Between the Pages: A Novel (8 page)

I hope you got into the city safe and sound. You never texted, so I can only assume you’re lying dead on the side of the road. If you are alive, I wanted to let you know that I have a reserved spot in the garage off Avenue A and Houston. Also it might be nice if you could shoot me a line so I don’t stay up all night worrying. :)

I smile and reply.

Irma and I are safe and sound. :) Thank you for the info. See you Sunday!

He responds almost immediately.

Oh jeez, you’ve named the car . . .

And then:

Finley, have a good weekend. You have a round of drinks on me at Ace Bar if you want to go in later. You know, since I can’t be there to buy them for you. Have fun!

I’m grinning like an idiot when Hannah grabs my phone out of my hand. Her eyes scan the text conversation, and then she pushes the phone back into hand.

“Does he have a place in the East Village?” she asks, watching as I put my phone back in my purse.

“Yeah. It’s actually really close to our place.”

“Hmm.”

When we get to the car, I stop and watch her before getting in. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird all night.”

She shrugs and fiddles with the door handle. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to protect you. I didn’t realize he lived so close. How come we’ve never seen him around?”

I laugh. “New York City is huge, Hannah.” I unlock the doors, and we slide in.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

I start the engine, and Fleetwood Mac begins to play. I turn it down and face Hannah. “I will be
fine.
I promise. I can take care of myself.”

For the first time all night, she seems to come out of her funk. She smiles and leans back into the seat. “Well, at least I know where we’re going for drinks later tonight.”

I sigh. I’m glad she seems to be back to normal now. Fortunately, the rest of the night passes easily. We drop Emerson’s car off and head home to change and get ready for Ace Bar. Although it’s not the same now that it reminds me of Emerson, Hannah and I still manage to have an enjoyable night. And I totally whipped butt at the skee-ball table.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Finley

On Sunday afternoon, I say goodbye to Hannah once again and head down the street toward the parking lot, carrying my purse and overnight bag. I can’t deny the sadness I feel leaving Hannah again, but I now know Geoff is taking extremely good care of her. I made sure to badger him with questions this morning, and although I find him a bit aloof, it’s obvious he loves Hannah. The man brings her coffee in bed every morning and does the laundry. It seems I’ve left her in good hands.

Before I start the engine and head in the direction of the beach, I text Emerson quickly. I have my tapes picked out, so I slide in a David Bowie and rock my head back and forth along the highway. The first hour passes quickly. I switch tapes, sliding in a Blondie tape, and before I know it, I’m on Highway 27.

It baffles me how it can go from city, to suburbs, to rural within such a short period of time. A few cars pass me by, but for the most part, I’m alone on a two-lane road.

That’s when Irma decides to die.

It starts as a sputter as if I’m out of gas, but I still have almost a quarter tank left according to the gas gauge. The car begins to slow all the while jerking forward at uneven intervals. I steer the car toward the side of the road and it dies completely. I swear under my breath and hit the steering wheel angrily.
Really, Irma?
I try to restart the engine, but it doesn’t turn over.

One of my ex-boyfriends was a mechanic and my parents hated him. Thankfully, he taught me a lot about cars. I pop the hood and the radiator isn’t steaming, so that’s not the problem. The fan belt is still in place. I check the fuel filter and don’t see any fuel. Maybe there is a blockage or a busted hose because the tank wasn’t empty. Nothing looks broken, though a more thorough inspection will be needed.
There is nothing I can do. Shit.
I close the hood.

I walk to the driver’s side and try the engine one more time, but it doesn’t start. The temperature has dropped, and as I look to the grey sky, it looks as though it might rain.
Great.
Of course, when I go to the trunk and dig through my overnight bag for my sweater, I can’t find it, which means I left it in my bedroom in the city.
Double great.

Cursing, I grab my phone from my back pocket and begin to call Emerson. Three beeps.
Let’s make that triple great.
I don’t have service.

Zero bars.

And then it starts to rain.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mumble, scrambling into the car and fishing through the glove box for instructions on how to close the roof. I leaf through the pages, finally landing on one page of potentially helpful information. “Flip the switch on the driver’s door,” I read out loud. I use my phone as a flashlight, looking for the mysterious switch. The rain begins to pelt down, and I start to panic. I see a small switch below the latch to pop the hood. I press it, and nothing happens. I leaf through the rest of the manual, but that page is the only valuable page,
aside from the page on how to care for your roof
.

