Boo (35 page)

“Look, when have you been concerned about my love life?”

“I don’t care about your love life. I care about your motives. It’s a little hard for me to believe you came into town, met Missy Peeple, fell in love, and are now spending Thanksgiving with her. I just can’t believe it … and you’re talking to a fiction writer here.”

Alfred smiled a little, still engaging his drink rather than Wolfe, but then he said, “You haven’t been returning my phone calls.”

“So that’s what this is about!”

“No,” Alfred said, finally making eye contact. “But I want to know why.”

Wolfe leaned against the wall. “Because I know you, and I know
why you’re calling, and you can’t take no for an answer. I’ve already told you that I’m not interested in writing any more horror novels.”

“You said you were
thinking
about not writing any more. Your decision is final then?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should tell you, and I almost decided not to, but …” Alfred’s voice drowned in his drink.

“What?”

Alfred shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Al, I’m running out of patience.”

“You’ve never cared about reviews anyway. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never read a single review of any of your books.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Black Cats.”

“What about it?”

“The reviews are … less than flattering.”

“What’s new? Ever since I hit the million dollar mark, the reviewers have always been rough on me.”

“This time it’s … bad.”

“How bad?”

“They’re saying you’ve lost your mind … in a literary sort of way.”

“Lost my mind?”

“Things like … I’m sorry, this is just hard to say … that you’re a joke of a writer. That
Black Cats
is one of the worst books of the decade. That you couldn’t scare a reader in a dark room with a knife … that was Marge Pendleton from the
Times
.”

“Marge never liked me.”

“I’m sorry, Wolfe. It pains me to tell you these things. The list goes on. Geoffrey Myans from
Newsweek
called you a—”

“Enough.” Wolfe held up his hands. “I don’t need to hear any more. I just don’t care.”

Laughter erupted from the living room. Then Wolfe said, “This is so strange. It took me a year to write
Black Cats
, and as you know that’s six months longer than it usually takes me to write a book. The characters
were well developed. The plot was unique. And to say the book isn’t scary is just flat-out absurd. Maybe this culture is getting too calloused against such things.”

“Well, we both know the bump-in-the-night tale can’t even scare a two-year-old anymore. But listen, I’m not buying into the idea that you’re a has-been.”

“A
has-been?
”

“Pat Parker,
P.W
. Listen, everyone knows you’ve always been a little old-fashioned, and that’s what made you so endearing. You gave off this persona that you’re as creepy as unidentifiable food in the back corner of the refrigerator, yet wholesome as apple pie on the fourth of July.”

Wolfe glanced up at Alfred. “Where’d you come up with that?”

He shrugged. “I take some of the blame here, Wolfe. Maybe I should’ve seen this coming. I don’t know.” Alfred paused. “Look, you’ve tended, in the past, to be a little too sentimental for your own good.”

“Sentimental? If you’re referring to fully developed characters with motive and heart—”

“You write horror novels, Wolfe. No one cares about a developed character. They just want to pee their pants when the monster jumps out of the closet.” Alfred set his drink on the desk. “That’s where I’ve come in, all these years. I’ve helped direct you in your writing. I’ve shown you what the people want.” Wolfe watched Alfred trace a pattern on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “And that’s what I want to do for you again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we can’t just leave your career hanging like this, where the last word out of everybody’s mouth is that you’re a loser!”

“Loser?”

“Jim Mackey, the
Globe
.”

“I’ve never cared what the critics say. Why start now?”

“Because you’re ending your career as a horror novelist, so you say. Is this really how you want it all to end? With people disrespecting you as a writer? Do you really want to give them a chance to speculate about you and say more terrible things about you?”

Wolfe realized he’d been holding his breath. He breathed deeply
several times before answering. “If they hate the book, they hate the book.” He noticed Alfred was beginning to wring his hands.

“But that’s what everyone’s going to remember you by! Not the ten brilliant best-selling books you’ve already written, but the eleventh book that was a bomb.”

“I just can’t believe it’s getting such bad reviews. I really thought this was my best work to date. You said so yourself.”

“You can redeem yourself, Wolfe. You can show them. Prove to them.”

“Show them what? Prove what? They’re going to say what they’re going to say.”

Alfred put a gentle hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. “Show them what a good writer you are. Prove to them you’re not all washed up … Betty Styler, the
Post
.”

“In other words, write another book.”

Alfred grinned. “Your words, not mine. But a brilliant idea, nevertheless.”

“I told you I was finished writing horror.”

Alfred’s stress wrinkles seemed to sink deeper into his face. “Then you’re finished as a respected writer. At least in the eyes of the world.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“No, that’s what’s already being printed in millions of newspapers across the United States. Is that what you want?”

Suddenly Wolfe smiled, and an unfamiliar peace swept over his heart. He looked at Alfred. “No, but if that’s what it takes to get what I want, then it’s worth it.”

“What do you want?!” Alfred squealed.

“
There
you are!”

Wolfe and Alfred turned to see Missy Peeple wobbling across the floor toward them.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Oh, hi, um, Miss … uh, Missy.” He glanced up at Wolfe’s curious stare and then smiled down at the old lady next to him. “Sorry to be hiding from you. We were just talking.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Wolfe said, glancing at Alfred. “I was just needing to go find Ainsley. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Wolfe walked out of the room, tempted to glance back at the two purported lovers. But the idea that he might see confirmation of a real relationship kept his eyes straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” Alfred said, pushing himself away from Miss Peeple. “I had him right where I wanted him.”

