“All right.” Claire huddled in her overstuffed chair, holding on to her mug with both hands. Why should she make this easy for him?
“It’s not a story I’m exactly proud of. After grad school, I got a job with a midsized newspaper in Ohio. Not quite the New York Times, but respectable. I was so full of myself—I was going to blaze new trails, make a name for myself, and I was on my way. I had the whole thing mapped out—a couple of years at the first paper, then jump to a bigger, better one, and so on. Sorry—I was young and stupid. No excuses. Anyway, I was seeing someone, and we were even talking about getting married, and I thought everything was just swell. You know, those moments in your life when you think all the stars are lined up right? Well, that was one of those times.” He stopped to take a sip of coffee.
“Go on,” Claire prodded, watching his face.
“And I was writing some freelance stuff, and it was getting placed in the right journals. I even had an agent. I thought I was really hot stuff. And then Christine dumped me, without warning. No, that’s not true. There were probably plenty of warnings, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy being Mr. Hotshot Journalist, and I didn’t notice until it was too late. She told me she’d been seeing someone else for quite a while, and that she was moving out. Bang. It was over. And I didn’t handle it very well.”
Claire bit back a nasty comment. Let him tell his story, get it over with. What did it have to do with her, anyway?
“So I went into a funk. Maybe it was a combination of things. I mean, the first glow was off the job, and my career wasn’t moving as fast as I’d hoped. I’d had a couple of good pieces rejected. It all just piled up. I was feeling sorry for myself, and I started drinking more than I should have, mostly alone in my apartment—that was one thing I was good at. I could really hold it, get totally wasted at night and still show up for work in the morning.”
Claire couldn’t hold back any longer. “Got it: you were depressed. You got dumped, you were miserable, you pickled yourself. What’s that got to do with the book?” She got out of the chair and started pacing around the room, or at least around the six feet of clear space.
“I’m getting there. So after a month or two, I was feeling really sorry for myself, you know? And one weekend, when I didn’t have anything better to do, I sat down and banged out this book, all about how women screw over men, mess with their heads and then kick them where it hurts. That was Genderal Relations. Heck, at the time I figured it was just a good way to get Christine out of my system, and I had a hell of a good time writing it. Didn’t hold back a thing.”
“And then what? The publishing gremlins stole it away and printed it?”
“Not exactly. I was in New York not long after that, and I met with my agent, and we had dinner, with a lot of drinks, and I told him about the book. And he said, hey, sounds like a hoot, send it to me. And in a moment of weakness, I did.”
“Jonathan, if there was any justice in the world, it should have died right there.”
“I know that! But he showed it to a buddy of his at a publishing house, and he loved it, he thought it was marketable, and got it into print fast, and, as they say, the rest is history.”
Claire considered. “If this is supposed to make you look better, you’re not doing a very good job. You knew it was crap. You could have stopped it at any point in there. But you didn’t.”
“Mea culpa. I was still drinking, and I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I wanted to get back at Christine. I was angry. And I needed the money. So then it came out, and it was a big hit, which I never expected. And that depressed me even more.”
Claire stood up and started pacing again. “Why, for heaven’s sake? You had a bestseller! Plenty of people would kill for that.”
“I know. But I wanted to be a real journalist. I wanted to be taken seriously, respected. And that wasn’t happening. So I spew out this piece of garbage in a drunken fog, and suddenly I’m everybody’s darling. Every talk show wants me. I’m raking in money. The publisher is after me to spin it into a whole series—heck, a whole franchise. And me? I just kept drinking.”
By now Claire had stopped on the far side of the room. About as far away from Jonathan as she could manage, without actually leaving the apartment, which wasn’t very far. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? You made your mess. And then you managed to turn your success into a cause for depression.”
“I never said it was a nice story. I’m just telling you what happened. Yes, I didn’t deal with it very well. I screwed up.”
And that was just about the time I met him, Claire realized. Wallowing in drink and self-pity. “Thank you for sharing that.”
Jonathan stood up too. “I’m trying to be honest. I’d like to think I’m back on track now, professionally. Claire . . . the first time we met, that was about my lowest point. I was pretty close to hitting bottom. When I went to that conference in Chicago, I was a walking zombie, going through the motions. My publicist booked me, and I showed up, but I wasn’t exactly sociable.”
Oh, God. A chill crept into Claire’s stomach as she realized what he had just said: he remembered the conference where they had met. What else did he remember?
Jonathan was watching her, and after a long pause, he said slowly, “You . . . you thought I didn’t remember.”
Panic time. “Given the state you were in, it was a logical assumption.”
“Oh, God, Claire.” He stood up, too. “But if you thought . . . Claire, I remember that night. All of it.”
34
Claire froze. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
Jonathan didn’t stop talking. “I thought that was why . . . why you helped me, why you didn’t turn me in.”
Claire found her voice. “It was. I wasn’t willing to believe that you could kill somebody, because that would mean . . .”
“I know. You’d hate yourself. Claire, we have to talk about this.”