I jab at the switch over and over, whimpering and shivering.

“Damn you, Irma. You bitch,” I hiss, grabbing the box of cassettes and emptying them into the trunk so they don’t get ruined. I find an old newspaper and lay a few pages across the seats, trying to protect the beautiful leather. I put the empty cassette box over the gearshift. I try my phone again, but the three pitiful beeps sound in my ear once more.

Right, into the trunk you go. Stupid phone. Then, I wait.

A few cars pass me by but they don’t stop, even as I wave my arms exuberantly. By the time a large pickup truck stops, and a young man gets out, I’m soaked from head to toe. My sneakers literally squish as I walk over to him, gratefully.

“Hello,” I say meekly, pointing to my car. “I broke down, and I don’t have cell phone service. Would you mind if I borrowed yours?”

He frowns. “I’m sorry. I never get service on these roads.”

My heart sinks. “Thanks anyways.”

“Do you need a ride?”

I study his disposition. Even though I’m sure he’s harmless, with blond hair and a nice, appealing face, I decline.

“No thanks. I’ll try the phone down the road.”

He reaches a hand out. “I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.” We shake hands, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. Was that the rain, or was it Joe?

“Finley. Thanks for the offer,” I add, hoping he’ll leave soon.

“No problem.” His eyes linger on me for a second too long before he gets in his car and leaves.

Shaking the eerie feeling off, I begin the walk to the highway phone, keeping my eyes on the blue sign the whole time as the rain pelts down onto me. A quarter of a mile later, I open the yellow box all the while looking over my shoulder and glaring at the car.

My teeth are chattering and my hand is shaking so much I can barely open the latch. I stare at the buttons on the phone—emergency buttons only. I can’t call Emerson.

Is this an emergency? I’m not sure if it qualifies.
Now
I’m pissed. First, Irma dies, and then my phone doesn’t get service, and
then
it rains!

And I’m basically stuck until someone can help me.

I trudge back to the car with my arms around my sides. I stare at my reflection in Irma’s window. My mascara is streaked down my cheeks, and my hair is matted against my head. Also, this was a bad day to wear a light pink T-shirt with an unpadded bra . . .

I lean against my car and continue to wave my arms at the passing vehicles. No one stops. What is wrong with humanity? Do I not look pitiful enough? I begin to whimper from the cold. Maybe I should just walk until I find service?

I try my phone one last time, but there’s still no service. I tuck it into the back of my soaking wet pocket, grab my purse, and resolve to walk until I find a spot.

That’s when Emerson’s Civic pulls up behind me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emerson

I don’t think I’ve seen anything more pitiful than Finley in this very moment. She’s cowered against the car, and when I jump out of the Civic and run over to her, she’s almost despondent. Her eyes are vacant and searching, and her teeth are chattering.

“How did you . . .?” she starts, and then she stops, looking up at me.

“Hang on. Let’s get you out of the cold first.” I help her grab her purse and overnight bag, and we load the Civic. I turn the heater up as she buckles in. She watches me expectantly as my fingers tap the steering wheel. I’m trying to mask my shaking hands. I don’t want her to know that my thoughts wandered to the worst-case scenario when I located her on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I’m so relieved she’s okay.

“Well, when you didn’t show up, I figured something happened. I tried calling you a million times, and when you didn’t answer, I enlisted Hannah’s help to find you. She used Find My Friends and we located you. Well, your last known location, anyway.”

“What about Irma?”

I chuckle. “Triple A is coming. They’re going to tow her, and I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

She nods and seems to relax instantly with the heat. It’s starting to get dark, so I turn onto the road and race home as fast as safely possible. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, watching me through large eyes.

“Why are you sorry? I forgot to tell you about the gas gauge. It’s not reliable, so you have to track your miles. You were probably out of gas.” What I don’t say is how I’ve been kicking myself for the last hour for putting her in this predicament.

“And the roof wouldn’t close,” she adds, and I grip the steering wheel harder, berating myself silently.

“Yeah . . . the switch is actually on the other door. Something I should’ve mentioned. The manual in the car isn’t for my model—it’s for the British model.”

“And they drive on the other side,” she finishes, frowning. “I wish I would’ve thought to look there.”

I sigh. “Finley, this wasn’t your fault. It was
my
fault, okay?”

She looks up at me, and she’s so unguarded at this moment that it makes my chest tighten.

“Okay,” she whispers, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Are you warming up?” I ask, watching her reaction.