Miss Peeple shook her head and adjusted her blouse. “Hardly. I’ve been around the corner listening for ten minutes, and I don’t believe I’d agree with
that
assessment.”

“Is that so?”

“First of all, the reviewers are calling this the best book he’s ever written. What are you going to do when he finds that out?”

Alfred picked up his drink off the desk as he leaned against the back of the chair behind him. “Believe me, he won’t. He’s never read a review in his life, and I’m always the one that has to call him to tell him he’s number one on the bestseller list. He’s clueless about such things.”

“Either way, I don’t believe he’s too convinced he should write another book. Are you?”

Alfred scowled. “What
is
it that he wants, anyway? He’s willing to throw away his career for something. What is it?”

Miss Peeple took him by the shoulders and steered him to the doorway. “See that pretty little blond serving pastry bites over there?
That’s
what he wants.” Then Miss Peeple turned him a little more to the left. “And see the handsome fellow by the fire smoking his pipe? That’s what
I
want. So what do you say we make an appearance nearby, and you can sing my praises next to him for a while.”

“Well,
I
want Wolfe to write another book. Wasn’t that the whole idea of my coming here in the first place?”

“The day is young, dear Alfred. But I am not. Now let’s get over to the mayor before I keel over in my pumpkin pie.”

M
ELB
C
ORNFORTH HATED
being so deceptive, but Wolfe and Ainsley had hardly separated, and soon it would be time to eat. She hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Wolfe yet! So it bothered her, though only mildly, that she’d approached Ainsley saying, “Hon, I think I smell something burning.” Ainsley was gone in a heartbeat, and now she found herself—finally!—alone with the man of her dreams. She considered taking her coat off—she was sweating up a storm with it on—but standing next to Wolfe made her suddenly aware of exactly how tight her T-shirt was. The thought of prancing around as though she’d dressed in green Saran Wrap made her decide a little sweat might be more enchanting.

“Well, hello,” she said to Wolfe, careful to regulate her breathing. She’d felt lightheaded only twice so far, but she managed to keep conversations to a minimum in order to save her oxygen supply.

“Melb,” Wolfe said, looking up from the small plate of food he had on his lap. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” he said, moving his cup off the seat next to him. “You look a little warm. Can I take your coat for you?”

“No … I’m fine, um … it’s hot flashes. It’s not menopause,” Melb added quickly, feeling herself sinking into the hole of humility, “because I’m nowhere near
that
stage in my life. I get cold, I get hot. You know that hormonal thing. Next thing you know I might burst into tears. But thanks for asking.” Melb realized she’d said too many words in a row, depleting her brain of oxygen and causing the room to spin for a moment.

“Oh, okay. So is this your first time to come to Thanksgiving at the Parkers’?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a nice time. I can’t wait to try all the food at dinner.”

“Uh-huh.”
More oxygen. Get more oxygen
.

“You and Garth seem very happy together.”

“We are.”

Wolfe nodded but then seemed to have nothing more to say. Melb tried to think quickly of what she might ask in order to keep the conversation going without having to do a lot of talking.
You come here often?
seemed a little generic, plus it would probably instigate talk of Ainsley, which was the last thing she needed. Then she had it! She’d talk about
Black Cats! She’d
just finished reading it a sixth time, and just this morning she saw a glowing review of it in the newspaper, not to mention it was already number five on the bestseller list! As she was thinking of how to get the conversation started in five words or less, she heard, “Hi, I’m Mayor Wullisworth. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

Mayor Wullisworth, of all people! That man could talk to a stump for hours! How was she going to get him to shoo?

“Hi, Wolfe Boone.”

“Glad to meet you.” The mayor sat down, and Melb noticed him stuff a stack of note cards into his jacket pocket. “I’d just like to say how thankful we all are here in Skary for the—how shall I put this?—economic advantage you’ve given us over the past few years. We wouldn’t be where we are without you.”

Wolfe nodded but was silent.

“I heard you were at church Sunday.”

“I was.”

“That’s good. Blessed are the churchgoers, for they shall go to church and give lots of money.”

Wolfe glanced at Melb, who couldn’t recall ever hearing that beatitude.

“I’m just kidding,” the mayor smiled. “Just testing your knowledge of Scripture.”

“Do you attend Reverend Peck’s church?” Wolfe asked.

“Well, Sunday is a very busy day for mayors. I work seven days a week, actually.”

“Oh.”

“And you know what the Bible says about laziness.”

“Uh, no, not really.”

The mayor cleared his throat. “Well, just that it’s bad. I think it might actually call it a sin.”

“But aren’t we supposed to rest on the Sabbath?”

“Well not if we’re going to be doing the Lord’s work!”

Melb quickly understood that Wolfe’s attention had completely shifted from her to the mayor, that the mayor’s profound ignorance of the Bible was beginning to intrigue Wolfe, and that Wolfe was beginning to forget she was sitting there, so in a moment of complete desperation, Melb threw off her coat in order to be, at the least, shocking, and at the most, well, attractive. The air of the room offered relief to her very damp skin, and she closed her eyes, thankful to be cooling off just a little.

But even with this very, very, very tight T-shirt on, no one seemed to notice her. Not even Wolfe and the mayor, who were right next to her. How could this be? Didn’t women in tight T-shirts
always
get noticed?

Perhaps the subtle clearing-of-the-throat tactic might work. But before she got a chance, Garth walked by, and Melb got a whiff of his cologne, which he always wore way too strong. And cheap. It gagged her and then made her sneeze with such force that if she’d been pointed toward the fireplace, she just might have blown out the fire.