47
Katie
While Tyler was in the shower, I slipped out of bed and stepped outside. The sun was warm and rising, and on the deck, there
were no signs of bad weather or foul play. No knocked-over umbrellas. No blown-astray branches or rogue purplish petals of
morning glory. No sandals, abandoned by the lounge chairs. No thong, floating in the pool.
I cringed, then pushed open the door to the main house. It was effortless. Meredith sat on the sofa reading The Shadow of the Wind, Pinot asleep in her lap.
“How was dinner?” she said, deep in her page.
“Oh, um, great. We missed you. Are you feeling all right? We . . .”
I almost asked her everything. About why, of all people, it was Tyler who’d been hired to write with me. About how, from day
one, the tropes in our story had been a little too on the nose. About why, like magic, they just kept on coming true. But
what did it matter? What difference did it make? The manuscript was excellent, and Tyler was finally mine, and I didn’t want
to break the spell or cross a line or come off as clinically insane.
She looked up from her book. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Katie?”
“No. Uh . . .” I smoothed out my shirt. Well, Tyler’s shirt. “No?”
She smirked, then buried her head back in her novel. “I made muffins,” she said. “Blueberry—from the garden. Why don’t you bring a couple back for Tyler? I’m sure he’s absolutely famished.”
“Oh, I—We . . . Thank you?”
She flipped her page. “My pleasure.”