The Accidental Bestseller (24 page)

The sound of an electric drill brought Mallory back to the present and she debated for a few moments whether to go check on Kendall. She’d already rejected the idea of getting up when Kendall came back to the kitchen table with her laptop. Soon she heard Kendall’s fingers tapping on computer keys.

Mallory closed her eyes and drifted back into the scene. As the truth flowed out of her in its fictitious disguise, Mallory stopped judging and tried not to edit. She sketched a scene between all four of them, trying her best to capture the feeling of comfort that had come from the unexpected bonding between them.

Mallory wasn’t sure how these scenes would go together or which of them she’d keep, but when she finally looked up from her computer screen, Mallory was surprised to see the sun high up in the sky. She’d been completely unaware of the passing time or her page count or anything except the feelings of the character she was intent on bringing to life.

Now she heard Kendall moving around in the kitchen, heard the refrigerator open and shut. She felt a faint stirring of hunger and noted with surprise that it was already 2:00 P.M. Had she really been writing for almost six hours without even realizing it?

Mallory saved what she’d written on her hard drive and then on the jump drive she always carried with her. She stretched, trying to work out the kinks from sitting so long, but despite the physical aches and pains, she felt fabulous; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d written so freely or for so long.

She would not think about the book she had due or the husband she still hadn’t heard from. She intended to rejoice in the flow of words and leave it at that.

Her step was light, and her spirit lighter, as she headed inside to join Kendall. And if she was going to allow herself at least one cliché today, she’d have to say that she felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

19

—P. D. JAMES

 

 

 

Tanya made it through her shift at the Downhome Diner without actually speaking to Brett. She turned in orders, picked them up, and fenced mechanically with Red, but felt awkward and uncertain around Brett, knowing she needed to express her gratitude but uncomfortable with feeling beholden to him.

She’d come home the night before, braced for Trudy’s complaints and her daughters’ whining, and instead found them content and happy—or as close to both as Trudy could get. The three of them couldn’t seem to stop singing the praises of the Adamses and the whole thing had Tanya completely off- kilter.

And so she waited her tables, flashed her smile, poured countless cups of coffee, all the while so busy trying to figure out what to say and how best to say it that she ended up saying nothing at all.

Now it was time to clock out and it was clear she couldn’t leave without acknowledging what Brett had done for her. She wouldn’t have been at Kendall’s if he hadn’t handled Trudy so beautifully.

Resolute, she untied the pocketed apron she wore during her shift and walked slowly toward him, crumpling the fabric in her hands. He cracked eggs, tossed the shells, flipped, fried, and plated up with an impressive economy of motion, never once taking his eyes off her as she approached; the man had come a long way under Red’s experienced eye.

He smiled and raised an eyebrow as she came to a stop before him, but he didn’t stop working and he didn’t speak.

“I, um, wanted to thank you for what all you did for my family over the weekend.” Tanya’s gaze didn’t quite meet his; she kept it aimed just over his left shoulder.

“It was no problem. Valerie and the girls had a good time.”

With great difficulty she shifted her focus to his face and saw the amusement on it. She continued to mangle the apron with her hands. “What is so damned funny?”

“You.” He flipped an egg and plucked two slices of whole wheat bread from the toaster. “You look like somebody made you walk through fire barefoot. It’s not such a big thing. I was glad to help out. You say, ‘Thank you.’ I say, ‘You’re welcome. ’ ” He shrugged as he plated two meals and rang the bell for pick up. “No big deal.”

“It is to me,” she said. “I haven’t had a lot of people wanting to help over the years. It’s kind of foreign, you know?”

“Well, I’m real sorry to hear that,” Brett said. “Everybody needs help now and then.” And then he shifted the conversation in that effortless way he had. “So how’d the brainstorming go? Did you figure things out?”

“Good, real good. I was really glad I could be there.”

Other waitresses came, picked up their orders, and went, and every one of them gave Brett some kind of once-over. She noticed Red eavesdropping. She also knew that she should offer something in return. But she wasn’t about to invite the Adamses into Trudy’s shabby mobile home, and even if she’d wanted to, she was no match for Brett in the kitchen. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep with him just because he’d done her a good turn, no matter how attractive he was. That was Trudy’s way, not hers.

“So, uh, like I said. I do appreciate what you did.” Pulling the apron out of the ball she’d smashed it into, she pulled out a wad of bills and counted out $25 in ones and laid the stack on the counter next to him. “Please give this to Valerie and tell her thanks.”

“There’s no need,” he began. “It wasn’t a babysitting job. It was just—”

But Tanya didn’t want to feel in debt, not even to a teenaged girl. And she wasn’t planning to let herself get too used to Brett’s charming ways or his white knight complex; if she let herself enjoy either too much she’d feel worse than she did now when he was gone.

“I’m sure there were lots of things Valerie would’ve rather been doing than taking care of Crystal and Loretta,” she said. “Or humoring my mother.”

