Chapter 3 #3
I was pretty sure Rebecca was interpreting my watery eyes as tears of gratitude.
The reality was quite the opposite. I mean, it was incredibly generous of her to consider bequeathing me her life’s work.
But that was the problem. It was her life’s work, not mine.
I actively avoided imagining what Frannie would say if I shared Rebecca’s plans for my future.
Or my mom. If a writing career wasn’t serious enough for her, then what would she think of me spending the rest of my life making ads to hawk overpriced chocolate truffles or goat’s milk featuring TikTok-famous goats?
“And wouldn’t taking over the agency feel more meaningful,” Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose, “and a little less self-indulgent, than writing a book?”
And there it was. The directness I feared.
Writing had never felt self-indulgent to me.
It had felt necessary. The stuff of life.
Like air and water. And without it, I was struggling to know myself.
I fixed my gaze on the plate I was scraping into the compost bucket.
“It’s more than indulging myself. If I’m being completely honest, part of it is that I need to get over the fear that my novel had something to do with Sam’s death.
” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Rebecca’s face pinching as she took in a breath.
“I just need to publish another book and have nothing bad happen.”
“Oh please, Thea. I can’t believe you’re still entertaining that nonsense.
Obviously those few months after everything happened were wrenching.
But all the bogus theories put out by those stupid, pathetic internet trolls were exactly that—bogus.
We all know The Long Way Home had absolutely nothing to do with what happened.
It was just a terrible coincidence. You shouldn’t need to publish another book to believe that. ”
“But how do we know that for certain?” A few seconds of awkward silence passed before I added, “Do you remember when I was still pregnant with Lucy and you had me meet with that lawyer friend of yours, Tom Cahill, because I was considering a wrongful death lawsuit against the driver who killed Sam?”
“That was nearly four years ago,” Rebecca said, knitting her brows. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I glanced up at the blown glass pendant hanging over the sink before turning back to her. “Only that he made the point, very compellingly, that if I filed a lawsuit, any good defense attorney would have a jury believing that I was the one who caused Sam’s death by the end.”
“But that’s absurd,” Rebecca said. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, obviously Tom had done his homework on the internet rumor mill that blamed Sam’s death on my—”
“But the police never put any stock in those ridiculous conspiracy theories,” Rebecca interrupted. “No one did. It was an epileptic woman who should never have been behind the wheel.”
“I know. I mean, rationally, I know that,” I said.
“But Tom kept hammering on how the similarities between my book and Sam’s death would be used against me in court by the other side.
It was awful. He must have asked me five different ways why Sam went for a run that day.
I couldn’t answer that because I didn’t understand it myself.
Tom said the opposing counsel would try to lean on the similarities between the way Sam died and my novel to hint I was hiding something from the jury.
If we’d had an argument before his run, like the couple in my book, that would only add to the intrigue.
That got me thinking about how Sam pretty much only went for runs when he was upset about something.
When I walked into Tom’s office that day, I was certain Sam had been ecstatic about the baby.
But by the time I left the meeting, I was freaking out that maybe I’d missed some signs.
Maybe Sam hadn’t been as happy as he said.
Maybe we’d actually had some kind of argument beneath the surface that I’d been too obtuse to register. ”
Rebecca exhaled slowly. “Thea, you’ve always been so logical. Are you telling me that because you didn’t know the precise reason Sam went for a run, you’ve believed all this time that your novel might truly be responsible for his death?”
I shrugged. “I know it sounds a little out there, but it’s almost as if by showing me how my case would look to a jury, Tom planted a seed of doubt in my mind.
All I can say is that it seemed like another data point in favor of the possibility that my life had imitated my art in the worst possible way.
Which is why I’ve had writer’s block ever since. ”
Rebecca rinsed the last few dishes and handed them to me to load into the dishwasher.
“I’m really sorry about everything Tom said to you.
I was only looking out for your best interests.
We didn’t need the money and you were in such a state.
I worried about what a trial might do to you.
To all of us. I just wanted you to have the full picture before you made an irrevocable decision.
I never meant for that meeting to plague you with uncertainty all these years. ”
She shut off the water and peeled off her gloves.
“Thea, you’re a wonderful mother to a gorgeous little girl, and you’re a talented young woman with a bright future at the agency.
Why not focus on all the good things in your life?
All that publishing another book will do is force all of us to relive what happened last time.
It will be mentioned in every single article, review, and interview. ”
“I’ve thought about that, and I’ve decided that T.
J. Newhouse will never write again.” I closed the dishwasher to punctuate this pronouncement.
“From here on out, if I ever actually publish anything it will be under my married name. Or maybe a pseudonym. Either way, it’s unlikely anyone would make the connection. ”
“Once you put something out there, no matter what name you use, things like that have a way of leaking, especially if you hit it big. There are no guarantees.”
“But if no name is safe, then what you’re really saying is I should never publish anything again,” I pointed out. “I’m not sure I can live with that.”
With a wan smile, she said, “I’m not trying to overstep.
It’s just we’ve all been through so much together.
And I’ve been relishing the peace and joy in our household.
I suppose I don’t want anything to derail that.
Anyway, I know you’ll figure it out. You always do.
” She leaned in and gave me a hug, which, despite the tough love she’d doled out, still felt like a cup of hot chocolate on a frigid night.
I felt myself letting go, sinking into it.
The magic of human touch. “Now,” she said, pulling back, “I think maybe we’ve stalled long enough.
I’ll grab the popcorn. Do you think we should open some wine to dull the edges of tonight’s princess extravaganza? ”
I headed to the wine fridge. Perhaps Rebecca was right? Maybe writing another book was too big of a risk. Rebecca was right about a lot of things. She’d built a successful marketing agency, a long and happy marriage, and a full life. And she’d raised the best son ever.
But the thought still nagged. If I didn’t publish another book, I would never know for sure if my novel had played some role in Sam’s death.
If, by the very act of writing those words and putting it out into the world, I’d created a new reality.
And that was a feeling I absolutely could not imagine living with for the rest of my life.