Last Light (24 page)

She drove me back to the cabin and I went straight to my desk. I told her I needed to be alone, so she closed herself in her room.

I wrote for several hours.

I wrote about Melanie’s appearance in my life and the things that happened in Denver.

I wrote about Seth—exhaustive passages I would ultimately cut—and Hannah, of course, beautiful, clever Hannah.

No matter how I reached for her with my words, she slipped away. I had such ideas about her. If only I cast my net wide enough, I might capture her in my language—but it was always too much or not enough. Then I laughed because she defied me. She defied me here, where it mattered most, on the page.

A storm came up the mountainside and mixed with my thoughts and my writing. The blue night turned black. Mel remained in her room and I walked through the cabin, my mind thundering.
It is not so important to be happy,
I realized, because I was satisfied and not happy
. It is only important to do what you were born to do.

*   *   *

Mel didn’t leave on Monday, and I said nothing about it.

She drove into town on Tuesday morning, bought groceries, and made us a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and Belgian waffles. I ate too much and had to lie on the couch.

From her bag, she produced a brand-new copy of
The Surrogate
.

“Really?” I laughed. It was release day, and I’d forgotten.

The book was larger than I had imagined—a Clancyesque monstrosity. I examined the jacket, spine, and flaps. I rolled my eyes at the author blurbs.

A chilling meditation on the human condition,
said an author I disliked.

Still, here was
my
book, the sixth in my repertoire (counting
Night Owl
), and I smiled as I studied it. All was as I liked: Thick creamy paper, stylish drop caps, wide margins.

“Thank you, Mel,” I mumbled belatedly. “Get a pen and I’ll sign it for you.”

Mel was clearing dishes. “For me? It’s for you.”

“I don’t want my own book. What, do you think I’m going to reread it, or put it on the shelf and gaze proudly at it?” I chuckled. “No, but I appreciate this. My only author copy.”

Mel brought me a pen. I wrote:
For Alexis Stromgard, a spirited private driver. MR. CALLAHAN, AKA THE SURROGATE, AKA MATTHEW ROBERT SKY JR.

After my breakfast settled, I wrote. Melanie disappeared into her room. When I finished writing some hours later, she presciently reappeared. She trailed me outside and watched me split firewood. I let her have a try, but her toothpick arms couldn’t heft the axe.

Wednesday followed suit, then Thursday. She scrammed while I wrote; she came around at dusk, just as I got begrudgingly lonesome.

“What’ve you been up to?” I’d say, and Mel would say blogging or reading or walking. Sometimes she left the cabin by the back door and drove off, and as I heard her car receding I thought,
Ah, there goes Mel, back to Iowa and I won’t see her again.

But she always returned.

We celebrated the first day of spring with an ambling walk through the woods. It was Thursday, so I said to Mel, “You really have to get lost this weekend.”

“All right,” she said.

I folded my arms and frowned at her. Sometimes, I felt she didn’t take me seriously. Other times, she seemed intimidated by me.

“I’m serious,” I said. “You can’t be here. If Hannah sees you—”

“I got it, I got it. I’ll find a motel.”

“Good. And clean up after yourself. I can’t have any trace of you here. Nothing in the bedroom, nothing anywhere. It needs to look like you were never here.”

“I can do that. Lean down, will you?”

I sighed and leaned down. She put her hands in my hair and sifted through it like a primate, peering at my scalp.

“Your roots are showing. It looks hilariously bad.”

I snorted. “Fine.”

“And you really need a haircut, Matt. You’re starting to look like a mountain man, minus the beard and flannel.”

I stroked my smooth jaw. “I could grow a beard.”

“Oh, please don’t!” Mel laughed and I laughed with her.

“Buy me some black dye, then. And buy shears, while you’re at it. Put it on my tab. And Mel…” I dropped the smile. Whenever I showed Mel a little kindness, I instantly worried it was going to her head. “I’m serious about this weekend. I want you gone like you never existed.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted.

I rolled my eyes and walked back toward the cabin.

Chapter 33

HANNAH

We’re never going to get away with this.

The thought plagued me.

The thought? No, the knowledge. Matt’s visit to Denver was like a revelation, and I saw our castle of lies crumbling.

My black eye resolved quickly. Pam, the epitome of professionalism (or the embodiment of indifference), didn’t ask about it. She was in high spirits on Tuesday.
The Surrogate
was everywhere. She had a phone interview with the
Denver Post
at noon and a face-to-face with Gail Wieder of
Denver Buzz,
a morning talk show, on Wednesday.

“If only Matthew could see all this,” Pam said. She avoided my gaze and my purple-yellow eye. “But he would have hated it, wouldn’t he? The attention.”

“Yeah.” I sighed.
Poor Matt, fame is so rough
. I winced at my uncharitable thought. Jeez, where did that come from?

Maybe I was still upset about Alexis the private driver from Craigslist. I didn’t care what Matt said; that business smelled funny.

But—the girl was gone. Out of state. Miles from Matt. I smiled and booted up my work computer. I’m not a jealous girlfriend, not really, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the redhead wanted to put her paws all over my man.

Over my dead body
.

On Friday, I wore a special springtime set of lingerie—a sheer floral bra from Fox & Rose and lacy crotchless panties—and I drove out to the cabin. Matt took me from the car to bed.
Mmm,
I loved having that effect on him.

“I’m crazy about things that don’t hide you,” he told me. “Things that show me your body—like this.” He bit my nipple through my bra and pushed a finger into my sex. He fucked me while I wore the lingerie, and he made me say I wanted it and that I wore the panties so he could put it in me easily, and that I wanted it in me all the time—which I said with pleasure.

