Chapter 22
I cried for a long time.
Most of it was about Bobby. The fact that I’d hurt him so badly.
And the fear and confusion because I didn’t understand why he’d gotten so upset.
I mean, yes, I got it: I should have shown up for dinner.
But Bobby had always been so patient with me.
He’d always been so understanding. I knew it wasn’t fair to expect Bobby to put up with my bad behavior, and I knew it wasn’t fair to want Bobby to be, I don’t know, perfectly immune to his own doubts and fears.
Bobby wasn’t a saint, and patience and understanding had their limits.
But I had spent a lot of my life feeling like I wasn’t good at relationships, feeling like I’d never be good at them.
And this awful fight with Bobby brought all that confusion and fear roaring back.
And it hurt, too, because Bobby had been right, at least partially.
No, I hadn’t actually done anything with Julian.
And I wouldn’t. Ever. But the bottom line was that I’d stopped and talked to Julian because—well, because it felt good.
Because Julian liked me. He said flattering things to me.
He said exactly what I wanted to hear, as a matter of fact.
And in the wake of that devastating encounter with Margaux—not to mention Thatcher’s treachery—it had been a balm for my wounded ego.
I might not have intentionally forgotten about dinner with Bobby, but I’d certainly been too focused on myself.
Which was, I was mature enough to admit, pretty lousy on my part.
Eventually, though, you have to stop crying. (Even if you’re alone in a Class V haunted mansion). And I was alone. I’d lived in Hemlock House long enough to know the familiar sounds: groans and moans and clanks and creaks. And I knew what it sounded like when it was empty.
In the past when Bobby and I had gotten into one of these fights—if fights was even the right word—or before we’d gotten together, when we’d been trying to find our way to each other, one of my friends had been there for me.
Not tonight. And in a weird way, it felt like I hadn’t seen my friends in ages.
It wasn’t true factually; I’d seen them all the night before. But in that moment, they felt far away.
I could have called them, I suppose. And told them what? How badly I’d messed up with Bobby? No, thank you.
Anyway, this was the way life was going.
If Bobby didn’t break up with me, eventually it would be just the two of us.
Fox and Indira had their own lives. Keme and Millie would find an apartment.
I wanted to start crying all over again at the thought of everyone moving on.
But I didn’t. Because that was part of life; everyone moved on eventually.
Lying in bed all night feeling sorry for myself did sound appealing, but somehow, I got up and went downstairs. I wasn’t hungry, but Bobby had gone to the effort to bring home takeout, and I didn’t want it to go bad sitting out on the counter overnight.
When I reached the kitchen, delicious smells met me: ginger and garlic and lemon.
Bobby had laid out the carryout containers, rather than leaving them stacked.
He’d even opened a couple of them so that the steam could escape.
It was the kind of thing Bobby would think of, and it made my eyes sting all over again.
I packed up the food in Tupperware containers and stored it in the fridge.
I put the empty takeout containers in the trash.
I was vaguely aware that I hadn’t eaten since—God, I wasn’t sure.
Did coffee count? I gave the counters a quick inspection, because Indira liked to keep the kitchen clean, and moved toward the door.
And that’s when I saw the folder. It was standard manila, and on the front, a sticky note had my name written at the top.
I picked it up.
Dash, We found this, and I thought you’d want to take a look. Acosta.
Had Bobby brought this home? Or had the sheriff dropped it off? It didn’t matter, I supposed. I opened the folder and found myself staring at a photocopy of a handwritten letter.
Dear Dashiell—
I stopped because I recognized the handwriting. I flipped to the next page to be sure, but the letter was incomplete and unsigned. Cold trickled down my spine.
It was Vivienne’s handwriting.
She had written me a letter.
I went back to the first page and considered it again.
The stationery said ROCK ON INN at the top, and Vivienne had dated the letter for Thursday—the day she’d approached me at the conference.
The day she’d died. I carried the letter into the servants’ dining room and dropped into a seat.
And then, for several seconds, I stared at the page of script, not seeing it.
Should I read it? Throw it away? Burn it?
But this was only a copy; the sheriff had the original. And she wanted my opinion.
And who was I kidding, anyway?
Dear Dashiell,
I should say Dash, I suppose, because you’ve corrected me enough times, but I love the name Dashiell, and I think it is particularly fitting for you. I hope you’ll pardon me this small indulgence.
You may wonder why I’m writing to you. I find myself at loose ends, in a way.
I am about to embark on a dangerous course, and for the first time in many years, I feel the need of someone to confide in.
This letter is something of a failsafe; I hope, should the worst happen to me, it will make its way to you, because I know you, and I know you will do what needs to be done.
Do you find it strange that I’ve chosen you and not the sheriff?
Or that I would write to you at all? I hope not.
I hope that you feel, as I do, a sort of kinship.
We have a great deal in common, although it may not please you to hear it.
We are both intuitive and analytical. We share a love of writing—and if I may flatter both of us—we have a talent for it.
We are inveterate snoops, to borrow a word the former sheriff preferred—and, to the chagrin of professional law enforcement everywhere, we are unbearably good at what we do.
There’s something a tad grotesque in saying that you are the child I never had, and I would never subject you to it.
But I do feel that I understand you. And, as you have proven, you understand me.
To your credit and my detriment, as it turned out.
If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to suggest we share some not-so-admirable traits as well.
We are difficult people, in our own ways.
We are obsessive. We are driven. And we are ambitious.
Traits of genius, I’m tempted to say, but considering the trajectory of my life, events seem to have proven the contrary—although I hope that the next few days may bring a change in fortune.
They say there are no second acts, but perhaps, in my case, I may craft for myself a third.
I want to congratulate you on your success with A Work in Progress.
It’s a wonderful book. Incisive, clear-eyed, and yet somehow gentle.
It’s not a book I could write; maybe that gives you some comfort, knowing that there is, in that way, a fundamental difference between us.
But it is a book that I am glad exists in the world.
At the risk of overstepping, I hope you’ll permit me a moment to offer you some advice—a few bits of wisdom I have accumulated over the years in a profession that is neither gentle nor necessarily clear-eyed.
You have struck gold with your first book, and it’s to your good fortune, I believe, that you self-published it, because this gives you a degree of freedom I never had.
I imagine that in the future, you will find no shortage of offers and opportunities.
If I may, I’d like to suggest that you be wary.
One phrase that comes to mind is “the golden handcuffs.” And the other is “the baited hook.”
Writing is a craft and an art. Publishing is a business.
I think you will find—hopefully, forewarned by this letter—that business abhors a risk. There will be plenty of people who assure you that they can grow your career and make you money. They will not tell you the cost.
The cost, Dashiell, is steep. It might be everything.
Someone once said that when you choose to work with a publisher, it might be the last choice you ever make.
There is some truth to that. A publisher, should you choose to work with one, will want you to produce a product they can sell.
This is only fair, since they are a business.
The problem is that you, Dashiell, are not a product.
And the danger is that you will let yourself—and your writing—become one.
The pressure will be to produce more. And to produce more of the same.
And perhaps this will satisfy you, but I believe, from what I know of you, that you will find what it means is being less of yourself every time you write.
And this isn’t only true about the publishing industry.
I know little about self-publishing—perhaps, if this weekend goes as I plan, you’ll be generous enough to teach me.
But I do know something about readers. And I think you will find that your readers, in their own way, will exert a similar pressure.
Not out of any malice; rather, out of love.
But it is equally dangerous, and as much a threat to your art as any marketing team.
Everyone must choose who they are going to be.