She smiles. “Yep. I’m feeling much better. I can’t wait to get out of these wet clothes though.” I ignore the feeling those words give me. I shouldn’t think those things. “So, I should probably call Hannah, huh?”

I laugh. “She’s waiting for your call.” Finley doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “She’s a good friend. How long have you two known each other?”

Finley’s face lights up when she responds. “Since we were eleven. She’s my platonic soul mate. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

“How’d you meet?” I pull off the highway and drive down the main road to the house.

“It’s a funny story, actually. See, my parents were the type to hire nannies and housekeepers. When I was eleven, our beloved nanny retired, so my parents hired Hannah’s mom, Beatrice. The two of them were a part of our family, and even though I’m sure my parents disapproved of our friendship, they never said anything. It’s the one thing they did right as parents. It was like growing up with a twin sister. When Hannah’s mom died of ovarian cancer when we were twenty, I also felt as though I had lost a parent. We became even closer because it was like we only had each other left. I’ve always felt the need to take care of her.”

“But who takes care of you, Finley?” I have no idea where this question comes from. I’m not even sure it’s a question I want an answer to, nor
deserve
the answer to. She works for me. We’re not friends who share deep and meaningful conversations, yet last week there had been many of those. Surprisingly. It’s been two days. And even though we have stayed in contact with witty and fun text messages, I’ve missed her presence. Her light. Her jovial youth and vitality. The house has seemed somehow bereft.
Weird.
Before I can give that more thought, she answers.

“She does. We take care of each other.”

And because my mouth doesn’t seem to have a filter, I ask carefully, “Do you have any siblings?”

“I had a sister. Chloe.” She stops and shuts her eyes tightly. “I don’t like talking about it. I’m sorry,” she whispers. I pull into the driveway, waiting for the garage to open, and neither of us says anything. I stare ahead and I hear her sigh. “She was brilliant,” Finley continues. “A business major. I adored her. She was going places. But my parents . . .” She shakes her head.

“Go on,” I whisper.

“My parents weren’t the best parents. We grew up in a place that valued money over everything else. Their version of fixing things involved financial bribes. We never got the handmade cake for our birthday—instead we got the expensive designer cake. Whenever my mom wanted to spend quality time with us, she would take us shopping. Sometimes, you know, they meant well. But I honestly think they never should’ve had children. Some people are just way too selfish, you know?”

I nod and take in her words. She sniffs and continues.

“She committed suicide my freshman year of college. She was supposed to graduate later that year with summa cum laude honors. She had a 4.2 GPA. She’d been accepted into five Ivy League business graduate programs. She wanted to go in a different direction for her graduate degree. But my parents pushed her too hard. They wanted her to be just like them. Creativity was the devil to them—they wanted her to have a
practical
degree. She hated it. I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t eating; she wasn’t sleeping.” A single tear drops down Finley’s face, and I reach out and brush it off her soft cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.

“I wish I’d known just how bad it was. But I was eighteen. I was such a baby—I couldn’t read the signs. I never forgave my parents. I majored in creative writing despite their concerns. By that point, I think they realized it wasn’t worth it to pressure me into business or law. They’d learned their lessons. I accepted those tuition checks, but the minute I graduated, I cut them off.”

“God, Finley,” I whisper. I look over at her. The sun is starting to set; the summer light is tinged with blue. It brings out the dark-blue diamonds in her eyes. “I bet she’d be proud of you. She would’ve wanted you to pursue your passion.”

She nods. “Yeah. I wish I’d known her better, you know? When you’re eighteen, you’re such a little shit. You’re involved in your own stuff. We were really close growing up. She was always the wild one. She rebelled every chance she got. She was clinically depressed, and it affected her moods.”

“I think she would’ve loved the person you grew up to be,” I reply, smiling.

“I hope so.” She turns to face me and wipes the area under her eyes with the pad of her fingers. “God, I’m such a mess. Tell me about your life. I feel like I’ve blabbered on about my sad life for the last ten minutes.”

I hate sharing my story. I hate how it makes me sound vulnerable. Torn. Weak. But somehow with her, that’s not the case. Instead, sharing my past with her feels effortless and safe.
Normal.
I watch her for a second before responding. How does she do that? Make me feel so conflicted about everything? This whole situation . . . my past . . . she’s still
so
innocent. Well, here goes.

