Don't Believe a Word (6 page)

Once again, Flynn had given her no choice. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll read it.’

Rob stood up. Maurice followed suit.

‘We’ll need an answer very soon,’ said Maurice.

‘You’ll have one,’ said Eden. She got up and smoothed down her dress. ‘I’ll read it tonight.’

B
y the time she got home from work, Eden’s head was
pounding. So this is what a migraine is like, she thought. The thudding in her head made her feel sick to her stomach. Every step was jarring, every smell sickening. She was supposed to have dinner with her friend, Shelley, a masseuse who lived and worked in a converted factory in Red Hook. She texted Shelley a message that she could not make it tonight. She pulled the shades, took about four aspirin and lay down on her bed, with all the lights turned off in the apartment, and a washrag on her forehead.

Sleep, she thought. I have to sleep. Anything to escape.

But she couldn’t sleep. All she could do was think about Flynn Darby, who was now going to profit handsomely from Tara’s suicide, from Jeremy’s pitiful death. And what role would Eden play in this profit-taking? If she agreed to do it, she would feel like a traitor to her father, to herself, to her mother’s memory. If she refused, Flynn would have another editor in no time, and she would be denied even the possibility of some influence on this very public version of her mother’s life. He was a user, and he had put her into an impossible position. There was no way that she was going to be in the right.

She went over and over the same territory in her mind, and then, somehow, she was blessedly released from consciousness. She fell into a deep sleep, and was awakened by the ringing of her phone. She blinked and looked around. The ringing was coming from her bag on the floor beside her bed. The bag which contained her iPad. The iPad which contained Flynn Darby’s book. She rummaged angrily in the bag, pulled out the phone and snapped into the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘Eden, it’s Vince. From the Brisbane.’

She was not expecting to hear from him, and wasn’t sure that she wanted to. It was difficult to get enthused at the idea of getting to know someone right now. But even if it had been someone she longed to hear from, she wouldn’t have been able to respond. ‘Hi, Vince. Look, I can’t talk,’ she mumbled. ‘I have a horrible headache.’ As soon as she said it, however, she noted that the headache was much better after that deep sleep. Still, the only thing she wanted was more sleep.

‘Oh, sorry to hear that,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry too. It’s been a tough day. Another time,’ she said, ending the call. No sooner had she slipped the phone back into her bag and turned over on the bed than she was asleep again.

Someone pounding a nail into the wall in her dream became impossible to ignore. As soon as she began to question it in the dream, she commenced the swim to the surface of consciousness. The damp rag, which had been on her forehead, was now lodged, cold and wet, under her neck, and she could see that darkness had fallen outside. The sound of pounding in her dream was, she now realized, coming from the door of her apartment.

Eden forced herself to sit up and then stand. She touched her head gingerly, but the headache had abated, and she felt a surge of gratitude for the end of that misery. If only that hammering on her door didn’t make it start up again.

‘Coming,’ she shouted. She shuffled to the front door in her stocking feet, a hoody pulled on over her knit dress. She glanced in the mirror by the door and saw that her make-up was smudged under her bleary eyes, and her hair looked as if someone had combed it with an egg beater.

Eden sighed and opened the door without taking off the chain. She looked quizzically at the man in the hallway through the narrow opening.

Vince, the bartender, was standing there, holding a fragrant brown paper bag adorned with the Black Cat logo. ‘Hi, Eden,’ he said.

‘How did you get in the building?’ she demanded irritably.

‘Someone was going out and held the door for me,’ he admitted.

‘How did you even find out where I lived?’

Vince shrugged. ‘I asked your friend Jasmine. I told her you had a migraine and I wanted to bring you some of those Thai spring rolls from the Black Cat. Food can really help when you have a headache like that.’

‘And just like that, she told you where I lived?’ Eden demanded.

‘Well, I asked her for your address.’

Just then, the elevator door opened behind him, and Jasmine emerged, carrying a six-pack of Coke. Jasmine waved at the opening in the door.

‘Hi, Eden,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling, sweetie? Vince came in the restaurant and told me you had a migraine, so we got you this takeout and I stopped at the corner and bought you some Coke. That’s always good for a headache. Can we come in?’

Eden realized, a bit sheepishly, that there was no harm intended here. Vince was not trying to muscle his way into her place. He just decided to do something nice. The two of them were in collusion. They were being solicitous. Shamed by her own assumptions, she unlatched the chain and opened the door.

‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘I’m a mess. Don’t even look at me.’

‘You look fine,’ said Vince.

‘Please, don’t be gallant,’ Eden said. ‘Put the stuff on the table.’

Vince set the bag on the table, and Jasmine went and put the six-pack of Coke in the refrigerator, pulling out a couple and offering one each to Eden and to Vince. Eden took hers gratefully. Vince hesitated.

‘Well, sit,’ said Eden. She looked into the bag and began to unpack round aluminum containers with plastic lids. ‘Wow, you brought a feast here.’

‘We weren’t sure what would appeal to you besides the spring rolls,’ Vince said.

Eden was beginning to feel ashamed of her ill humor. ‘Have you two eaten?’

Vince shrugged. ‘I’m not that hungry,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m starved,’ said Jasmine. ‘You two sit down at the table. I’ll get the plates.’

All awkwardness fled as the three of them tucked into the takeout. They chatted companionably, and Vince flirted amiably with them both. Why not? Eden thought. She was just glad to be here with them on this most trying of days. She felt as if she had never eaten a meal that tasted so good. Vince, who had professed not to be hungry, was licking his fingers in satisfaction.

‘Thank you,’ said Eden. ‘Really. I can’t thank you enough. Both of you. I really felt wretched when I got home from work. I can’t remember ever feeling that bad from a headache.’

‘What brought it on?’ Vince asked.

Jasmine shot him a warning glance. ‘She’s under a lot of stress.’

Vince, belatedly, looked uneasy. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s death.’

Eden sighed, and pushed back from the table. ‘No, though, it was something related to it that brought it on.’ She hesitated. She knew they wouldn’t press her if she decided not to explain it. But she found that she wanted to tell them. She wanted to bounce it off people who weren’t involved.

‘My publisher called me in today,’ she said. ‘It seems that the house has been offered an important first novel, and the author wants me to edit it.’

‘That’s good, right?’ said Jasmine, starting to stash the clutter of containers and napkins into the Black Cat bag.

‘The author is my stepfather, and the book is based on his marriage to my mother, and about their lives with my now late half-brother, who suffered from a rare genetic disorder.’

Vince’s eyes widened over the napkin he had pressed to his lips. He lowered the napkin and frowned at her. ‘Okay, don’t be mad at me for asking, but doesn’t it seem like he is trying to capitalize on recent events?’

‘Yes,’ said Eden. ‘Exactly. My mother killed herself and her son by carbon monoxide poisoning. My publisher insists that the book has great literary merit. But obviously, this murder/suicide gives the book built-in publicity. They gave me until tomorrow to decide if I want to go along with this.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ Jasmine exclaimed. ‘How could he even think of exploiting their deaths this way?’

‘I know,’ Eden agreed.

‘Still …’ said Vince.

‘Still what?’ Eden asked.

‘I know this is going to sound cold, but, let’s be realistic. Of all the books published every month, how many have this kind of … story attached to them? It’s a public relations coup.’

‘That doesn’t make it right,’ said Jasmine indignantly.

‘I’m not saying it does. Just stating facts,’ said Vince. ‘Look at it this way, Eden. Someone’s going to publish this book. Why should your stepfather be the only one to profit from this tragedy? If it can help your career, why shouldn’t you do it?’

‘Ever the businessman,’ said Jasmine. ‘That’s why you own the Brisbane and I’m still a waitress.’

‘You own the Brisbane?’ Eden asked, surprised.

Vince shrugged and smiled. ‘Yup. You figured I was an actor, right?’

‘Or a would-be writer,’ Eden admitted wryly.

Vince shook his head. ‘Nope. I work there, and I live above the store. Not exactly glamorous but it’s mine.’

‘That’s quite a coup in this neighborhood,’ Eden observed.

‘I worked briefly on Wall Street, years ago. I was good at it but I hated it. So I took my ill-gotten gains and bought the building. That’s why I’ve got all this gray hair. But never mind that. We were talking about you.’

Eden had to admit to herself that she looked at him with a new respect. He understood the problem. And he saw the big picture dispassionately. Something she was not able to do.

‘What are you going to do?’ Jasmine asked.

Eden frowned and was silent for a minute. ‘I don’t know. I’m sure you’re right, Vince, but it makes me sick just to think of it. I guess the first thing I’m going to do is read the book, so I can support my position coherently.’

All three nodded thoughtfully. Then Vince stood up. ‘Well, we better get out of here, Jasmine. Reading a whole book is gonna take a while. So you have to read it tonight?’ he asked, looking at Eden.

