“Are you all right, Megan?” Bill asked in a concerned voice. “You look very pale.”
“I’m fine. It’s a lot to take in.”
“I know. Are you sure you don’t want to put this meeting off? I can postpone it.”
“No. I want it done.” I walked over to the chair across from Bill and farthest away from his coffee. “I know the firefighters discovered the hidden manuscripts and they’re now in the hands of his publishers, but how did Jared get them in the first place? Besides mine, I mean.”
Bill leaned back in his chair. “He discovered them by accident. Something was stuck in a drawer; he was trying to get it out and triggered the mechanism. The back opened up and there they were—dusty and forgotten. His proverbial ship had come in.”
I shook my head in disgust. As always, he would grab onto the opportunity—the easiest road for Jared. Whatever required the least effort and the most reward—that was how he worked.
“He did some checking and found out the manuscripts had been written by a previous owner of the house. His only living relative was a grandson who barely knew his grandfather, who became a recluse in later years. No one knew about the books. Apparently, like you, he didn’t like to talk about his writing. His grandson has vague recollections of his grandfather telling him made-up stories when he was young, but had no idea he had turned those simple stories into novels. Three complete novels and the outline of the fourth, all waiting for him to lay claim.”
“Why did he take mine? I don’t understand if he had such a good thing going. It makes no sense.”
Bill drained his coffee and set his mug on the desk, folding his hands on the dark wood. “Ah, there’s where he made his biggest mistake, Megan. He’d worked at the publishing house as a researcher and he’s a smart man. He had a passing knowledge of the business and what they were looking for in manuscripts—he was able to rework some details and modernize the books so they were current. He made friends with a couple editors and got the first one looked at.”
Of course he “made friends.” That was what Jared did; it served his purpose.
“It was huge; it made him a great deal of money.”
Bill smirked. “Made, as in past tense. The books have been removed from circulation and the legal ramifications are huge for not only Jared, but the publishers, as well.”
I tried not to feel a sense of satisfaction from those words, but I failed.
“The second and third books,” Bill continued, “were even bigger. Now Jared had a choice. He could have ended it at the third book and rested on his laurels. He certainly made enough money to do so. There was talk of a movie deal and merchandising—the whole ball of wax—but his ego came into play. He believed his own press and decided he could use the outline to write the fourth book.”
I remembered reading the draft. How unlike the first three books it was—badly written and choppy.
“He couldn’t write it.”
“He couldn’t write his way out of a wet paper bag.” Bill laughed. “All his life he did the least amount of work possible, getting by on his looks. His talent was research, finding loopholes. He did it as a profession and used the same pattern to run his own life. The outline wasn’t complete and he was drowning. ” He tilted his head, regarding me. “Then you came in and—”
“Handed him my book,” I interrupted him. “I know what an idiot I was, Bill.”
He shrugged. “You trusted him. He’s good at getting people to trust him. He fooled an entire country, Megan.
“But he screwed himself. Instead of destroying the evidence, he kept it. The manuscripts were like trophies to him. He caused his own downfall. You were in the right place at the wrong time and he needed your book to buy him some time.” He snorted with disgust. “He thought, and I’m quoting here, ‘all he needed was a little more time to write the last book.’ He had no conscience when it came to stealing your work. Or the work of a dead man. Jared has no morals.”
My stomach rolled as I thought about Jared. How could I have not seen what a terrible person he was behind his handsome face? I stared into my lap, my hands curled into tight balls of anger and embarrassment.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Megan.” Bill’s voice was kind. “You had no idea.”
“Why is he cooperating?”
“He has no choice. His career is over. His bank accounts frozen. The public is up in arms over this. His publishers are furious and out for blood. He had no time to prepare for what happened; with his huge ego he never thought ahead, assuming he wouldn’t get caught. He’s facing penalties, legal fees, and criminal charges—many of them. Probably jail time.” Bill sat back with a satisfied smile. “Basically, he’s fucked.”
“Will he, ah, be there today?”
“No. His lawyer will be, as well as a rep from the publishing house and their lawyer. Probably his agent, too.”
Relief flooded my chest, easing the knot of fear in my stomach. I never wanted to lay eyes on him again. “Good.”
“We’re going to get your property back today, Megan. That’s why I asked you for a list of what was in the satchel, as best as you could remember. I’m sure they also want to know if you plan on pressing any charges against Jared.”
“No. I want my work back. I want to forget he even existed.” The thought of facing him in court made me shiver. “By the time all this is through what would I get anyway?”
“Probably not much but satisfaction.”
“I only want my book back.”
He glanced at his watch. “Then let’s go to the boardroom and do just that, all right?”
I sat across the table with Bill, staring at my leather satchel. I’d know it anywhere. The handle was bent and thin from years of use. The leather was dull, the edges frayed. I knew when the flap was lifted my grandfather’s faded initials would be inside, the ink barely visible after all these years. I knew exactly where to find them. To anyone looking at it they would only see an old beaten-up bag. For me it was a sentimental link to a man who read to me, who taught me how to spell my name with his large hand wrapped around my smaller one, as together, we traced the letters over and again. My fingers itched to reach out and touch the leather, but I wasn’t allowed to—not yet.
