“That prick?” He coughs out a laugh. “No.” His mouth twitches as if he is holding something in.
So he knows Ron Pilar. Or he’s crazy and bent on driving me to a similar mental state. Either way, this guessing game has gotten old. “I don’t have time for this,” I say sharply, my social graces drained. “Tell me who you are, or get the hell off my porch.”
“I’m sorry,” the man says, and he doesn’t sound the slightest bit sincere. He extends a hand into my personal space, his stubble-framed smile splitting wide across that rough face. “I’m Mark Fortune. Better known as Marka Vantly.”
Marka Vantly.
I’m Mark Fortune. Better known as Marka Vantly.
In the air, there is the hint of dusk, a softening of heat, the faint scent of honeysuckle on the breeze. In his eyes, there is amusement, a knowing gleam that scrapes a sharp knife along my heart.
“You’re not Marka Vantly.” The words stab out confidently, and I ignore his hand, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to fortify my stance. He’s crazy. He’s hacked into Marka’s email, burst into this appointment early, and is trying to worm his way into my life. He’s picked a terrible story to tell, Marka’s image recognizable even to someone not in publishing, her perfect blonde specimen plastered on every square bit of ad copy that exists. This farmer… he couldn’t be less plausible.
Unless.
Unless…
Unless I am wrong. There is intelligent arrogance in his grin, and I recognize that—the knowledge that you hold a card secret to others. I feel it when I write scenes designed to deceive, when I stack character traits and hidden messages against readers, setting them up for failure. He’s amused by this. What does he know that I don’t? Probably everything.
I suddenly feel small. Stupid. Angry.
I take the only path available, stepping backward, his eyes following, bushy eyebrows raising—and shut the door.
It may have been more of a slam. The wood sometimes swells, requiring any action to be done in a rather forceful way, one that causes glass to tremble in panes and walls to shudder. It wasn’t because I am temperamental. It was simply to ensure a good quality seal, one that won’t allow for questions, or the stop of a hand, or whispered words through cracked openings. I shut the door, flip the deadbolt, and leave the delusional stranger outside. I’ll let Marka deal with him. If, and when—I glance at my watch—she shows up.
Heading to the kitchen, I attempt to compose myself, the silent house comforting. There’s a reason I hate the doorbell. After the funeral, it constantly rang, neighbors and do-gooders bringing over food and flowers, the house a repulsive scent of floral casserole, each ding-dong of the bell a fresh wave of intrusion. I ripped it off once, a pair of scissors seized, my frenzied hacking observed by a startled FedEx employee. Two days later, I had it fixed. I couldn’t sleep at night, knowing that the loose wires were hanging out, a piece of the house incomplete, a visible reminder that I don’t have a husband to fix it, or the self-control to listen to a tone of greeting. So instead, I left the repaired doorbell in place and posted the sign. It started out just one item, one rule.
DO NOT RING THE DOORBELL.
The one rule grew into two, then four, then eight. They serve as more than requests to preserve my sanity. They are also a measure of intelligence, testing both reading aptitude and the ability to follow simple and polite requests.
The idiot on the porch has already parked in the driveway. Strike one.
He rang the bell. Twice. Strike two.
Lying about identity has never been a rule, but it could easily earn a spot on the list.
I get as far as the fridge when he rings the bell. It’s not the polite tap of earlier. This time it is loud and insistent, one press after another, my psyche not able to handle the assault, my feet dashing, hand jerking open the door before my head comes completely off.
Before, the man was annoying. Now? I will kill him.
MARK
If fury is a person, it is Helena Ross. And if she owns a weapon, his next step is death. The woman violently swings open the door, her nostrils flaring, her eyes burning, one small fist reaching out and pounding on his wrist, stalling his next press of the doorbell. “Stop that. Stop, stop, stop, STOP.” The words are a chant, her breaths coming harder, a painfully thin chest heaving under the cotton long-sleeve tee she wears.
