who?” But Chris remained politely Chris-like, though his “Oh. Hi,” carried an underlying tone of detachment that made her want to cry.
He left a silence that she hurried to fill. “I just wanted to see how you were,” she said.
Chris didn’t respond.
“And, um, how the project’s going.”
“Fine,” he said. “It’s going fine.”
She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“That’s good,” she said.
She waited for him t
o ask how she was doing so that she could admit how much she missed him, but he didn’t do that, either.
“Will you be home in time for Thanksgiving?” Mallory asked. In the past Chris had invited his parents, his brother and his wife, and a few friends from work and then created a feast that included what she’d dubbed their trifecta of turkey—one roasted, one fried, and one smoked. Mallory had no family and it had never occurred to her to invite Faye, Kendall, or Tanya, who all would be having Thanksgiving with their own families.
“No,” he said. “I’m planning to go to my parents’ for Thanksgiving. They’ve been after me to come home to visit for a while now.”
She waited for him to ask her to meet him in Akron, where he’d grown up and his parents still lived. Or to say that he’d come back to New York first so they could fly there together. Once again she waited in vain.
There was another long silence during which she debated what to say; the whole time she was afraid that he’d hang up before she figured out what the right thing was.
“When do you think you’ll come home?” she asked carefully, fighting back the urge to beg him to come back to her now, this minute. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d referred to Akron as home. “It’s so empty here without you,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “So quiet.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know exactly how that feels.”
Mallory closed her eyes and tried to still the panic. She was completely alone and he wasn’t coming home. She did feel guilt at how she’d treated him, but she felt the panic of being alone even more.
“Chris,” she said. “I am sorry. I’ve apologized so many times I don’t even know what else to say. I will do better. As soon as I’ve finished this project I’ll—”
“I know, Mallory. You always mean to do better. And I think you actually mean it when you say it. But not to ‘diss’ what you do for a living, but actions really do speak a whole lot louder than words.”
