The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (2 page)

“That’s great. I’m glad.”

“Plus,” Jenny continued, “We have the breast cancer charity involvement to look forward to. I e-mailed their information to you.”

I suspected Jenny had called to discuss more than just the book tour. Reasons number one and two were out of the way, so I patiently waited for reason number three to reveal itself. I didn’t have to wait long.

“And guess what? As of this morning you’ve earned out,” she said.

Earned out.

I was introduced to this term upon publication of my first novel. It was one of my first lessons about the reality of the book industry. It meant, essentially, that the money spent by the publisher on my advance had been earned back by book sales. We had started in the red, and now we were at zero. Books I sold now would put me, my publisher and my agent in the black. It was a grim reminder that the book industry was a business--a for-profit entity selling a commodity in mass quantities to consumers. It was also a reminder that more hard work was ahead of me. Marketing efforts, after all, didn’t end once the book tour was over. There was the website I had to update on a regular basis. There was the daily blog I wrote. There was networking to do. And now, with my self-motivated obligation to a breast cancer charity, I would have to make myself more visible and more available.

This promotional stuff was the part of my job my ex-husband Thomas didn’t understand. He had a “normal” job, one that entailed sitting in a cramped cubicle for eight hours a day, staring at a computer screen, participating in meetings, pretending to care about his role as a cog in the corporate wheel.

He hated it. He complained about it. It stressed him out. It led to fights between us when he wasn’t able to leave work at work. At the end of the day, though, his work was done.

My job, I thought, was different. It was an ongoing process, a never-ending, exhaustive attempt to sell myself and these little things I created. There was nothing 9-to-5 about it.

Like most average day-to-day desk jobs, mine was also stressful, and oftentimes a burden, and sometimes I cursed it on a daily basis. After all, publishing is a business, my books are products for sale, and I am a commodity.

It sometimes sucked the life out of me when I contemplated it for too long. It reduced the books I wrote to little more than pieces of gum that people chewed for a little while and then disposed of underneath picnic tables and park benches with all the other wads that eventually hardened and got stale and devoid of flavor.

When all is said and done, though, it is what it is and in spite of it all, I love my job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And it was my refusal to trade my writing life for one thing in particular—-motherhood--that ultimately destroyed my marriage.    

Still on the phone with Jenny, but with one eye still on the TV screen, I grew bored with the dinosaurs and started channel surfing.

Should I watch a kitchen remodeling program on HGTV? No, too much of a reminder of the to-do list I had for my townhouse. How about a Phillies game? The home team was just coming off an exciting World Series championship the year before, but I still found baseball to be fairly boring. CNN? Definitely not. I was in no mood for bad news. I finally decided on a program from 2007 about the exploration of a biblical-era tomb in Jerusalem.

“So what’s next?” Jenny asked.

“Career-wise? I wish I knew,” I said, shifting positions on the couch and settling in to watch the new program.

I had missed the first ten minutes, but as it came back from commercial, the narrator recapped what had been covered so far. There’s a tomb in Jerusalem that the documentarians of this show believe may be the final resting place of Jesus of Nazareth. They question the long-held acceptance of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre being the true site of Jesus’ burial because of what was found inside this tomb.

“How’s the blog coming along?” Jenny asked. 

A bulldozer on the television screen was recreating how, back in 1980, the tomb was uncovered during a construction project in the Talpiot suburb of Jerusalem. Construction was halted and archaeologists were called in to excavate the area. Artifacts found, including ten ossuaries--or bone boxes-–were catalogued and put into storage for safe keeping.

Now the program was displaying some of the ossuaries, including one that the program claimed was inscribed with the words, “Jesus, son of Joseph” in Hebrew.

The show went to commercial.

“I haven’t blogged in a few weeks,” I said in response in Jenny’s question. “I haven’t felt much of a spark of inspiration.”

“Okay. What about the breast cancer charity info I sent you. Have you looked it over?”

“No, not yet. I’ll get to it…eventually.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. My usually very vocal agent was at a loss for words.