Brett opened his mouth clearly about to offer an argument, but Tanya wasn’t having any of it. “You give it to her, you hear? And when you do, you tell her not to waste that on those thongs she’s been buying. In my experience, the only thing they’re good for is attracting a whole passel of trouble.”

It was late and the house was silent except for the loud tick of the grandfather clock in the living room and the faint rhythm of Steve’s snoring from the master bedroom. Alone in her study, Faye typed in the combination of letters that would allow her to open the password-protected file. Scrolling down, she read the chapter she’d roughed out the night before, her eyes skimming over the words and phrases she’d used to describe and establish Faith Lovett, the character she’d created for
Sticks and Stones.

When she reached the end of what she’d written, Faye went into Edit, chose Select All, and hit Delete. Faith Lovett was so “her,” she might as well have named her Faye.

For a few long moments Faye watched the pulse of the cursor on the blank screen and contemplated her options. If she wrote the public version of herself she’d bore the readers to death. If she wrote the truth about herself, and it was recognized as the truth, she could end her husband’s ministry and her own career, not to mention the charitable works her income funded. Confessing to her husband was one thing—not that she’d even come close to working up the nerve to do that yet—a public admission of the secret she’d guarded so closely was something else entirely.

So what was she to write? How could she contribute a compelling character and plotline to Kendall’s work without destroying life as she knew it in the process?

Faye sat for some time weighing the possibilities. If ever she’d needed to think outside the box, it was now. But as she knew from her fifteen years of writing, the brain was an ornery organ. The heart might be required to beat regularly and predictably, but the brain took circuitous paths and had its own way of solving a problem or creating an idea. It rarely produced on any schedule but its own.

Faye closed her eyes and tried to direct her brain in search of inspiration, but it kept coming back with her own life and what would happen if she exposed it. After a time, her eyelids began to feel heavy and her head fell forward, pressing her chin into her chest. In midthought, she fell asleep. When her eyes fluttered open it was 2:00 A.M. and a glimmer of an idea teased at her consciousness. She breathed slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves, lest she lose it.

In this half-awake state she summoned up Faith Lovett and attempted to see her more clearly. A scene began to unfold in Faye’s head and she realized, as it spun out, that she could place her character in a similar background and give her a surprisingly damaging secret without revealing her own.

Slowly she began to type, carefully picking and choosing the words that would create a multilayered character that would surprise the reader, as each layer was first revealed and then stripped away.

The words came faster as the first meet scene unfolded in Faye’s mind. She held her breath as she felt the strange and wonderful surge of power that took her thoughts and ideas and transformed them into something even greater than what she’d imagined. She didn’t know where this power came from, whether it was a gift from God or was something even more ancient that was buried within. But it was the reason that she wrote; it was what compelled her to continue to put words on a page, even when those words weren’t what others might expect from her.

An author possessed the kind of power others only dreamed of. The writer created both the characters and the worlds they inhabited. A writer decided who lived and who died, who found happiness and who tragedy. Her husband spent his ministry in an effort to revere and communicate with God; Faye, in her role as writer, got to play Him.

The appointment with divorce attorney Anne Justiss was both better and worse than Kendall had expected. Mallory had had to drag her out of bed Wednesday morning, rush her to get dressed, and then drive them into Atlanta; Kendall had no doubt that if she’d been on her own she simply wouldn’t have gone. At the moment she could completely identify with the ostrich and his predilection for sticking his head in the sand.

Anne Justiss didn’t look like the man-eater Kendall was expecting. She was petite with stylishly cut blond hair and bright blue eyes. In the right kind of light and through the right sort of filter, the attorney might have passed for Cameron Diaz.

“So,” she said, without preamble. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Kendall did, cringing inwardly as she explained that Calvin didn’t want to be married to her anymore and describing, in way more detail than necessary, her encounter with his Realtor girlfriend who’d had the nerve to show up expecting to list their house.

“And he’s represented by Josh Lieberman?” Justiss asked.

Kendall nodded and handed over the sheet of paper on which she’d copied the name and contact information for Calvin’s attorney. “Is that bad?”

The attorney shrugged. “Look, none of this is good. Typically after a divorce the man’s standard of living improves. The ex-wife and children’s standard of living drops dramatically. I do my best not to let that happen to my clients.”

Kendall swallowed, wishing her neck was longer and a patch of sand readily available.

“I know it’s a lot to take in and it’s always worse when the divorce isn’t your idea,” the attorney said. “But you won’t be in this alone, Kendall. I can promise you that.

“As soon as we get your deposit and paperwork on file, we’ll sue for subpoena and get hold of all the relevant financial information. We want to move quickly so that we can freeze your joint assets.”

Kendall’s lips were so dry now she could barely find the saliva required to swallow. She hadn’t even let herself think about money or who would get what. She just didn’t want Calvin selling the house out from under her. And she really didn’t want to have to tell Melissa and Jeffrey.

“I don’t know if the friends who referred you mentioned it or not, but I subscribe to the Green Giant School of Divorce.”