“Why?” she burst out. “What possible good can it do?” Her back was against a wall; there was nowhere else to go, unless she locked herself in the bathroom. Very adult of you, Claire.
“Because you have to know what it meant to me. Look, I told you I was in the pits. I was a miserable lump, and I sulked my way through the whole panel thing. And then I felt guilty about that, so I drank some more. Then I ran into you in the hallway. I wasn’t sure if you were a hallucination, and I couldn’t believe you actually came with me.”
“I was drunk too,” Claire mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
“Claire,” Jonathan’s voice was more urgent now, “I’m not going to say anything stupid like that was the best night of my life—even though it was great. But that wasn’t what was important. What mattered was that you were smart and strong and beautiful and so sure of yourself, and there you were, with me, and it made me feel a hell of a lot better about myself. I mean, if you saw something in me, maybe there was something worthwhile lurking in there. And then, when I woke up, and you were gone, I wondered if I had made the whole thing up, just slapped together a really great fantasy. And I thought I had no right to say anything to you, and you never got in touch with me, so I just let it go. But, Claire, I never forgot. This may sound really stupid, but somehow I started thinking of you as some sort of angel. That night turned me around.”
Claire had the feeling that if she said anything, she would shatter. The things she had believed, the things she had done . . . she had made so many assumptions, and she’d been so wrong. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Somehow Jonathan had crossed the room while she wasn’t looking. He was standing in front of her. Very close. “Why are you sorry? This was all my fault.”
Claire shook her head. “No. I was wrong. I thought the worst, and then I hated myself.” There were tears running down her cheeks. How had that happened? She managed to look at him then. “Jonathan, why are you still here?”
“This is why.” With exquisite care he took her head in his hands and he kissed her, gently
at first, and then not so gently.
For a fleeting moment Claire thought that she should be shocked, but then she realized she wasn’t. All right, Claire, time to be honest with yourself. You were right the first time. You wanted this man—five years ago. You took one look and something clicked. It’s that simple. And you have spent the last five years beating yourself up over this because you didn’t believe in anything as cliché as instant attraction, love at first sight. It scared the hell out of you—too fast, too intense. So instead you tried to twist the whole episode around and decided that it hadn’t mattered. So why have you worked so hard to forget it?
“Oh, bloody hell!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And by the time they pulled apart, the world had shifted.
He watched her face. He looked worried. “Claire?”
With great effort she summoned up a smile. “I am an idiot. I think I’m so smart, and all this time I’ve been deluding myself. No wonder I had so much trouble finishing the damn book—I didn’t believe what I was saying, not deep down. I didn’t want to be Annabeth. I didn’t want to compromise my principles for the sake of love, or lust, or whatever you want to call it. Oh, no, not me. Claire Hastings is above all that. Damn it, back then in Chicago I did something completely out of character for me, and I regretted it, and now I have to think that I was actually right then, and that I’ve been wrong ever since, trying to turn it into something it wasn’t. That my instincts work better than my head.”
“Claire,” Jonathan said with remarkable patience, “you’re babbling.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m not. Because I’m not above it. I had all the evidence, but I ignored it, because it didn’t fit the way I wanted it to. Jonathan, I owe you an apology.”
Jonathan now looked completely bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Because I thought love was a sham, a silly social convention, a lot of hype, a biological con game—call it whatever you want. Because I thought women were fools to chase after it. I thought it didn’t matter to me. And I was wrong. Because there was something real between us that night, and I didn’t want to see it.”
“Can I take that as good news?” he asked.
“Oh, definitely.” And Claire pulled him back to her and resumed their kiss where they had left off.
Sometime later, Jonathan pulled back a fraction of an inch and said, “Where’s Leah?”
“Dinner at the U.N. Won’t be back for hours.”
“Good.”
* * *
The sound of Leah’s key in the lock startled Claire from a half sleep, and she struggled to sit up on the sagging couch. “Welcome back, roomie. How’d it go?”
“Great. Everybody was happy.” Leah stopped and took a critical look at Claire. “You got that hair fixed, right?”
“I did. The man’s a genius.”
“You look . . . different.”
“Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been cleared of all wrongdoing and am free to go wherever and whenever I like, without looking over my shoulder.”
“Nope, something else. Maybe it had something to do with that Daulton guy who passed me on the stairs?” Leah grinned.
“Oh. Well, you see—”
Leah held up one hand. “No explanation required—it’s written all over your face. Told you there was something going on, didn’t I?”
“But there wasn’t, before. I mean—”
“I get it. By the way, I approve—unless he gets you into another mess. Hey, I’ve got something for you—call it a souvenir.”
“What is it?”
“Here.” Leah dug into her tote bag and fished out an envelope, handing it to Claire. Claire looked at it curiously: heavy ivory paper, bearing only her name, in a hand she didn’t recognize. Leah was watching her with a gleam in her eyes. “Open it.”
