Chapter 2 #3
Frannie rises on shaky legs, grabbing her laptop and the printed pages to head downstairs. She glances back into the office before she locks it, almost expecting to see a little ghostly apparition, but there’s no one there.
Job. She’ll focus on her job, and everything will be fine.
Henry’s already waiting for her when she gets to the apartment. He waves her over to the dining room table, where he’s lounging with yet another notepad.
There’s more than enough space for her to work at the enormous maple dining table that takes up the front room.
She could be sitting beneath his massive Cecily Brown painting, looking out over Central Park every day, instead of freezing her butt off in her “office,” but Henry needs complete silence to write.
Frannie settles into one of the ten tall-backed chairs, meant for the entertaining Henry absolutely never does, and pulls up her calendar. Henry stares out the window, scratching at his arm. She needs to remember to pack the moisturizer when she does his suitcase. He’s always itchy before events.
She really wishes she didn’t know that.
“Let me see,” Henry says. Frannie passes over her work laptop, and he glances over the next two months.
He’s got big book tour stops in every major city, panels at four different conferences, and about fifteen indie bookstores to hit all in the next month, followed by a trip to see distant elderly family in Europe. She’s quietly jealous he’s going and supremely disappointed he’s not taking her.
“All looks good. Now, let’s input my delivery to you,” Henry says.
“To me?” Frannie asks.
“Since you’ll have so little to do while I’m gone, I want you to take first pass at editing the book.”
There’s a dull buzzing in her ears. “What?”
“If I keep to my deadlines, I’ll be done with the book in a week. Put that down.”
Frannie numbly inputs the date. He wants her to edit his book?
“Then I’ll give you a week to read, and we’ll have a Zoom on the fifteenth during my layover on my way to Houston. We’ll go over your big-picture thoughts, and if we agree, I’ll give you the rest of the trip to do the edit.”
“Okay,” Frannie says, her leg starting to bounce as she inputs a Zoom into the calendar.
He wants her to edit his book. To be the very first reader of his next novel. The book that got him a million-dollar advance. Her.
“I also expect you to be drafting your own book. I want to read a first draft before Thanksgiving. I’m giving you two and a half months.”
Her excited nausea turns into a curdling reflux. “What?”
“Maribel is constantly hounding me to pass something of yours along. Asks me every time we talk. So I need you to give me a book I can send her way before the holidays, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Frannie sucks in a breath, willing herself to stay calm. “I’m working through your notes right now, so—”
“Not something you’ve shown me before,” Henry cuts in.
Frannie clamps her mouth shut as he stares her down. Fuck.
“I’m putting myself on the line here. I’ve been telling her how good your notes are for years, and I want the manuscript to match,” he goes on. “It’s got to be special, and it’s got to sound like you—a book that only you can write.”
The writing advice given in every entry-level creative writing course, in every trite how-to book, by every writing coach on the planet—she’s been here for three years for write what you know?
Henry stares at her, waiting, and Frannie forces a confident smile.
“I’ll do my best,” she says, anxiety and dread at war in her stomach.
“Good. Now, come help me with my suitcases. You know I’m pathetic.”
Overwhelmed, Frannie follows Henry through the massive, sunny living room and back into the floral-wallpapered guest room, where he has two suitcases laid out on the bed, along with three piles of freshly cleaned laundry and every charger she thinks he’s ever owned.
“Okay, that’s the adapter for your Blackberry from fifteen years ago, and I know that because it says BLACKBERRY in silver sharpie,” Frannie says, holding up the offending charger.
“What would I do without you, Frannie?” Henry asks.
And he sounds so fucking sincere about it, too, like he hasn’t just squeezed her confidence into a pulp.
Three hours, two suitcases, and a fully loaded Kindle later, Frannie zips up Henry’s travel backpack.
“And your allergy meds, and we’re set,” Frannie says, striking the last of the pharmaceuticals from her list.
“Excellent,” Henry says.
