CHAPTER TWO
All good things must come to an end.
Isaac and I are at the beach. We’re spending the weekend in Maine to celebrate our anniversary.
It’s a chilly fall day and we’re both wearing fleece jackets and jeans.
The wind whips my hair around and smacks me in the eye.
Tucking the errant pieces behind my ear, I shiver and try to convince myself that it isn’t actually cold outside, but refreshingly crisp.
Soon I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as the clouds move out of its way.
Isaac is telling me about a new student of his. She is particularly bright and is someone he refers to as a ‘sensual’ reader, devouring the likes of Dumas, Wharton, and du Maurier.
Irritation scratches my chest. I mentally resist his account of her brilliant reflection on Kincaid’s See Now Then, threatened by the look in his eyes as he talks. I hate it when he does this. How does he not know that this scares me, considering how we met?
I smile and nod and say things like ‘Really?’ and ‘Oh, I never would have looked at it that way,’ hoping to sound confident. Part of me marvels at the fact that I’ve managed to hide my insecurity from him for so many years. It’s an ugly side of my personality I’ve never admitted to out loud.
I convince myself that he feels safe to tell me these things because we are so secure in our relationship.
Only a loyal husband who’s madly in love with his wife would talk about an especially bright young woman in this way.
If he were considering leaving me for her, he wouldn’t tell me all about her.
He would keep her very existence a secret until the last possible second, when he would have to admit the awful truth because she was outside our building in a convertible wearing a push-up bra that matched the French-cut panties under her mini-skirt.
She’d honk the horn so they could beat the weekend traffic up to the Poconos, and it would all come spilling out at once in a tumble of apologies and reassurances that the entire thing was neither planned nor my fault.
He takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “How’s your book coming along?”
I inhale the sharp, salty air, then exhale the imaginary drama out of my lungs.
No need to harbor such ridiculous thoughts, not while I’m walking along hand-in-hand in the sunshine with my husband of twelve years.
He’s not some rogue from one of my books.
He’s the gentlemanly duke who would lay his overcoat on a puddle for a lady to cross.
A buzzing sound interrupts me as I am just about to explain I’ve had to stop writing for the last year and a half to research seventeenth-century lace patterns. Pausing, I look out to the sea to locate the source of that incessant buzzing sound. “Isaac, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
My eyes open. I’m on the couch, not on the beach. Isaac is dead. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and whoever is at the front entrance of the building seems determined not to leave without invading our romantic walk.
I stumble to the front door while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Lauren’s voice is all business.
“Oh, hi. Are you here as best friend Lauren or literary agent Lauren Duncan?”
“Which one will you let up?”
“Neither,” I say, putting on a British accent so as to sound very well-to-do. “I’m afraid I’m not taking visitors today.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Good point. She’s tricky. “You know us writers, we’re a curious bunch.”
“And you know where all that curiosity got the cat, don’t you?” Lauren asks, sounding annoyed.
“But do I care?”
“Jesus. Just buzz me in already. It’s freezing out here and I’ve been sent to check on you.”
Shit. “My mother?”
“Yes.” There’s a strain in her voice that makes my entire body feel fatigued.
“Fine, you can come up, but only because you had to talk to Helen.” I push the button to open the front door, unleashing a sense of panic in my chest.
Glancing around the room, I try to discern what to clean up first. The layer of grime I’ve accumulated on my body will take at least ten minutes to scrub off in the shower, so that’s out.
The empty takeout cartons on the coffee table are closest, so I collect and deposit them in the garbage.
I pray that the elevator is stuck on the top floor as I plug the kitchen sink and squirt in some soap, then open the hot water tap to full force, hoping the bubbles will hide the pile of dishes.
Scurrying around, I gather cups and forks and plates covered with dried-on food, drop them in the sink and shut off the water.
Walt Whitman, my Siamese cat, is watching me from atop the back of the couch, looking thoroughly confused.
He hasn’t seen me move this fast since … well … maybe ever.
The knock at the door makes my stomach drop. Lauren is about to become privy to my current reality, which means I’m in for a lecture and some very disapproving and pitiful looks—my least favorite kind.