So much anger in such a tiny body. He’d expected an older woman, one his age, with gray hair and delicate glasses, her regal shoulders pinned back, her panties the stuffy sort never seen. But this anorexic-thin stick of elbows and ears… she couldn’t be much older than thirty. To think such a tiny thing has been the one who’s told him off for the better part of a decade… it makes him want to throw back his head and laugh.
Laughing, it seems, would be unwise. She doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, her eyes sharpening every time he so much as cracks a smile. “I am Marka Vantly,” he speaks quickly, before she shuts the door, his tone serious. “Call Ron Pilar and ask him.” He holds out the worn business card, the only proof he has readily available. Who knows if the number on it is accurate, the card one he’d been given eight years ago, back when Ron was a stranger and he was just another poor writer with a stack of declined manuscripts. There had been no auction on that novel, no Publishers Weekly write up and six-figure advance. There’d just been a desperate flail for attention from the industry’s top agent, the first contact a moment of celebration, the resulting business card a coveted item.
She straightens, one hand still protecting the bell, her gaze moving down to the card, which hangs in the space between them. Her large eyes dart back to his face, narrowing, squints of skin that breathe fire in the form of pupils. A perfect glare, one that belongs to the claws that pecked out all of those vicious emails filled with jealousy and spite.
Her hand snatches, and his bit of nostalgia is suddenly gone, a victim of her grasp, her gaze darting suspiciously between the card and his face. “Wait here.” She steps back and grabs the door jamb, pausing for a moment as she eyes him, then her doorbell, then him again.
He raises his hands in innocence and steps back, away from her and the tiny button that seems to annoy her so. God, to think of all of the emails he had mused over, carefully selecting the right words to drive her mad, and all it took was the ding-dong of this bell.
She snorts, and shuts the door, leaving him alone on the porch, for the second time in five minutes. What an interesting woman.
He turns, stepping away from the house and to the rail of the porch, his eyes moving over the perfect lines of the yard, a stark contrast from the wild acreage of his Memphis plantation. He tries to imagine the conversation occurring inside, Helena’s interrogation of Ron Pilar. Ron will behave, swallowing his snark under a blanket of kiss-ass. Helena… who knows how Helena would handle it. So far, his plan to play nice has gone slightly astray.
There is the click of a lock and he turns, pushing off the porch rail. Helena stands in the open doorway, a house phone gripped between her hands. There is a long moment of quiet as her eyes drift over him, examining him with renewed distrust. He says nothing, the waiting game stretching out slowly.
“You should have told me you’re a man,” she finally says, and damn if there isn’t a bit of sadness in her voice, as if he is a cheating spouse, or an unfaithful friend.
“It’s a secret very few people know.” He tucks his hands into his front pockets and wishes, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t so big, so tall, so widely built. One of her hands move to grip the doorframe, and it’s as if she needs it to stand, her frailty so out of place amid the fire that burns from her eyes.
She considers that, then nods. “I can respect that. But I can’t respect you playing with me.” Her face hardens, and he pities her future children. This expression, the steel in her voice—it is a force, one scary to stand up to. “Don?
??t screw with me.”
“I won’t.” It is a promise he will have to keep, the hurt that permeates the edge of her stance… a familiar pain. In it, he sees his daughter’s first tears over a boy, her withdrawal when Stanford rejected her, the crack in her voice—just last week—when she was snubbed by a friend. This hurt, he had caused, all in an immature need to humiliate Helena Ross for pure entertainment. “Can we start over?”
There are small cracks in her facade, a relax of her narrow shoulders, the general untightening of fingers around the phone, her lips parting, a sigh of breath escaping from them. She meets his eyes and nods. “Okay.” She turns, opening the door and waiting for him to enter.
Taking a deep breath, he moves across the threshold and into the house. He had come here to meet Helena Ross, and turn her down. Already, he can feel himself waffling.