She nodded. ‘I have to force myself to.’

‘Well, don’t get another headache,’ said Jasmine, ruffling Eden’s hair as she passed by her on the way to the kitchen. ‘I’m putting these leftovers in your fridge.’

Eden thanked them again. After they put on their coats and collected their belongings, she walked the two of them to the door. She watched, almost enviously, as they went out into the hallway, teasing one another playfully.

Jasmine punched Vince in his upper arm.

Could be something developing there, Eden thought, watching them. Part of her felt happy at that idea, and part of her felt jealous. No, she insisted to herself. If that’s what happens, it’s a good thing. All I know is, I just wish I were going with them. Away from here. Anywhere. Anything but the task which was facing her. The book she was going to have to read. But there was no point in resisting. Just start it, she told herself. You don’t have to read the whole thing to be able to say no. Just enough to make a case for why you can’t do it.

She shuffled into her bedroom, took off her clothes and put on a warm bathrobe. Then she slid into her bed. She turned on the light attached to the headboard, picked up her iPad and began to read.

E
den tapped on the open door to Rob’s offic
e.

‘Come in,’ he said. His graying, close-cropped head was bent over his PC. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his jacket hung across the back of his chair.

Eden stuck her head in. ‘Your assistant isn’t at her desk.’

‘Eden!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sit down. Let me finish this email and I’ll be right with you.’

She went in and sat in front of the editorial director’s desk. She glanced at the framed photos of Rob’s smiling family on his desktop, and then she glanced at her own reflection in his office window. She had been up all night, and there were dark circles under her eyes, and folds of exhaustion in her face. She had taken a shower and washed and blown out her hair first thing this morning after she finished the book. She had put on a charcoal-gray military-style jacket that felt like a suit of armor to her. It usually made her feel sharp and in control. However, sharp and in control were the last things she was feeling this morning.

‘There,’ said Rob. ‘Send. Now, how are you doing? I assume you’re here about Flynn Darby’s book.’

‘I am,’ she said.

‘You had a chance to read it?’

Eden nodded. ‘I read all night.’

‘And? What did you think?’

Eden gave the book her most valuable compliment. ‘I couldn’t put it down.’

Rob nodded, deliberately keeping his response noncommittal. ‘That was how I felt when I read it,’ he said.

Despite her positive reaction, Eden was unsmiling. She had wanted to hate it. She was prepared to hate it. Even now, she was telling herself that the only reason she found it fascinating was the opportunity it afforded to have a look inside her mother’s second marriage. That had been irresistible to her.

Rob waited for her to elaborate. Finally he said, ‘It’s a very powerful book.’

‘Rob, I can’t help feeling resentful that he now wants to use the death of his family – of my mother and my half-brother – for promotional purposes,’ she said angrily.

Rob tented his fingers and pressed them to his lips before he spoke. ‘I can understand you feeling that way, of course,’ he said. ‘But he couldn’t have known that this would happen when he was writing it.’

Eden sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. He doesn’t even address it in the book.’

‘Well, it has to be addressed. The book may need to open with that, and then go back to the beginning,’ Rob mused. ‘Or maybe just a very matter-of-fact recounting at the end. It’s not clear which way to go.’ He peered at her. ‘So, I guess, this is the big question – do you want to take a whack at it, or would you rather pass?’

‘I’d rather pass,’ said Eden. ‘It’s sickening, it’s so close.’

Rob nodded, avoiding her gaze.

‘But if I pass, it will just be sent somewhere else, and someone who doesn’t give a damn will take it on. I don’t want that. I’d rather be the one who sees it through. Gets it into print.’

Rob kept his enthusiasm tempered. ‘Don’t agree to this if it feels wrong to you. You don’t have to do it, you know. There will be other books.’

‘I know,’ said Eden. Although she knew what he was not saying. There would never be another book of this significance aimed directly at her. There would never be another such opportunity. In her mind’s eye, she was seeing a flashing review of those pages she had read. How this thinly disguised couple met, and both realized that they were at a crossroads in their lives. According to Flynn’s account, they struggled not to succumb to their emotions. The daunting age difference between them and the female character’s reluctance to leave her long marriage and her daughter made the situation seem bleak. Hopeless. And yet, they knew that they had to be together. With the birth of their son, they felt new hope. And then, their hopes were dashed. They uprooted their lives and moved to be near the doctor who offered them the best hope for their child’s terrible, mystifying condition. The woman secretly blamed herself, wondering if perhaps her child’s illness was some sort of cosmic retribution for the pain she had caused her first husband, her daughter.

