She couldn’t avoid this confrontation forever. Leaping up from the bed, she pushed past him. She raced down the thickly carpeted stairway, rounded the corner at the landing, and made the long walk to the living room at the other end of the house. She wasn’t surprised to find her grandmother sitting in her customary high-wing chair by the large picture window.
Her grandmother colored her hair, but still made it appear to be naturally turning gray. It was almost all white. Her father had turned prematurely gray at a young age, and he’d inherited that trait from his mother. Her hair was well coiffed, and she sat in her chair like the queen she felt she was. She always wore elegant dresses, even in the comfort of her home—well, Channing’s home. She’d come to live there after her husband had died of a heart attack when Channing was in his twenties.
What did surprise Meryl was seeing her mother there, standing behind her grandmother.
Meryl favored her mother except in eye color. They shared the same hair shade, although now her mother enlisted the services of a beautician to maintain her blonde. They were of similar build—lean and tall with long legs. Her mother also wore tennis whites, but there was no evidence she’d been playing the game. Not a hair was out of place, and no beads of sweat clung to her hairline. But then sweat wouldn’t dare make an appearance on Candace McClain.
Her mother stared out the window at their manicured lawn. The lawn, like everything around her, could only be one way: perfect. Her mother wrapped her arms around herself as if awaiting some dreaded news.
“Have a seat, young lady.” Her father blustered into the room and flung himself into his leather chair.
Meryl sat across from him on the matching couch.
“Your mother and I’ve discussed this.” Her father crossed his legs. “We feel it’s best if you transfer to Wellesley for your final year of college.”
“What?” Meryl felt lightheaded. “I only have one year left.”
“It’s where you should have gone in the first place, dear,” her grandmother said.
Meryl turned to her. Her grandmother stared at Meryl with cold blue eyes, almost daring her to say something back.
“I will not transfer to Wellesley or any other school you have in mind. I chose Lehigh because I liked the journalism school and the campus. You know that, Father.” She didn’t look at her father or grandmother while she spoke but rather to her mother’s back. “Mother, you don’t think this is the right thing to do, do you?”
Her mother remained silent.
“Do you?”
She turned to face Meryl, and Meryl’s stomach dropped at the expression on her face. Resignation. Her father had won.
No, I can’t be away from Angie. No.
“You have a choice then,” her father said. “If you ever see or speak to Angelina Cantinnini again, you’ll be removed from that school and transferred to Wellesley. And if you speak to her or see her, I promise to make that phone call to the Dean’s office. Ms. Cantinnini’s scholarship won’t be worth a thing after I finish discussing her despicable behavior toward you. Do you understand?”
Meryl strained to wrap her mind around his words. If she left Lehigh, she’d not even have a chance of seeing Angie. Even if her father had forbidden contact with her, at least still being in the same school allowed her to hope she’d see her sometime, some way. Without her father’s knowledge, of course.
“I’ll have my ways of finding out, Meryl. So wipe anything from your mind that even hints at coming near this woman again.”
She jumped at his words. As usual, he’d read her perfectly.
“And one more stipulation. You’ll contact Stanley Alberson.”
“No. You cannot force me to date someone anymore. This isn’t high school.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything. I told you. You have a choice. This is entirely up to you.”
“You’ve made it impossible for me, and you damn well know it.”
“You have a choice,” he repeated in a level tone. His jaws were tight.
A sob rose in Meryl’s throat. She tried her best to swallow it down.
“You can forget about that disgusting young woman, Meryl,” her grandmother said. Her words dripped with disdain.
Meryl jumped to her feet and balled her fists.
“She’s not disgusting,” she shouted at her grandmother. “I love her. You’ve turned something beautiful into something ugly.”
“Don’t you dare say what you did with that woman was beautiful. It was filthy! Filthy! Do you hear me?” The old woman’s face contorted with hatred.
Something in her grandmother’s voice and words made Meryl collapse inside herself. She felt like she was going to throw up.
