The Accidental Bestseller (32 page)

Despite the trappings and the fame, she reminded herself, this was still Steve. Her husband. Who’d known her since her freshman year of college and with whom she’d had three children and . . . OK, built an evangelical television empire.

Others, like those checking them out over their own lunches, knew him only as Pastor Steve, font of patience and wisdom with a pipeline to God. But Faye had been in love with him before he became a pastor. When he was just Steve Truett, the best-looking guy in her comparative lit class.

She looked into her husband’s eyes trying to gauge his mood, imagining his reaction, looking for some sort of sign.

Was this the time and place to tell him that she was not only Faye Truett but Shannon LeSade? Would there ever be such a time or place?

“Oh, I’m fine,” she began when his gaze began to cloud with concern over her continued silence. She drew a deep breath. “But you see I . . .”

“Welcome, Monsieur and Madame Truett,” the waiter, who’d apparently materialized from thin air, said. “What may I get you to drink?”

And that easily, the moment, if it had been one, was lost. They placed their drink orders and Steve’s gaze fell to the menu. The next thing Faye knew, she was telling him about the new library at Rainbow House, her plans to go back to check on Kendall after Thanksgiving, and the funny thing Becky had said to her on the phone that morning.

A flashbulb went off and Faye realized that a shot of them dining at Café Central would most likely end up in the next morning’s
Chicago Tribune,
or at least that week’s
Highland Park News.
She had no doubt that those who saw the photo or paused now in their own lunches to observe them would see Pastor Steve and his wife, Faye Truett, the novelist, engaged in a steady flow of what would appear to be intimate conversation.

But Faye knew just how lacking in intimacy their conversation really was. Because as far as she was concerned, there could be no true intimacy without an underlying foundation of truth.

26

—W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

 

 

 

The first e-mail took Lacy completely by surprise. It was waiting in her in-box when she got to work, just another communication in a long line of interoffice directives that ended in
scarsdale.com
. It was only when she noticed the c.simpson, which stood for Cash Simpson, that preceded it that her pulse sped up and the blood began doing a strange sort of happy dance in her veins.

“Hope things are good in the fields,” it read. “Don’t toil too hard.” It was signed, “Cash.”

Lacy had spent a full fifteen minutes trying to come up with a clever response, checking surreptitiously over her shoulder for any sign of Jane Jensen as she did so. Unfortunately between her excitement at hearing from him and the performance anxiety that struck at the mere thought of him, she’d finally settled for, “Birthing no babies today. But toiling mightily.” She signed it “Tillie the Toiler” and hit Send before she could chicken out.

His reply came almost instantly. “Dear Tillie, Can’t wait to find out how old you actually are! First Russian peasant girl now WWII toiler.” This time he signed it, “Intrigued, but unfortunately out of town.”

At this admission, Lacy began to relax and enjoy herself. Without thinking she typed. “Taking secret to grave. Only plastic surgeon and devil with whom bargain was made know for sure!” Without rereading or editing she hit Send.

“Devising top-secret plan to discover truth,” came the speedy reply. “On way out now to purchase trench coat and secret passwords. Heard of special store on Miracle Mile.”

This had gone on for a week now and although he remained in Chicago and she therefore knew she wouldn’t run into him at the office, Lacy could hardly wait to get to work each morning to check her e-mail.

Cash Simpson’s attention had gone straight to her head and, if she were honest, to other body parts as well. Somehow this simple flirtation made her feel entirely different about herself. Where before she’d looked in the mirror and seen too tall and too awkward, she now saw statuesque and exotic. Her already half-full glass of optimism got fuller and then began to spill over. She caught herself smiling at the oddest times and for no reason at all.

Lacy Samuels had always prided herself on her intelligence so even as she enjoyed Cash Simpson’s e-mail flirtation, she realized that someone only got this good at something with lots and lots of practice. Still she was thrilled that out of all the women who lusted after him, he’d chosen her as the recipient of his attention. And she wasted a great deal of time imaging what else he might have had lots of practice at.

Jane was already in a meeting when Lacy arrived that morning and so after getting herself settled at her desk and positioning her double latte just so, Lacy logged on eager to see what waited for her.

The first e-mail was from Kendall Aims offering an enthusiastic update on
Sticks and Stones
. Lacy took a long sip of her latte and read the e-mail; she’d expected some resistance or negativity given the situation and adversarial relationship Jane Jensen had created, but Kendall’s e-mails were consistently positive and upbeat. Lacy e-mailed back that she was looking forward to reading it, and she let herself imagine the thrill of editing her first real manuscript.

The next e-mail was, happily, from Cash. She opened it, smiling even before she read it.

“Dear Tillie,” it read. “Still awaiting arrival of trench coat. Must resort to plying you with drinks to ascertain secrets in meantime. Due back in NY tomorrow. If willing to participate in alcoholic interrogation, meet me at Grand Central Oyster Bar at 6:00 P.M. tomorrow after work. Cash.”

Lacy smiled and took a sip of her latte. She was trying to come up with something a little less obvious than “YES! YES! OH GOD, YES!” when she realized that someone was standing behind her.

Jane’s gasp of outrage startled her so completely that she didn’t even move to delete the incriminating e-mail.

“Is that Cash as in Cash Simpson?” Jane demanded, as if there might be a thousand men with that name currently employed by Scarsdale Publishing.