Tightening the sash on my bathrobe, I pull open the door. “Ma’am, Private Sloth ready for inspection.” I salute and clap my heels together, but they don’t make a satisfying clicking sound because I’m wearing fuzzy slippers.
Lauren chuckles and I step aside to let her in.
She’s dressed in a black suit and the timeless camel-hair coat I’ve admired on many occasions.
She can pull it off because her complexion is warm brown instead of recluse white like mine.
Also, she’s tall, so she doesn’t look like she’s playing dress-up in her father’s clothes when she puts on a long coat.
Lucky bitch. I could also hate her for being wonderfully fit—like I used to be—but since she’s not responsible for the year-long binge I’ve been on, I’m going to give her a pass on that.
“When did you have to suffer through a call from my mother?” I make my way to the kitchen, keeping my distance in hopes she won’t notice how long it’s been since I bathed.
“Last night.”
“Sorry. I’ll ask her to stop doing that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Tea?”
“Please.” Lauren puts her briefcase on the floor and shrugs off her coat, hanging it neatly on the rack. “She’s not that bad, Abby. She’s just worried about you. And by the looks of things, her concern isn’t exactly unfounded.”
“What?” I ask, looking around the room. “Oh, I know it’s a bit messy today, but I had a rough night last night, so I was feeling a little lazy.”
She is standing on the other side of the island now. “Bullshit.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
She tilts her head to the side and raises one eyebrow. I know that look. She gives it to her husband, Drew, and it never fails to break him. Well, it won’t work on me because I’m not hoping to have sex with her later.
I turn and open the cupboard where we keep the tea.
I. Where I keep the tea.
“Your mom is concerned that you might try to … maybe … take your own life.”
That gets my attention. I whirl around with my mouth hanging open. “What?”
“She’s worried that you’re deeply depressed, and if you don’t get help, you might do something drastic.”
Instantly, my cheeks burn and my eyes prick with humiliation, but I draw on my considerable store of anger to bring my emotions in check. I force an icy smile. “Well, that is not going to happen. That’s ridiculous.”
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Prove. It.” She’s playing hardball literary agent Lauren Duncan.
“Fine.” I huff and fold my arms across my chest. “For starters, I’m too lazy to kill myself. Do you know how much work that would be?”
Oh, that was appalling. My gut clenches at my words, but since she’s now the one gaping, I continue, even though I wish I could stop.
“I’d have to figure out what to wear, what to do with Walt, and then there’s the whole letter thing.
I can’t even begin to imagine how many drafts I’d need.
I’m a writer, so the last thing I write had better be spot-on perfect.
” I shake my head and give a careless little shrug.
“That all sounds like way too much work. Plus, I wouldn’t find out how A Handmaid’s Tale ends. ” I give her a ‘see, I told you’ look.
Lauren snorts then laughs. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.”
“You probably shouldn’t say things like that. I’m in a very delicate state,” I say, fighting a smile.
“Abby, stop it,” she says, covering her smile with both hands. “It’s not funny. This is very serious.”
I sigh. “Tell her my sense of humor is intact, so you take that as a solid indicator that there’s no need to worry.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “How can I be sure you aren’t just trying to throw me off?”
Giving myself a moment to think, I stare at the ceiling before answering. “Because I haven’t done it yet. If I were going to do it, it would have been months ago, when I couldn’t stop crying for more than a five-minute stretch. Not now, when I’m comfortably numb.”
“See, when you say it that way, it doesn’t exactly sound reassuring.”
My shoulders drop. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”
The kettle whistles and I turn to the stove. When I finish filling the pot, I take it over to the island and set it down. “Look, I’m just taking a little time out from life right now. It’s all good, though, I promise. I’ll be venturing out into the world soon enough.”
“Starting when?”
“I don’t know. Soon.” I cross the room and take two mugs out of the cupboard. “Next Wednesday at three fifteen p.m. Eastern Standard Time.” I turn back to her with an impish grin that I hope will work.
She doesn’t return my smile. “I’m holding you to that. You’re on notice, Abigail Carson.”
“Okay, boss lady.” My tone suggests that she really doesn’t have control over me, even though deep down I’m a little scared of her and she knows it.
Her face softens as her eyes pass over my fleece frog-print robe. “Not today, but when you’re ready, I need to talk to you about your contract with Titan.”