“Mara, what’s going on?” she finally said, sternly.

“Nothing. I’m just tired from all the travel. It took a lot out of me.”

“We both know that’s bullshit. You love to travel and as far as I know it’s one of your favorite parts of the job. Has that changed?”

The show came back from commercial. It started the next segment by recreating Jesus’ crucifixion.

There was no sense in equivocating to my agent. She’d worked very hard on my behalf and had been on my side and very supportive for many years, during my career ups and downs and even during my divorce. She’d been more than my agent and I had been more than her client; we’d become friends, confidantes. She was like the older sister I never had. She deserved to know what I was feeling.

“I want more, Jenny,” I said, anticipating a lecture but deciding not to sugar coat the truth.

“More…what?” she said cautiously. “More success? Your first four novels have sold very well, and your latest is on the path to selling just as well.”

“I know,” I said, sighing.

“More respect?” Jenny asked. “Women love your books and truly identify with your characters. They write you all the time seeking advice.”

It was as if Jenny knew I’d eventually reach this point in my career and had a speech prepared.

“More money?” she continued. “Your success has allowed you to quit your day job to focus on writing full-time. Most writers would
kill
for that.” 

I felt chagrined. “Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“Not mad, just concerned,” Jenny clarified. “You’ve been given so much and I don’t want to see you take it for granted.”

“Believe me, I don’t take anything for granted. I’m so grateful for everything and realize that I’m very lucky. And you’re a huge part of that; I couldn’t have done it without you. But I still feel…unfulfilled. I can’t help but wonder if this is all there is.”

Jenny paused. “I think every writer goes through that, Mara. Hell, I think every human being at some point in their life feels like something is missing.”

“What about you? Do you ever feel like something is missing from your life?”

“Sure, sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I love this industry. But do you think I want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by spoiled, rich novelists?” Jenny wisecracked.

“Jenny!” I exclaimed, aghast that she might be lumping me in with her list of clients that were well-to-do--mostly daughters of media moguls and B-list celebrities. “I’m not like your other clients, you know.”

“I’m kidding, Mara. I know you are nothing like my other clients, all of whom I respect and am honored to represent. That includes you.”

“I know, sorry,” I said. “So what’s missing in
your
life?”

“Honestly? Grandchildren to spoil and a vacation home in the French Riviera that James and I can retire to.”

“You’re lucky,” I said. “You know what you want. I haven’t quite figured out what I want.”

“Well, the grandchildren part I have no control over,” Jenny said. “But come hell or high water I’ll have that house in the French Riviera.”

“I know you will,” I said, laughing at Jenny’s stubborn determination. “Now, if I can only figure out what’s missing in
my
life.”

“Maybe you just need a vacation,” Jenny said. “Give yourself time to think things over. And I think I know just the place for that: There’s a women writers convention in San Francisco next month. Maybe it would do you some good to go.”

Now the Jesus tomb show was discussing Jesus’ connection with Mary Magdalene and focusing on the ossuary found inside the Talpiot tomb with her name inscribed on it.

Wait. What?

Mary Magdalene’s remains were put into an ossuary? Was this show suggesting that Mary Magdalene was purposefully interred next to Jesus Christ? For what reason? What could that mean? Suddenly, an idea hit me…  

When I didn’t immediately respond, Jenny kept talking.

“The convention would be a good opportunity for you to network with other writers. I think you need that right now. You could do a little sight-seeing while you’re there.”

Images on the television screen flashed in front of me: Jesus secretly kissing Mary Magdalene. Mary Magdalene cradling a baby, presumably her and Jesus’ son. Jesus teaching the boy how to work with his hands as Mary Magdalene lovingly looked on in approval from inside their modest Jerusalem home. Then the show faded out into yet another commercial break.

As the idea took hold and thoughts started swirling around in my brain, Jenny offered a final piece of advice: “Take some time to think about what you want. Give me a call when you’re ready. If another book idea comes to you, I suggest you throw yourself into it.”