“Why, Mother? Why let them take away the one thing in my life that’s meant something to me?”
Her mother shook her head slightly. “This is for the best, honey. You’ll see. You’re just going through a phase. You’re young—”
“Not you, too,” Meryl whispered. “Please. I’m begging you.”
Her mother turned back to the window.
Meryl looked at her grandmother’s smug expression and the set in her father’s jaw one last time. Then she bolted out of the living room to the front door.
“Meryl! Come back here!” her grandmother shouted.
Meryl flung the heavy door open and ran down the long driveway.
“Open the gate!” she yelled to the guard. “Open the gate now.”
“Yes, Ms. McClain.” The gate slowly slid open.
Meryl sprinted through it and took off down the lane. She didn’t know where she was going. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Chapter 11
Key West, Present Day
A persistent and annoying tone chirped in Angie’s ear. She tried to incorporate it into her dream, but the bird-like sound didn’t fit into the vision of a naked Meryl hovering above her.
Angie groaned. She groped for her cell phone on the bedside table. She squinted at the time: 5:45.
She flipped the phone open. “This better be good, whoever this is, because—”
“Oh, don’t you even fucking start,” Sally yelled. “Get your fucking ass out of that bed.”
Angie struggled to sit up. “Jesus, Sal, I know you’re my agent, but five-forty-five in the morning?”
“This is a fucking emergency, Angie. Get your ass up and get to your computer. Now.”
Angie untangled herself from the covers and padded into the den where she’d left her laptop. She powered it up.
“And what is so goddamn important that you couldn’t wait until a decent hour to call me?” Angie asked.
“Just tell me when you can log onto the Internet.”
The computer warmed up, and Angie clicked onto the Internet icon.
“Okay. I’m online. What the hell is it?”
“Go to the New York Banner’s webpage.”
Angie typed in the URL. “I’m there.”
“Hit the entertainment section.”
Angie stifled a sigh. Sally was so annoying when she was like this. She clicked on the link. “I’m in. What’s the big deal?” She tried to focus on the text through bleary eyes and froze when she read the title of Meryl McClain’s article: “Zach England: Reclusive Male Author or Clever Female Opportunist?” Angie read the title again. Each word felt like a punch in the gut. “Oh my frigging God.”
“I ask you again. Who the fuck is this woman? And what is this, her third week there? How does she fucking come to this conclusion?”
Angie scanned the article and had to admire Meryl’s reasoning. “Well, she’s read all the books and noticed a pattern when—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Angie. It was a rhetorical question. I can read, too, you know.”
“What do you think this means?” Angie’s mind spun out of control.
“I think this means that you need to leave Key West for a while.”
Angie bristled. “Aw, hell no.”
“Wait. H
ear me out. If she’s this fucking smart, she also might have an idea where England lives. We can’t take that chance. Stanley & Schilling wouldn’t want us taking that chance. I haven’t heard from them yet, but I’m sure I will this morning.”
“I am not, and I repeat not, leaving my home. You can tell them that from me. Yeah, I signed a contract, and I’ve lived up to it. But they can’t force me to move from here. I have a life, you know.” Angie slammed her laptop closed for emphasis.
“Listen, it wouldn’t be for long…”
“No, Sally. Absolutely not. I find it hard to believe she’d know where to find me. I’m not running.”
“All right. I can tell when you’ve dug yourself in. I’ll sniff around and see if I can find out if she has any leads. In the meantime, at least do me a favor and keep as low a profile as possible down there.”
“Do I have to remind you again that we’re talking about Key West? A lot of people move here to escape something or someone in their lives.”
“I’m well aware of that. What I’m asking you is not to call attention to yourself. Don’t talk about your writing to anyone. I know some are aware you’re an author, but don’t bring it up out of the blue. Play at your bar or go out on your boat or something.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Good. I’ll call you again soon.”