Voices had been droning on, with me partially listening. I heard the words fraud, charges, and a lot of legal terms I didn’t understand. Mr. Chalmers, the lawyer for the publishing house, explained they were now working with the grandson of the real author, trying to work out legalities and settlements. As Bill had told me, book sales were suspended and the PR side of the business was trying to handle the maelstrom of negative press Jared’s deception had caused. Jared himself had lost his career, his house, his entire lifestyle, and with every indication, his freedom. There was a very large part of me that felt a grim satisfaction knowing he would finally be punished for his actions.
Beside me, Bill spoke up, bringing my attention back to the people at the table. “Ms. Greene would like her property returned to her…immediately.” He slid my list across the table. “There’s a full description of the satchel and where you can locate the initials inside. There’s also a list of the notes and drawings the satchel contained, proving that she’s the rightful owner.”
I watched anxiously, my chest tight and fighting queasiness again. My stomach had been in knots since I came back to Boston. I had hardly kept a thing down and Karen was beside herself in worry. I needed this done and over.
After more discussion, tears filled my eyes as my satchel was handed to Bill, who placed it in my hands. I ran my fingers over the worn leather, remembering all the times I had watched my grandfather do the same thing. The faint scent of smoke came off the leather from the fire. The thought the satchel and all it contained could have been consumed in flames stilled my fingers for a moment. If that happened, I would never again have held this small piece of my past in my hands. Somehow, it was even more important than the documents it held. I sent a small prayer of thanks out to the firefi
ghter who had noticed the books and thought to remove them from harm, as well as to the neighbor who had contacted Jared’s agent to hold them in safekeeping until Jared returned. It was because of his agent’s honest, horrified reaction to the discovery of what the books actually represented, we were now fully aware of the depth of Jared’s deceit.
My hands shook as I slipped the knot open and took out my book. My eyes widened as I took in its condition. Long slashing strokes of a felt pen, scribbled notes and comments covered the pages with Jared’s attempts to make is his own. Luckily, I could still read my own words, at least most of them. The fact he had touched them, desecrated the pages with his words, made me even more nauseous. I vowed to rewrite the book in its entirety, and burn this copy. I wanted no reminder of him.
“Ms. Greene,” Mr. Dunn, one of the owners of the publishing house, addressed me directly. I looked up, feeling dazed and confused. “My partners and I would be interested in discussing your book with you at another time, when this has all been resolved—if you’d be open to the idea?” He cleared his throat. “We read through the original draft and felt it was even better than the one Jared had submitted. We’d like to work with you in the future, if you’re willing.”
I glanced at Bill, unsure what to say or even think. He nodded. “I’ll discuss it with my client and we’ll get back to you.”
I flipped through the rest of the documents grateful Jared hadn’t touched my drawings and obviously ignored all my notes. I could recreate this—make it mine again. A small flutter of excitement bloomed in my chest—a purpose, something I could work on and could be part of my future. I had options. I spoke up. “We’ll get back to you soon.”
Heads nodded, smiles were offered my way, and I lowered my head, concentrating on the papers in front of me.
Unbidden, thoughts of Zachary entered my mind. Would he ever know all this happened? Would he realize how wrong he had been? How would he feel if he found out everything Jared did was a lie, and I had loved him? That what we had was real? Would he contact me? Where was he? I closed my eyes at the burst of pain that erupted in my chest.
No second chances.
I had to remember that.
Bill came back to Karen’s place with me, and I let him fill them in on the meeting. He explained more of the legal ramifications Jared would be facing and answered some other questions we all had about the whole situation. He quietly informed me he would be happy to help me proceed with the book once it was ready. He assured me I’d have good council from the firm where he worked, since this wasn’t really his specialty.
“I still can’t pay anything,” I reminded him.
He laughed. “With all the press this is getting, my firm would be thrilled to help you, Megan. In fact, my boss insists on it.” He winked at me. “This might fast track my way into partnership.”
We all chuckled with him, knowing he was trying to lighten up the moment.
“You may want to think about submitting this to other publishers as well, Megan. There’s so much media attention around Jared and the stolen manuscripts, plus what he tried to do to yours, I’m sure your book would be given serious consideration now. You don’t have to use the publishers that once rallied against you.”
I nodded, mulling it over. They had only done what they thought was right and backed up their own author. They had no reason to believe Jared had been telling anything less than the truth—but maybe another publisher would be a good idea. Finally I spoke up. “I’ll think about it, Bill. I’m not rushing into anything right now.”
“Good idea.” He stood up. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “The worst is over, Megan. You can move on, now.”
Chris also stood up, announcing he had to get to the office. I curled into the corner of the sofa, dragging a blanket over my lap. I was constantly cold. Thoughts of the day swirled in my head as I stared at the satchel on the table. Move on, Bill said. Was I ready to move on now?
Karen’s voice broke through my musings as she handed me a cup of herbal tea. “Are you okay, Megan? You look so tired and worn-out.”
“It’s been a lot to take in,” I answered, sipping the warm beverage. “I haven’t slept well the past couple nights.”