Claire turned it over and pulled up the flap. She extricated a short note and read it, once, twice, then she looked at Leah. “This is a thank-you note from the First Lady. I didn’t think she knew all the details. How come you have it?”
“She didn’t want to send it through the mail, so I said I’d get it to you, and here it is. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yes. It is.” Claire was warmed by the simple thank-you. She and Jonathan had done something good, even if the rest of the world would never know. She felt immeasurably cheered.
Leah dropped into the chenille chair. “So, you heading home?”
“You mean, that cabin in the woods? Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
“Not at all. I don’t see you very often. But I figured I could treat myself to a day off, now that the conference is over. You want to go play tomorrow? Unless, of course, you’ve made other plans?”
“I’d love to play. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Have you ever visited the Statue of Liberty?”
“Nuh-uh. I don’t do touristy stuff.”
“Then that’s what I think we should do. Wonderfully symbolic, you know—giant woman, international icon, all that stuff. And when else am I going to have such a great chance to get into the head of a really important woman?”
Leah laughed. “I see your point. Okay, you’re on, after we’ve both caught up on some sleep. You sure you don’t need to rush back to finish your precious book?”
Claire smiled at her. “More than ever. I’ve got some serious rewriting to do, but it’s going to be a better book.”
“Happy endings all around.”
Excerpt from Relatively Dead
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Relatively Dead by Sheila Connolly.
Abby Kimball has just moved to New England with her boyfriend and is trying to settle in, but the experience is proving to be quite unsettling, to say the least. While on a tour of local historic homes, Abby witnesses a family scene that leaves her gasping for breath—because the family has been dead for nearly a century. Another haunting episode follows, and another, until it seems to Abby that everything she touches is drawing her in, calling to her from the past.
Abby would doubt her sanity if it weren’t for Ned Newhall, the kind and knowledgeable guide on that disturbing house tour. Rather than telling her she’s hallucinating, Ned takes an interest in Abby’s strange encounters and encourages her to figure out what’s going on, starting with investigating the story of the family she saw . . . and exploring her own past.
But as Abby begins to piece together a history that’s as moving as it is shocking and unravels a long-ago mystery that nearly tore her family apart, she also begins to suspect that Ned’s got secrets of his own, and that his interest may be driven as much by a taste for romance as a love for history.
1
She didn’t want to be here. But Brad had told her she ought to get out more, find some interests of her own, so here she was standing in front of the last house on the walking tour of Waltham’s most noteworthy mansions, relics of the town’s nineteenth-century industrial heyday. Could she summon up the energy to go through one more? She’d already seen four, and her feet hurt. How could this one be any better than the others?
But she wanted to be able to tell Brad that she’d taken the house tour today. Not part of the house tour, not some of the house tour: the whole tour. That meant she had to grit her teeth and go through this one. Then she could go home, make a nice cup of tea, and take her shoes off.
The house looked nice, she had to admit. It was not too big or too posh-looking. Friendly, almost. The house sat on a rise, and when she reached the broad terrace Abby turned to contemplate the low roofs of Waltham below. Not much of a view, but at least the house nestled proudly on its land, lawns spread out like skirts around it. She turned back to the house to study the details. High Victorian, the house sprouted chimneys, dormers, porches, a porte-cochere, and a wealth of gingerbread trim. It was a full three stories, with a turret on one end. She made her way to the front door.
When she stepped into the paneled hall, a man about her own age greeted her
and handed her an information sheet. A name badge in a plastic sleeve, clipped to the pocket of his blue-gray Oxford shirt, identified him as Ned. Abby noted that the shirt was exactly the same color as his eyes, or what she could see behind his gold-rimmed glasses. She smiled timidly.
“Is it too late to take the tour?”
“No problem,” Ned replied cheerfully. “Take your time. It’s self-guided, and you can wander anywhere on this floor, but not upstairs. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Abby drifted into what must have been the main parlor. With her newfound architectural expertise, she observed that the dropped ceiling was not original, but the wavy glass in the many windows was. The room had been furnished in a cheerful chintz in light colors, and the woodwork was painted white. It had probably been much more somber a century ago. She crossed back through the spacious entry hall to a small sitting room opposite. This was more charming, intimate. There was a small fireplace surrounded by pretty decorative tiles, with a mirror inset over it. This would have been where the family spent most of its time, she decided. On the far side of the fireplace was a door; passing through it, Abby found herself in the kitchen. Nothing of great interest here. At the back of the house, it was dark, and it had clearly been remodeled, in the 1930s, she guessed. The house was surprisingly small, Abby mused; it had appeared much larger from the outside. Maybe that was the point of all that gingerbread.
If the house was as square as it had appeared, there should be one more room on this floor: the dining room. She chose another door out of the kitchen and crossed through a small, richly paneled hall, from which she could see the front hall. She stepped into the dining room. Plainly this room hadn’t been modernized. Her eyes followed the soaring lines of the elegant woodwork to the original coffered ceiling, then to the elaborate carved mantel at the far end. She laid one hand on the doorjamb—and then something changed.
Once She Knew Page 26