Angie put her phone aside and opened her laptop cover again. She hit the power button to bring the article back up on-screen. She read it slowly, still marveling at Meryl’s ability to pick up on Angie’s knowledge of women and how they worked.
You nailed me good, Meryl.
* * *
Two weeks passed and buzz in the literary world still lingered about Zach England’s identity. Other newspapers had taken Meryl’s story and run with it—especially the tabloids in New York. They had England pegged as one of the female mystery writers who’d been somewhat successful in their genre, but had no crossover bestsellers into mainstream. Sally called to remind Angie that along with the speculation of England being a woman, others had begun guessing where the author might reside. Angie reiterated that she was staying in Key West and wouldn’t run.
She took The Pride of Youngstown out for three straight days and nights following Sally’s latest call. Angie needed to be alone, and out on the water on her boat was as alone as she could hope. She stayed close to the shoreline, anchored in shallow waters. As had often been the case in the past when stress pushed her until she was physically exhausted, she got lost in her writing.
She was into the tenth chapter of her latest Barker novel by the afternoon of the third day, trying her best to keep Meryl out of her head. She shut her laptop and set it aside. It wasn’t working. Meryl had been on the mark about Angie’s writing in her review. Where was the passion she once had for her work? When had she started breezing through her books so that she could get lost in her own little world in Key West? Was it the fourth book? The fifth? The sixth?
She sank into the cushions of the couch, grabbed the laptop again, and gazed through the windows of the cabin. The mixture of pink, orange, and yellow colors of the impending sunset tinged the sky.
She opened the cover of the laptop and saved the “Barker9” file. The blank page of the computer screen seemed to beckon her to purge her inner demons. She began to write again, but it wasn’t an outline for Barker9 or any other book. It was Meryl. Thoughts and feelings from an earlier time in her life flowed from her fingertips. Tastes, touches, smells, sighs, and whispered pleas for more forced their way from her memory onto the screen.
And there was love.
She wrote about the first moment she’d seen Meryl and their eyes had met. The first touch of Meryl’s fingers on her skin was like the caress of a warm ocean breeze. In the early morning hours, they’d held their dreams close, as close as they’d held each other, always with the fear that harsh reality would soon spirit away their future.
Angie hadn’t forgotten. She’d tried to push it all away, to move on and claim a new phase of her life. But she never made it past the day she’d fallen to her knees on the street in front of the McClain mansion, crying out Meryl’s name.
Darkness enveloped the cabin, and Angie stopped typing.
Damn. Where had the hours gone? She couldn’t recall the last time that her writing captivated her. She was drained, but she also felt more alive. This bit of journaling had been more compelling than anything she’d done in longer than she could recall. She saved the file and shut the laptop. Standing and stretching, she moved her neck first one way and then the other to work out the kinks.
In the beginning, the Barker series excited her. But by the time the fifth novel shot up the New York Banner bestseller’s list for fiction, following its predecessors, she had to force herself to conjure up any energy or fondness for Derek Barker. She’d write for an hour, stop, stare at the clock, play chess or solitaire on her computer, and then force herself back into the world of her rough-and-tumble detective.
She pulled another Corona from the refrigerator. She shoved a section of the lime she’d sliced earlier down into the lip of the bottle, took a drink, and walked upstairs to the deck. A crisp breeze blew in from the east, and the flesh of her bare legs rose with goose bumps. She wore baggy cargo shorts and a long-sleeved Cleveland Browns T-shirt, but there was enough skin showing that the cool air chilled her.
A new moon hung unseen overhead. The water was calm and inky black. Angie tilted her head to the sky.
“Oh wow.” It was as if God had taken the stars in His hand and tossed them across the universe. She breathed in the salty sea air with its faint fishy smell of the ocean life that lay below the surface. Listening to the soft lapping of the waves against the hull of her boat, she was filled with peace for what felt like the first time in years.
* * *
“You want to what?”