She frowned. “It’s more than a couple missed nights. You look positively exhausted. You’re hardly eating, and I hear you throwing up all the time.”
I shrugged, struggling not to cry at her words. “Nerves. It’ll get better now.”
“No, it’s more,” she insisted. “You’re killing yourself.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” I whispered as the tears broke through.
She wrapped her hands around my cold ones. “I know, sweetie, but I think you need to see a doctor. It’s more than a broken heart.” She squeezed my hands, frowning. “You can barely keep water down. I’m worried. Please let me make an appointment with your doctor.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, okay.” I drew in a deep breath. “Then I’m going back to Cliff’s Edge.” I smiled at her, wiping the tears away. “I have a book to fix.”
“Will you finish your story?”
“Yes. It’s time to close that one and start fresh.”
“Can you?”
I shut my eyes, Zachary’s scarred, hurt face filling my mind. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back. Bill was right—it was time to move on. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. Deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The house smelled musty. I’d arranged for it to be cleaned before I arrived back, but it still carried the lingering odor of neglect. Elliott ran ahead of me, sniffing and pawing around. Walking from room to room, I opened the windows, letting the rush of the cleansing, salty air flow through the house. I hesitated at the door to my bedroom. It was clean and tidy—the bed made fresh, but I swore if I drew in a deep breath, I’d still be able to catch a trace of Megan in the air; the scent that had haunted my mind all this time. Cursing at my own stupid thoughts, I flung open the window. If there was any remaining scent lingering, it would be gone soon enough. Neither she nor her scent had a place in my life anymore.
It was more difficult to enter the studio, since the room hadn’t been touched, even by the cleaning staff. The last painting I’d been working on was still on the easel, unfinished and sparse. What made my chest ache, though, were the pictures of Megan. She was smiling in the sunlight, laughing, angry, glaring at me, and the last one: her sleeping on the blankets that were still piled on the floor in the corner.
I’d developed the photos and created a collage, dry mounting them on a large board. She was beautiful and life-like as I stared at the images, lost briefly in memories of times I thought were the happiest of my life. Fuming once again that she was invading my thoughts, I shoved the board behind a pile of blank canvases, turning the pictures to the wall for good measure. I would get rid of it in the next while, since I never planned on transferring the images to canvas now. I opened the window and turned around, staring at the almost empty space. My eyes fell on the blankets in the corner of the room. Megan’s nest, as she liked to call it. Without another thought, I crossed the room, bending down and running my fingers over the thick material, once again remembering her.
Remembering us.
The vision of her curled on the pile of blankets and pillows filled my head. She had been sitting, reading as I worked away that afternoon, and fallen asleep. When I’d looked up, I’d had to capture the moment, grabbing my camera, trading it for my paintbrush. Her bright hair spilled over the blue blanket, eyelashes dark laying on her pale skin, and the way her hand curled up under her chin, as she slumbered, called to me. I snapped away, embedding more of her images onto film, thinking one day I would attempt to recreate them on canvas. I recalled rousing her with my touch, slowly bringing her awake with warm kisses and trailing fingers. We made love on those blankets, my body telling her all the things my mouth couldn’t yet say. My apology and conflicted feelings had been silent b
ut powerful as I surged into her warm, welcoming body.
It had been the last time she was in my studio. Our world had ended only a couple days later. I looked down to see my hand fisting the material, grasping it so hard, it was tearing. I stood up abruptly, shaking my head. Why was I thinking about that afternoon?
I wondered if it was a mistake coming back to Cliff’s Edge. Maybe it was too soon. Perhaps I should have never returned, but something kept nagging at me it was time to come back, and finally I gave in.
Walking out of the studio, I closed the door behind me, shutting out the memories.
The next few days, I spent settling back in. Other than closing the window, I kept away from the studio. Mrs. Cooper had been kind enough to send Mr. Cooper out with groceries so I didn’t have to venture into town. Elliott and I walked the beach and in the woods, not surprised that, as usual, our private area was deserted, except for me.
It had been three months since the day I left, throwing a quickly packed case and Elliott into the SUV, then driving straight to Canada. There, a small cabin, and an even smaller town offered me refuge, while I figured out my next step. For days I paced and cursed, the pain in my chest threatening to overwhelm me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Dormant feelings of rejection and worthlessness simmered under my marred skin, making it feel as if it was stretched too tight over my bones. I shied away from the news or radio, not wanting to know the stories and rumors that had occurred. In desperation, I immersed myself in books, photography, and painted like a man possessed. Canvas after canvas came to life under my hands as I lost myself in a world where I didn’t have to think—only create. The views there were different from my house in Maine. The scope was vaster, the scenery angrier, my perception darker. Some of the pieces were magnificent. Most of them I left sitting in the cabin, knowing I would never share them with the world. They were too personal. The paint on those canvases was thicker and edged with rage in many places. Rage was an emotion I could hold on to. Rage over my own foolishness. Rage over what had occurred and how I opened myself up to a world of hurt because of a pair of wide, brown eyes that gazed up at me in seeming adoration.
Beneath the Scars Page 24