My mind can’t move off the fact that Marka, the blonde siren of romance, is this crumpled old pile of masculinity. The fingers that drum the table before me, scarred and cracked, with short nails and knuckle hair, are the ones that wrote The Virgin’s Pleasure. His eyes, watery blue knives that peer at me as if they can read my soul—they reviewed proof copies of Teacher’s Pet. Underneath this thick head of silver and black is the mind that wrote some of the best and worst pieces I have ever read. A man. Had I known, I would never have called him here. A man can’t help me tell this story. A man can’t, won’t, ever understand.
We are in the kitchen and I take the second chair, the place I used back when Simon sat across from me, his shoulders hunched over his coffee, Bethany streaking past us, full of morning energy, a toy or two in hand. I remember sitting in this seat and marveling at how beautiful my life was. I remember sitting in this chair, the morning after it all happened, and planning my suicide.
“Helena?” His voice is impossibly gentle, one that can’t belong to the woman—person—I hate. The person who wastes their talent on filth and sends me such nasty emails. I look up at him and blink, the view blurry. Hell. Am I crying? I wipe at both eyes and focus. He wants to know why he is here. That, at least, I can manage.
I clear my throat and begin my script, one that I’ve practiced three times now, each delivery less wooden, more believable, each delivery practiced for a goddess and not this chunk of AARP that sits before me. “I have a story I want to publish, but I don’t have the time to write it. I work at a much slower pace than you do… normally I take a year per book. Given that this one is a little more complicated than my others, it would take me even longer. I’m looking to hire someone who can write the bulk of it, and I will handle the rewrites. Each chapter will be provided in outline format—the ghostwriter—you, will only have to fill in the copy.” I look up from the table’s worn oak surface. He watches me intently, the lines of his forehead furrowed, one giant hand now running across his mouth.
“What’s the length?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. Probably eighty thousand words.”
“Longer than my normal works.”
“It’s not your normal works. It’s not erotica.”
I know the next question before he asks it. I had dreaded it from Marka’s mouth, had pictured one perfect brow lifting, her lips bright and red as they pouted out the words. From him, it is different, gruff as gravel, his fingers dropping from his mouth as he speaks. “Then why me?”
“As much as I hate to admit it…” I swallow, my hands fisting underneath the table. “We have similar writing styles. I wouldn’t have to do extensive rewrites. Your work has, even with your ridiculous plots, heart. You know how to write motivations and difficult scenarios. I think, given the right direction, you are trainable. Improvable.”
One short laugh sputters out of him, his body leaning forward as he levels me with his gaze. “No.”
I squared my shoulders and waited, the bones of my bottom digging into the wooden seat.
“I’m not looking for a mentor. Especially not one as young as my daughter. I’m perfectly happy writing my trashy little stories.” He pushes off the table, his body lifting to its feet and this can’t be it; he can’t leave now.
“Wait.” I reach out and grab his wrist, the motion an unplanned lunge, one that causes a sharp pain in my chest, my breath to wheeze, my face twisting in pain for a moment before I regain control. “Sit down.” His eyes drop to my hand around his wrist and I release it. “Please.” I add, and don’t like the way he peers at me, his gaze skating across my face, my body. In preparation for battle, I had covered up, worn layers. Put makeup on, and brushed my hair. I fear, in his new and more critical appraisal, that I haven’t done enough.
“You sick?” He stays in place, his palms flat on the table, stiff arms that support strong shoulders, the hunch of him intimidating. Still I return to my seat, needing the distance from him even if it puts me in a weaker position.
“Yes.” I shouldn’t have to say more. A polite individual would let that sit.
“What kind of sick?”
“I have three months. Maybe less.” I hadn’t planned on telling Marka. I don’t plan—with Kate already aware—on telling anyone else. Yet, with this man, for some reason, I do. I think part of it is desperation, his refusal still fresh off his lips, my heart still panicking in my chest. Part of it is because, in his eyes, there is something there. An edge of grief that I recognize, a pain that I understand. I don’t know anything about him, but I know—suddenly—that I need him. Even if he is a man. Maybe he will understand.