He shoulders his backpack and together they get his two big suitcases off the guest bed and head through the messy living room to the dining room.
“I’ll let you know when I land, and send you any corrections tomorrow morning from the hotel business lounge,” Henry says.
“Great,” Frannie enthuses. Why he can’t just input the changes himself on the laptop he’s bringing, rather than scanning and emailing her handwritten notes, she’s never really figured out.
“Water my plants twice a day while I’m out, would you?” he asks.
Frannie nods. Is she expected to dust while he’s away too?
“And lock up when you leave tonight,” he adds.
“Will do. Safe flights and everything.”
Henry nods with an absent smile. “Looking forward to that first draft.”
“Yeah, yep, I’ll get right to writing,” Frannie says stiffly.
Henry gives her a little wave and then heads out of the apartment with all his bags, leaving her alone in his dining room. The door closes behind him and Frannie stands there for a minute, luxuriating in the quiet and her impending freedom. Two whole boss-less months. It’s a miracle.
She wanders the apartment to remind herself what plants he has: the impatiens, the African violets, the little collection of ailing herbs on the kitchen windowsill, and the very needy host of spicy peppers under the grow lights in the living room.
The television clicks on behind her and Frannie spins around to find Bridgette sitting on the couch, remote in hand. Frannie rubs at her chest, wondering if she’ll survive the next two months without a minor heart attack.
“Does he have Disney Plus?” Bridgette asks.
“I think so,” Frannie says, bemused.
Bridgette shoots a smile her way, and then snuggles into the couch, a teddy bear with a fraying red bow clutched to her chest while she navigates the smart TV like a pro. Frannie turns toward the door, only to find Michael sitting at the dining table, schematics laid out in front of him.
Frannie moves closer to peer at the yellowing paper, curious. It’s clearly for a large building. Maybe for the Dakota? Michael glances up at her with a glare.
Frannie steps back from the table, hands up. “Well, enjoy whatever it is you’re up to. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll just …”
Michael doesn’t acknowledge her, and she can hear Bridgette giggling in the living room, so she sees herself out, locking the door behind her.
She trudges up to her dim hallway in a daze.
She opens the door to the office and flicks on the lights before falling into her chair.
She rubs her temples and closes her eyes.
It’s fine. This is fine. The ghost kids are fine.
At least if they’re in Henry’s apartment, they won’t be watching her here … right?
She slowly opens her eyes, but she’s still alone in her storage closet of an office. She takes a deep breath, and then deflates. What a scam. No one who reads the great Henry L. Olsen’s books would ever suspect he won’t even spring for a real office for his assistant.
She pouts for a minute and then sighs, turning to double confirm all of Henry’s reservations, and check his email. Because she’s damn good at her job, even if her boss is a jerk, and even if she’s being haunted by ghost children.
About ten minutes later, the lights flicker overhead. She shivers, the office noticeably chillier than before.
“Silly to hang in here with me when you’ve got Henry’s fabulous couch downstairs,” Frannie tells the empty air.
There’s a small scoff. Frannie looks over at the bookshelves, but there’s no one there.
She grabs her electric gloves. It’s a little pathetic to use them before October even arrives, but her hands are freezing. She slips them on. The scoff is significantly louder this time.
Goosebumps come up on Frannie’s arms. She finishes with Henry’s emails and switches over to his itinerary, pulling out her phone.
“This is ridiculous.”
Frannie turns while she waits on hold for the hotel concierge. She can’t see anyone, but that was definitely audible.
“Yes, ma’am, I see the turkey club, extra mayo, with a Diet Coke, all set,” the concierge reports. “The front desk will alert us when he checks in, and it’ll be sent up to meet him.”
“Thank you, George,” Frannie says, smiling as he wishes her a good night before she ends the call.
“Absurd.”
Frannie stares at the empty room. “Absurd” is definitely the right word. “What’s your problem?” she asks.
She should probably be concerned there’s another ghost haunting her, but she’s too curious to care.