Wit's End (33 page)

“I won't talk about sex,” Maxwell said.

“That's what you say now,” Rima said. “Do you know why I love you? It's because I can leave you anytime. But always come back.”

“Come back,” he agreed. “We'll talk again, Irma.”

“I'll come often,” she told him. He needed her desperately. If it was left to Addison, he'd never be allowed to talk about anything at all.

Rima wrote a letter and then watched from her bedroom window in the hope that Kenny Sullivan would arrive. It was a bright day, and the ocean a glassy green. Rima had never seen
E. coli
looking more beautiful. There was a sailboat on the water with a yellow sail, many people on the sand.

Scorch and Cody came up the stairs with the dachshunds. They stopped halfway so the dogs could rest before the final push to the top. Scorch and Cody were holding hands, the sailboat floating like a cloud behind them, Scorch's red hair shining in the sun.

Overhead, Rima heard the Wit's End ghost walking. Maybe it was the woman from the Donner Party. Maybe it was the Santas, the whole booted army of them.

Luck was with her. She saw Kenny coming up the drive, and ran down the stairs and out the door to meet him at the mailbox. Berkeley and Stanford appeared, leaping about her in case her letter was something they could eat.

The letter was not for Kenny to take, which was the part she had to explain to him. It had no address and no stamp. The name on the envelope was Pamela Price. The letter was for Kenny to leave untouched in the box until it was picked up by someone, even if that took days.

“You have a pen pal,” Kenny said. “Isn't that nice?” and maybe it was, but probably it wasn't.

Rima turned to go back inside. For a moment she saw Wit's End the way it would look when she was leaving. It shrank in the distance, the white and blue paint, the steep roofs, porches, bay windows, fish-scale shingles, and all four stories of it, long ago and far away and very small.

D
ear Pamela,” Rima had written.
I enjoyed our talk the other night, but have decided to say
nothing to Addison about it. I hope you'll agree it's best to
leave the past in the past. I'm sorry you won't get to do your
scene. I'm sure you would have nailed it.
And please take care of Thomas Grand. Whatever may or
may not have happened, he, at least, is surely innocent.

Thanks!

To Bogey's Books for the chair in the back where I wrote much of the book; to Doug Kauffman, Max Massey, and Mark Nemmers, who kept me on task (and baked me biscotti); to Stan Robinson, who sat in the chair next to me and wrote his own book as a model of how it's done.

To Tom Stanton, proprietor of Holy City Art Glass, for his tour of the Holy City grounds; his information, pictures, and articles about the cult; and his general delightfulness.

To my tech advisors: Susan Groppi, Jason Stoddard, and the impeccable Ted Chiang.

To Gavin Grant and Richard Butner, for random wit and inspiration, some of which you'll find right here in this book just as if it were my own.

To Susan Wiggs for the purloined letters.

To Jane Hamilton, Gail Tsukiyama, and Dorothy Allison, the wonder women, who provided early conceptual help, invaluable advice, and moral support, as did the very busy Sean Stewart, as did my daughter, Shannon; my son, Ryan; my daughter-in-law, Christy; and my husband, Hugh. Plus Berkeley.

To the usual suspects, my writing group, who helped doggedly through the middle bits and never got to see the end: especially Alan Elms, Debbie Smith, Sara Streich, Don Kochis, Clinton Lawrence, Ben Orlove, and Xander Cameron.

For helping with the book inside the book, the Rio Hondo regulars: Walter Jon Williams, Daniel Abraham, Eileen Gunn, Timmi Duchamp, Jay Lake, Geoff Landis, Mary Turzillo, Leslie What.

For helping with the not-as-final-as-I'd-hoped draft, the brilliant writers and readers Robb Forman Dew, Maureen McHugh, and Kelly Link. Each of you said something different to me, and all of it was stuff I needed to hear.

To the fabulous Marian Wood for help with absolutely everything, the wonderful Wendy Weil and the whole Weil Agency office, and the amazing Anna Jardine, who sweats the big and small stuff for me.

I am more grateful than I can ever say.