He finally sits, a heavy lumber into his chair, the back of it creaking as he settles into place. He is a much bigger man than Simon, the largest the chair has ever held. His eyes stare off, in the direction of the fridge, and there is a long moment of silence before they return to me. “People outlive those prognoses all the time.”
I make a face. “I’m not that type.” I know those types. The kind with families and children, the kind who must live longer because there is simply no other option. They do acupuncture and juice, they try meditation and have thousands pray for their healing. They abandon stress and devote everything, everything, to beating the odds. Everyone’s journey to death is different. The contrasts between them and me are numerous.
“Is this a publisher contract thing? You accepted the advance and can’t pay it back?” He looks around the deserted kitchen, and if I thought he missed my empty foyer and dining room, I was wrong. “Hell, you been selling furniture to pay your medical bills? Because I can—”
“No.” I snap. “This isn’t for a publisher.”
“So, it’s just a book.” He delivers the sentence slowly, as if trying to understand the concept.
“My books aren’t like yours.” I shift in my seat and try to think of the nicest way to put it. “They aren’t just books. The characters are special to me, and their lives are living, breathing stories. This story in particular—it’s one I need to write before I go. It’s important to me.”
“You can’t pull out the dying card and just expect me to jump on board.”
“I’ll pay you.” I name a sum, one that catches his attention, his brows rising. I don’t know what kind of advances Random House is paying him, but I know what Kate gets me, and I’ve matched that figure.
“And you want me to ghostwrite? Not co-author?” It is an important distinction. As a ghostwriter, readers will never know about his involvement, only my name listed on the cover.
“Correct.” When I prepped for this discussion, it was with Marka Vantly in mind, a woman I was convinced loved the spotlight. I had been concerned over this part of the negotiation, certain that she would want her name in gold print along the spine. I have no idea how this man will respond. He’s published for all this time in secret, hiding behind some blonde Barbie, his real name and identity a secret. Is ghostwriting any different?
He runs a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the resulting effect wild, a man with
little thought for appearances. I want to slice through that hair and open up his skull. Feast on his thoughts and taste his motivations. Why does a man like this write smut? Why has he agreed to this meeting? Why did he ever email me to begin with? And what, right now, is he thinking?
His hand falls from his hair and he turns his head, fixing me with a stare. “Tell me about this story you have to tell.”
“You’ll do it?” The words rush out too eager, and I try to collect myself, to calm my features.
“Maybe. I need to know the story.”
I’m not ready to tell him that. I can’t even manage a decent outline, my pen still stalling over the white page, my mind unable to yield despite the urgency of my timeline. How can I pitch him on a story I can’t even work through in my mind?
“It’s about a family.” I pause, and I need a shot, a plug off the bottle above the fridge, the one that I hide from myself, the one that makes me think of her and him and ending it all. I don’t move to my feet, I don’t grab the shot glass, the one that sits in the bottom drawer, all by itself. I should. I shouldn’t. He is watching me, and I am past due for a sentence. I clasp my hands tightly together, knotting them in my lap. “Well, it starts earlier than that. A love story. Guy meets girl, they fall in love.”
“And then?”
I twist my hands, my knuckles bending, and maybe I could break them. That would distract from this painful conversation, could buy me hours of time and possibly a few more sympathy points. “They marry and have a child.” I take a breath and the next words rush out in one long line of vowels. “It’s a tragedy. In the end, the wife loses them both.”
He blinks. “Loses? Define that.”
No, thank you. “I haven’t pinned down every detail yet.”
His pupils don’t move, their fix on me almost disturbing in its focus. “What—”
“Those are the bones of the story. I’ll fill in the holes for you later. I’m still working them out.” The response snaps out of me, and I clutch to the sharp tones of the words. Yes. This I can do. Abrupt. Snarky. This will keep my fingers from breaking and my eyes clear from tears.