Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Tony and I went into my building and took the elevator up to my floor. I handed Rosie off to Blake, who gladly took her. Once we were in my office, I said, “Okay. Out with it. I don’t have a lot of time.” Tony took a breath. For at least fifteen seconds, I waited for him to speak.
“Tell me why you think Natalie Blythe might be Book Babe,” he said.
You’re so exasperating, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
The fact was, Tony wasn’t trying to be exasperating.
He was just being Tony—always striking a deal, engineering a quid pro quo, getting the other player to show her hand first. He couldn’t help himself.
It was imprinted in his Hollywood agent DNA.
So I told Tony everything—from the “grounds for a lawsuit” line in the one-star Stronger Alone review, to the distinct lack of Melanie Joan Hall’s work among the romances she’d touted, to the timing of the pregnancy book reviews.
My most recent search was still on my computer screen, so I turned my monitor to him and showed him Natalie Blythe’s Instagram profile pic. “Do you know about this kid?” I said.
Tony shook his head.
“If that’s her son,” I said, “she was expecting him at the same time Book Babe was reading up on pregnancy.”
We were both silent for a few moments. In the other room, I could hear Blake telling Rosie she was the best girl in the world.
I knew he was feeding her treats, and I wanted to tell him to stop.
At least half of Rosie’s recent weight gain could be blamed on my softie of an assistant.
But I didn’t say anything. I could tell Tony was thinking about Natalie, and I didn’t want to break his concentration.
“You make a pretty convincing case,” he said.
“Right?” I said. “She’s at least worth investigating.”
“I guess I didn’t think she could be that stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
He exhaled. “After Natalie got fired, she signed an NDA. It included a clause that says she can’t say or do anything to harm MJ’s career, and in exchange it included a pretty massive payout,” he said.
“Oh…”
“I’d say that review would fall into the category of career-ruiner, wouldn’t you?”
I looked at him. “Melanie Joan never told me about a payout.”
“She doesn’t exactly know about it,” he said.
“What does ‘doesn’t exactly’ mean?”
“I told Melanie Joan that we took care of the problem, and it involves a small portion of her quarterly royalties,” he said. “She asked no further questions.”
“So you told no lies.”
He smiled. “One of the many things I like about you, Sunny,” he said, “is that you get things without my having to explain them.”
I smiled back. “That’s possibly the most patronizing compliment I’ve ever received.”
“Hey, it’s from the heart.”
“So,” I said, “where are you depositing these checks?”
“Meaning, where can you find Natalie Blythe?”
“One of the many things I like about you, Tony…”
“Touché,” he said. “It’s a small bank in Gloucester.”
My eyes widened. “Gloucester, Massachusetts?”
“Yep,” he said. “She’s from around here. I don’t know if MJ already told you.”
“She did not.”
“She may have erased that from her memory,” Tony said. “But that was the main thing Melanie Joan liked about Natalie Blythe—you know, before everything went pear-shaped. ‘A Boston girl,’ MJ said.” He gave me a picture-perfect grin. “Claimed Natalie reminded her of you.”
“Great.”
“Before things went pear-shaped. Don’t forget I said that.”
I took a breath. Thought. “It makes sense she’d come back home to lick her wounds.”
“And, trust me, she could afford a nice place in Gloucester on what we’ve been paying her.
” He rubbed his chin and gazed up at the ceiling, giving me a view of a strong jaw, a cultivated five-o’clock shadow.
He wore a thick gold ring with a red stone in it.
His college ring—Stanford. I didn’t know many men my age who still wore their college rings.
I was sure my shrink would have plenty to say about it.
“Gloucester’s drivable,” I said. “I mean, if she really does live near her bank.”
He nodded. “Too bad I don’t have a home address for her.”
A thought came to me. I sat down at my desk and pulled up my recent image search. I clicked on the picture of the women in matching T-shirts, Natalie Blythe at the center.
“You know what Natalie does for a living these days?” I asked Tony. “I mean, besides not ruining Melanie Joan’s career?”
“No idea,” he said.
I stared at the picture on my screen. The women’s shirts were pale pink, one word across the front in glittery cursive: Infinity.
It was sourced from one of the women’s Substacks—not Natalie’s—called My Health Journey.
And when I skimmed the entry, I saw that it was about joining a yoga class. The author didn’t say where.
“Find something?” Tony said.
“Maybe,” I said.
I remembered what Melanie Joan had told me—how Natalie was always late to the set because she’d been meditating or doing yoga.
I googled “Infinity Yoga, Gloucester, Mass.,” and within seconds, I found a website.
It was actually called Infinity Wellness Center, but I knew it was the right place.
At the top of the home page was a quote:
“In today’s high-pressure world, we all must take time to recharge. Find peace within, and the possibilities are ‘infinite.’ ”
—Natalie Blythe, Owner
I turned the screen around so that Tony could see. “Found her,” I said.
“Man,” he said. “You’re good.”
I made myself not recall the last time he’d told me something similar. I called Blake into the office. “I’m going to Gloucester,” I said.
“Now?” Blake said.
“We’d better hurry,” Tony said. “That spa may close soon.”
I looked at him. “We?”
“Sunny,” he said. “If Natalie is Book Babe, you’re going to have to convince her that it’s essential to publicly make peace with Melanie Joan, ASAP.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Who better to do that than the guy who proverbially signs her checks?”
I thought about it.
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Blake said. “But he kinda makes sense.”
“He does,” I said. “Unfortunately.”
“Goody,” Tony said. “Let’s go to the beach.” He gazed at me in a way that I remembered. It made me slightly uncomfortable.
“You want me to watch Rosie until you get back?” Blake asked. “If it gets late, I can always bring her to my place.”
I thought about it for five seconds, then told him it was okay.
I’d bring Rosie with me. Blake said it wasn’t any trouble, but I said, “No, thank you, Blake.” I reattached Rosie’s leash.
“Rosie loves the beach,” I added. It was not true.
She wasn’t a swimmer, and digging in the sand tired her out.
Plus, she had no learning curve when it came to drinking ocean water, which was frustrating for both the dog and myself.
The real truth was this: I wanted a chaperone.