Lacy didn’t like the idea of lying outright, but one look at Jane’s mottled face told her that the truth was not going to be her friend. She remained silent.

“You know that fraternization between employees is not allowed at Scarsdale.” Jane said this with a straight face, as if she or any other female in the organization would have turned down Cash Simpson’s attention on these or any other grounds.

Lacy nodded.

Jane Jensen stared at her for a long moment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was cold and hard-edged. “I’d like a cup of coffee,” Jane said. “And be sure to make a fresh pot.”

Not expecting or awaiting a reply, Jane turned on her heel and went back to her office. Lacy practically ran for the break room, where she dumped the used grounds and washed out the pot while she tried to think of what she could say that might smooth things over without constituting an admission of guilt.

Fifteen minutes later she was standing in Jane’s office, trying to keep her hand from shaking as she placed the cup of coffee on her boss’s desk.

Jane didn’t even look at the coffee that Lacy had placed in front of her and from which steam was still rising. Her attention was focused on her assistant and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that what was going to come out of her mouth was not going to be good.

“Since you seem to have so much time on your hands, I want you to begin working your way through this pile of unsolicited submissions.” She pointed to a chest-high pile of manuscripts stacked in a far corner of the office. In all the times Lacy had been in Jane’s office, she’d never seen anyone even look at them. “This is just the first stack; the rest are in the sixth-floor storage room.”

Lacy took a step toward the pile and peered down at the cover page on the top manuscript. “But the return address is a correctional institution.” She lifted the top manuscript and sneezed as a puff of dust rose to meet her nostrils. She leafed through the next few, her horror growing. “And this one’s from the state mental hospital.” She looked into Jane Jensen’s eyes—wondering briefly if they’d been submitted by Jane’s previous roommates.

“Yes.”

“I, um, thought the rule of thumb was not to read or respond to these, um, kinds of submissions,” Lacy said.

“That’s normally true,” her boss acknowledged. “But that’s primarily because we don’t have anyone with the time to do it.” She stared directly into Lacy’s eyes. It took every ounce of willpower Lacy possessed not to look away. “Now we do.

“I want you to read, write a report for, and then respond to every one of them. Maybe that will leave you with less time for personal e-mails on company time.”

Lacy had always considered herself more competent than competitive; she was much more interested in getting a job done well than in competing just for the sake of besting someone. But this was a punishment pure and simple, personal retribution for Cash Simpson’s interest in her. As she stared into her boss’s vindictive gaze, Lacy vowed then and there that if Cash Simpson could, in fact, be had, she was going to have him.

“Is there anything else?” Lacy asked carefully.

Jane Jensen smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Not at the moment,” she said. “But I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

Through late October and early November the vibrant color that set the hills and mountainsides aflame began to fade. The deep wine colors became a mottled red and the heavenly golds turned a paler yellow-brown. As they dried and stiffened, the leaves’ grip on their branches loosened and strong autumn winds pried them loose and sent them spiraling to the ground. By mid-November they lay in piles and drifts all over the forest floor.

As the temperatures dropped, Kendall no longer ventured out onto the deck to write, preferring the cozy warmth of the kitchen where she spent her mornings, her notes strewn across the kitchen table. Her gaze occasionally strayed out over the increasingly barren landscape, but her attention remained focused on Kennedy Andrews and her frantic attempts to salvage her life and her career.

In the afternoons, when the day had warmed as much as it was going to, Kendall bundled up and went out for a hike, her boots crunching through the piles of leaves, the sun glinting through the bare branches to places it never reached in spring or summer.

Her work on the house continued, but she could feel the compulsion lessening. Now she chose a project because it needed to be done or because she knew she’d enjoy doing it—not because she couldn’t stop herself.

She and Calvin communicated through their lawyers in a complex and sometimes unfathomable language that had everything to do with their things and very little to do with them. The negotiations dragged out interminably, but Kendall was not inclined to rush them, because once the divorce was final, Kendall knew she’d have to tell Melissa and Jeffrey. And start thinking of herself in a whole new way.

When the vision of her soon-to-be single self became too real, Kendall calmed herself by thinking of only the next step. Just do this now, she’d tell herself, and then you’ll worry about that. Do five pages now, two more this afternoon. One conversation with Anne Justiss today, a trip to Home Depot tomorrow.

In this way Kendall inched through the days doing what had to be done, relying on Faye and Mallory and Tanya to see her through when even the smallest bite seemed too much to chew.

The unexpectedly bright spot in all of it was
Sticks and Stones
. She’d originally agreed to Tanya’s idea of a group effort because she’d been so lost and afraid she would have agreed to most anything that would allow her to fulfill her commitment. But she hadn’t really stopped to think about what their involvement would do to the project.

A talented and imaginative writer could put herself into numerous characters’ heads and do a credible job of presenting their points of view in noticeably different ways. It was not only possible, writers did it all the time. But having those points of view written by different people added a dimension that she’d never experienced before. The book was good, better than good. In fact, it was far beyond what she’d originally envisioned—much bigger and of greater depth than she could have dreamed up or written by herself.

Kendall tried not to think about what Jane Jensen would do with this book. How wasted it would be.

That night they rendezvoused on the phone to discuss the recently completed chapters. They’d completed almost three hundred fifty pages and were nearing the black moment, where everything would appear to fall apart for all of the key characters. Then would come the resolution that would reflect the characters’ growth and pave the way to the end.