On Friday afternoon, the peace Angie had felt Wednesday night out on The Pride of Youngstown shattered. With her cell phone pressed to her ear, she sat on a bench on the pier watching tourists walk by, listening to Sally’s exasperation while at the same time thinking of Jimmy Buffet’s line about “tourists covered with oil.” A few shapely women passed by and smiled at Angie.
“I’m almost halfway through the Barker novel, so you’ve no worries there. I’ve gotten an itch to write a lesbian novel under my own name. What harm can there be? It’s not like I haven’t published some already.”
Angie heard a horn blare on the other end of the line and then, “Asshole!”
“I take it we’re driving in Chicago traffic while talking on our cell phone? Do you think this is wise?” Angie could picture Sally in her Mercedes weaving in and out of lanes. Angie had driven with her on a few occasions and always was scared shitless by the time she left the vehicle. The slowed-down pace in Key West maybe had spoiled her, but Sally still took what Angie thought were unnecessary risks behind the wheel.
“Need I remind you that Meryl McClain’s article has reporters snooping around, hoping to be the one who hunts down the real Zach England? I told you. We don’t need you bringing anymore attention to yourself. And another thing. Stanley & Schilling won’t go for it.”
“What do you mean they won’t go for it?”
“This is one of the largest publishing companies in the world. They won’t like their number one author dallying in lesbian fiction.”
“Did you just hear what you said? How the hell will anyone else know? Don’t they have a gay-lesbian imprint? Outside the Lines Books, I think is the name of it. Why wouldn’t they let me publish my book there?”
“For one thing, why have your name out there with all this other shit going on? For another, I’m pretty damn certain they want you concentrating on Derek Barker, not a lesbian novel.”
“You’re my agent, goddammit. You’re supposed to represent me on this shit. Are you afraid I’ll never write as Zach England again?”
Sally didn’t speak.
“That’s it, isn’t
it?” Angie stood up and stalked across the pier, trying to curb the urge to scream. “Are you afraid you’ll miss out on more money? Like I haven’t made you enough already? Hell, you don’t even need any other clients.”
“Oh Christ, Angie, don’t go there. Hang on. I’m pulling off the Van Ryan.” A long silence passed before Sally spoke again. “I’m aware of how much money you’ve made me, but you’ve also made yourself quite a haul over these past eight years. So, don’t go getting all high and mighty on me.” Sally sighed. “I know how talented you are. The entire literary world knows how talented you are. But maybe—”
“But maybe what?” Angie snapped.
“Maybe I’m afraid that once you start down that road again, there’ll be no going back. So yeah, that’s it, I guess. You won’t have time to go back to your work as Zach England, and Stanley & Schilling won’t be pleased.”
Angie leaned her shoulder against one of the pier’s wooden piles. She watched a flock of seagulls fight over scraps of bread a tourist tossed up to them. It had to be a tourist because no local would be feeding the sea scavengers like that.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” When she received no response on the other end, she at first thought she’d spoken too low or the signal had been lost. “Hello?”
“Please don’t tell me you’re ready to give up on the Barker series because that bitch from the New York Banner got a bug up her ass about your latest. That review was weeks ago. It’s old news. Everyone has already forgotten about it. Our job now is to keep you off her radar screen until she gets tired of trying to prove you’re a woman.” Sally had obviously caught her second wind.
“She’s not a bitch. She was doing her job, which entails telling the truth.” Angie’s need to defend Meryl’s honor startled her.
“No, that’s where you’ve got it wrong. She’s giving an opinion. It’s not the truth. It’s only her version.”
“Why do we keep rehashing this Banner review? I wasn’t even talking about that. I was talking about my need to express myself as me.” Angie pounded her fist against her chest. “Angelina Cantinnini. A lesbian. Not Zach England—someone everyone assumes is a straight guy writing about a macho detective. I have to do this. I need to do this. If not, I think I’ll lose it down here.”
Come Back to Me Page 8