“My father was MIA and my mother was addicted to heroine. She’s been using for most of my life. When I was seven, Child Protective Services came and took me away. At least, I think it was called that back then. So I spent most of my childhood in a foster home in Long Island. It was actually great. Foster homes get a bad rap sometimes, but I’d like to think mine was okay. Fran, my foster mom, was this fat old lady from Texas. She raised me. My mom would get clean periodically and the judge would send me back. But it was a constant back and forth. Finally, when I was sixteen, I emancipated myself. Fran, with the help of Brady and Isaac’s parents, set me up in an apartment in Long Island. I graduated high school when I was seventeen, and then after a stint of travel and other crazy things, I went to college for creative writing. I went on to get my PhD.”

She watches me with a furrowed brow before replying. “Wow—just . . . wow. Emerson, I had no idea. When Brady said you grew up down the street, I just assumed . . .” She trails off and stares out the car window.

“They lived five houses down from Fran’s house. I still talk to Fran, actually. And Isaac is still my best friend. That’s why I employ Brady—though he was so young when all of this happened. A part of me wants to pay them back for everything they did to help me.” I swallow, and I’m not sure if I should tell her about the next part. I clear my throat and go for it. “My mom is still alive, still an addict. Just like when I was a kid, she’s clean periodically. I know because she doesn’t call. When she calls . . . I know she’s trying to hit me up for drug money. She plays the poor, starving mother figure very well.”
Seven days. Seven days since her last attempt to find me.

“It must be awful to get those calls,” she says, twirling her wet hair.

The car is steamed up from the rain.

“Yeah. Hey, let’s get you inside. Why don’t you change, and I’ll make you a pot of tea?”

“Sure,” she says simply, and we get out and walk inside.

As she changes, I boil some water in the kettle and dig around the cabinets for some cookies. I know I used to have some in the cookie jar, but I suspect Brady eats them all. Finally, I find some Biscoff cookies and make a nice plate of them to have with her tea. I hear the shower turn on, and I have to busy myself with unloading the dishwasher to distract myself.

I don’t know what it is about Finley. She’s somehow found a way to dig herself deep into my life—deeper than any of my other ghostwriters. Maybe it’s her past, or maybe it’s mine, but I somehow feel connected to her on a deeper level. Plus, she’s very wise for a twenty-six-year-old.

“Done!” Finley chirps, fresh-faced and cozy in grey sweats and a loose black T-shirt. Her wet hair is tied up into a bun. I can smell her from here—soap and coconut. Those scents will forever drive me crazy.

“Good,” I say, pouring some hot water into a mug and placing the plate of cookies next to her. “Fran always told me that a cup of tea and some cookies could make any bad day better.”

“Fran is a wise woman,” Finley says, smiling as she takes a bite of one of the cookies. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, these are amazing. Are they gingerbread?”

“No, I think they’re just a spiced shortbread biscuit. I honestly don’t even know where they came from. Isaac probably brought them over at one point. He’s a world traveler,” I explain. “He works as a film editor—travels all over the world when he has downtime.”

“When do I get to meet this famous Isaac?” she asks, her voice alluring and seductive. I try to ignore the tight feeling I get in my throat when I imagine Isaac meeting Finley. He’s a man whore, and I know exactly what would happen.

“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” I tease, being vague on purpose.

She finishes her cookies and looks at me with grateful, tired eyes. “I’m so beat. I think I’m going to head upstairs. Thank you for rescuing me, and for the tea and cookies. They really did help.”

Disappointment swirls in my gut. “But don’t you want supper?”

She shrugs. “I’m not that hungry, to be honest. Thank you though.”

“No problem,” I reply, taking her mug and plate. I walk to the sink. “Sleep well.” I turn around and she’s giving me a weird look—half-confused, half-reverent—as if she’s not sure how to feel.

“I will. You too.” She waves and turns awkwardly on her heel before heading up the stairs, two at a time.

I sigh and lean against the counter. As I wash up and look around, I decide to eat with company. I did make dinner for two, after all. I text Sylvanna and begin to reheat the beef stew, hoping she’ll agree to join me. Though I wish it were Finley . . .

No. That’s enough. I’ve got to stop thinking about her like that. Finley is the girl I hired to help me write. I
need
to realize this. Why her—why Finley? Why does she intrigue me so much?
Sylvanna
is the one I should be making dinner for.
She
is the one I should drop everything for.
She
is the person I should be thinking about all day.

Not. Finley.

Sylvanna responds—says she’ll be over in twenty minutes. I open a bottle of wine and wait.