Eden had wondered, when she read that part, how Flynn had known it. Was it just something he suspected? Or were he and her mother so open with one another that Tara had been able to tell him her most secret fears, her worst suspicions? Somehow, Eden suspected the latter. Either way, it gave Eden a guilty, but undeniable, feeling of satisfaction to think that Tara had blamed herself, had suffered because of how she had treated Hugh and Eden. And, she felt a grudging admiration for Flynn, who could have left that out, and never mentioned it. It was fiction, after all. But it was fiction based on truth, and the truth which supported it gave the book its gravity, its sense of reality.

The entire book had a feeling of impending doom which kept Eden caught up in it the whole way. She even found herself hoping that it would all work out for them. Knowing that it did not. ‘I want to do it. I want this book to be mine,’ she said.

‘That is great news,’ said Rob. ‘Let me call Maurice.’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a certainty undermined by anxiety. ‘Tell him I’m in.’

Negotiations for the purchase of the book began within a few days, and Eden was kept abreast of the process, although Rob and Maurice were at the forefront of the financial discussions. Eden never heard from Flynn in the course of the negotiations. Gideon Lendl represented Flynn’s interests ably. When the purchase price was finally decided, Eden was forced to question anew her participation in this project. Flynn was going to be handsomely compensated to tell the story of his marriage, now immensely more interesting because of the murder/suicide of his wife and son.

The news of his success was to be conveyed to him by his literary agent. Gideon Lendl assured Eden that Flynn would be informed immediately.

The thought of it made Eden feel queasy. Rob invited her to Maurice’s office to celebrate with a glass of champagne. Eden went, knowing that she had to share in this celebration.

Maurice lifted his glass. ‘To great reviews, and great sales,’ he said. ‘And to Eden, for taking on this difficult project.’

‘I’ll do my best to do a good job on it.’

‘I know you will,’ said Rob.

For the next two days, she expected to hear from Flynn, thanking her, perhaps, for taking on his book. But he remained silent. Was it her place to call him? And say what? Congratulations on cannibalizing my family history for personal gain? Stop, she told herself. You agreed to this. You can no longer blame this entirely on him. Still, she could not help but feel that her acquiescence was a favor to him, and that he owed her his gratitude. She felt trapped in a standoff, and she didn’t know exactly how to proceed. She felt stupid having to ask for guidance, first thing out of the gate. But she finally decided that she was in need of a little advice.

She went down to Rob’s office and knocked on the door. He asked her to come in and offered her a seat. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘No second thoughts, I hope.’

‘No. It’s just … I’m not sure about the protocol here,’ Eden said. ‘Do I call Flynn and ask for a meeting, or what?’

‘Yes. I was thinking about this. It probably would be a good idea for you to arrange to go out there to Ohio to meet with him. That way you can confer directly over the manuscript. There’s still a great deal of work to be done and it might be best to begin the process face to face. DeLaurier will pick up your expenses for the time there.’

‘Isn’t this normally done electronically? I mean, that’s been my experience.’

‘Well, normally, yes. But this is kind of a … delicate situation,’ said Rob. ‘You two have a personal history, and you are dealing with the aftermath of a tragedy. A lot depends on the relationship you have going forward. There’s going to be some publicity which might prove awkward for the two of you. No use in pretending otherwise. The more closely you work together on this, the better. We want you to have a united front when it comes to the handling and promotion of this book. How do you and your stepfather normally get along?’

‘I’ve hardly ever spoken to him,’ said Eden.

Rob looked startled. ‘Really?’

Eden shrugged. ‘There was a lot of bad feeling. That part of the book was painfully accurate.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …’

‘That’s why I was so shocked that he wanted me to be his editor.’

Rob nodded. ‘Well, in that case, I definitely think it would be best for you two to begin the work in person. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘No,’ said Eden, but her stomach felt queasy. ‘I just wasn’t sure …’

‘The situation is a bit unusual,’ Rob agreed. ‘But I think you should go out there and try to … come to a meeting of minds.’

The memory of her recent trip to Cleveland, for her mother’s funeral, weighed heavily on Eden. The prospect of repeating that trip filled her with dread. Be a professional, she chided herself. No one forced you to do this. ‘All right,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll get the ball rolling.’