Yes, that’s exactly what I needed to do. Throw myself into a new project. And I was going to start right now.

I hurried Jenny off the phone, promising her I’d think seriously about going to the writer’s conference. By the time I crawled into bed that night, I had formulated my next project and had started researching it.

I knew what I had to do next, and it didn’t involve San Francisco.

I was going to Jerusalem. 

CHAPTER THREE

“You’re going
where
?” my best friend and old college roommate Lisa asked me several days later. We were having lunch at Reading Terminal Market, an 1893 train station turned farmers market with aisle upon aisle of produce stands and stalls of exotic food and niches filled with everything from used books to bags of sweets. We were sitting at a high counter on swivel chairs, each attempting to finish a half of a large cheese steak we were splitting.

“Jerusalem,” I said, louder this time, although, in spite of the noise, I knew Lisa had heard me the first time. She was just shocked by the news, as evidenced in the way she nervously played with a strand of her long, straight blonde hair, and felt the need to repeat herself. She said nothing in response, so I explained to her the TV show that inspired the trip, and the plan for my next novel.

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Lisa said, and resumed eating the carbohydrate-laden sandwich that wouldn’t add an ounce of weight to her petite frame. She washed down a bite of cheese steak with a swig of Diet Coke. “Do you have any connections in Jerusalem?”

“Well, no. But maybe I’ll find some people online and then meet up with them once I get there.”

“What kind of people?” Lisa asked, her blue eyes searching mine. I could tell by the way her eyes darted back and forth that she was starting to question my decision.

“Professors, archaeologists, scientists…you know, experts.”

“Uh huh,” Lisa said, nodding her head, her mouth full of food.

“I’m going to be traveling to the Holy Land. Israel must be crawling with biblical scholars!” I said for extra measure to plead my case.

Lisa eyed me again as she sipped her soda. “Are you going to tell these contacts who you are and what you do?” she asked after she swallowed.

I had hoped Lisa wouldn’t ask me that. I didn’t want to have to lie to my best friend. Truth is, I was a chick-lit novelist. I didn’t think I’d be taken very seriously, and I wasn’t sure if anyone would be willing to talk to me about a subject that seemed so sensitive. Lisa must’ve thought so too, or she would not have asked me if I was going to reveal my true identity.

In my mind, in order to do what I wanted to do, I’d have to go undercover. I might have to bend the truth a bit.

“My plan is to tell them I’m a journalist,” I said. “And then I’ll ask them if they’d be willing to answer some questions.”

Lisa shook her head at me, and layers of blonde fell across her eyes. As she pushed her hair back into place she flashed me an almost devilish grin.

“What?” I asked, taking the last bite of cheese steak.

“Okay, but just remember you’ve, like, never traveled in a foreign country alone before,” she said, and tipped her head back to take a final gulp of soda.

I shrugged and swallowed, remembering that in times like these, when she thought a poor decision was about to be made, Lisa Carter ceased being my best friend and morphed into an anxious, overly-concerned mother.

“There’s a first time for everything,” I said.

“And this’ll be the first time you’ve traveled alone since…” she trailed off, not out of courtesy but because she knew I knew where she was headed with her line of thinking.

She was right. I hadn’t been anywhere since I’d been with Thomas.

We were world travelers, he and I. Every year we saved our money and took one or two international trips. All told we had been to nearly twenty countries together, from Belgium and Greece to Romania and Bulgaria, to China and Japan, to Morocco and Egypt. We were expert travelers and wonderful travel companions. When we weren’t traveling, we were talking about travel, or contemplating our next trip, or reading travel magazines, or watching a television show about travel.

In the more than a year since the divorce, I’d hardly left Pennsylvania, let alone the country. I was a little rusty, and now I was alone, but I figured with my years of travel experience, I would be just fine on my own in Jerusalem.   

“Are you sure you want to do this? It sounds dangerous,” Lisa said, starting to sound even more like a protective mom.