The warming weather seemed to revitalize Matt. He talked about his writing—in general terms, of course—and he was less broody, less prone to anger. Only once did he lapse into a mood that weekend. I made the mistake of mentioning the private driver, Alexis. I said, “You sent her packing, right?”

Matt frowned and said he wanted to write. Then he sat at his desk and doodled in his notebook for half an hour. Classic.

Apart from that, we had an idyllic weekend. The following weekend was the same, and then it was April. And despite my certainty that Matt’s fake death and my lies were coming undone, I began to hope. To hope that we were in the clear.

A call from Nate changed all that.

It was the middle of the first week in April. Unseasonably warm wind blew through Denver. At work, I daydreamed too much about Matt. At home, I opened the windows and let the sweet breeze swirl through our condo. And I daydreamed about Matt. Matt beneath me, holding me close, pounding into me …

Or the two of us lying in bed, laughing … walking in the woods … watching the stars …

My cell rang and I rose lazily.

When I saw Nate’s number, my good mood faded. But not entirely. I even smiled a little, because how could I really dread a call from Nate? He was so uniformly good to me, so mannered and gentle. I remembered his concerned face and dark eyes.

“Hey, Nate,” I said. My voice sounded dreamy.

“Hannah.” And Nate sounded truly happy, his voice radiant with warmth.

“I’ve missed you!” I flopped onto the couch. “Really. You’re like the older brother I never had. That’s how I feel.” I’d had a large glass of wine when I got home from work, which made it easier to say those things—but it was how I felt.

“Well, I’m honored. And you’re like the little sister I never had.”

“Not that little.” I laughed. “How old are you anyway?”

“Thirty-five. That puts, what, eight years between us?”

I counted on my fingers. “Seven in May. How do you know my age?”

“I have a dossier of Hannah facts. I keep up to date on these things.” Nate chuckled. “No, Matt told me—in Geneva. He was very drunk at the time, mind you, and waxing on about how he wouldn’t stop drinking until Hannah forgave him. So I said, tell me about this Hannah, and he said, she’s twenty-seven but you wouldn’t know it to look at her, she’s always going to look young because she’s full of light, and I’m never going to love anyone else.”

I smiled and hugged a pillow.
Oh, Matt …
“What did you say?”

“I said, you’re drunk, Matt, and I can see why the girl is half a country away, and twenty-seven is terrifically young to me, light or no light.”

“Well, thirty-five is young too,” I said. “
Terrifically
young.”

“You’re good to say so. You seem to be in a great mood, Hannah. I’m glad.”

“I am; you’re right. It’s the weather. April’s finicky in Colorado, blizzards or sunshine. It’s sunshine right now.”

“I know. I’m in town.”

I sat up. “You are?”

“Yes. I said we ought to go to the zoo in the spring, didn’t I? I’m here with Owen. But can you believe my own wife and daughter preferred New York to my company in Denver? Worse, they’re out there with Seth. I wonder if I should be worried.” Nate laughed.

“Seth?” My voice was airless. “New York?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear? He finally signed a record deal. Goldengrove is off touring.”

“Oh…”

“I thought he would have told you. He gave me to understand you two hit it off. Wasn’t he in town for the release party?”

“For a gig,” I said. “I saw him at the party, yes.” I walked to a leaning mirror and watched the color return to my face. So, Seth was keeping his word. He was keeping our secret.

“Well, Hannah, what do you say?”

“Excuse me?”

“The zoo. You, me, and a very excitable nine-year-old.”

“Uh, sure. Of course.” I tried to sound cheerful. I couldn’t see any way out of it, and once I regained my composure and my good mood, I might even enjoy it. As long as Nate didn’t bring up Shapiro and
Night Owl …

“Great. I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow?”

“It’s Thursday. I’ve got work. Maybe I can—”

“No, no, I cleared that with Pam.”

I gaped at my reflection. Cleared that with Pam?

“Nate! Would you please stop going over my head like that?”

“I don’t know, Hannah. Old dog, new tricks. See you at ten.”

I smiled and sighed. These incorrigible brothers. “See you at ten.”

*   *   *

Nate held Owen’s hand as we walked through the zoo.

“Let me see!” Owen shouted every several minutes. Nate, wearing an eternally patient expression, would release the boy’s hand and watch like a hawk as Owen raced to this or that enclosure. Soon, Owen returned and reattached himself to Nate.

Owen quizzed me as we sat in the Wolf Pack Woods and waited to glimpse an arctic wolf. “Do you live by yourself?” he said. “Do you have a boyfriend? Do you rent your own house? Are you in love with someone?”

“Owen,” Nate finally said, “stop being annoying. You don’t ask questions like that.”

“It’s fine.” I laughed.

The animals were lively in the cool morning. We spent at least an hour watching the hyenas, lions, and African wild dogs. The tigers made me think of Matt. To and fro they loped, their majestic coats rippling, their stares stoic and knowing.

“You like the tigers,” Nate said. I smiled at him. How strange it had been, to see Nate observing the hawks in the aviary. Nate was so hawkish himself. That day, he wore his usual formal attire—dress slacks and a pale button-down shirt, no tie, his wool coat unbuttoned. I wondered if he owned a pair of jeans.

“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I love the big cats.”

“Are you going to ask me about the lawsuit, Hannah?”

I shook my head.

“I told Shapiro not to bother you about it,” Nate said. “He hasn’t, has he?”

“No.”

“Good. I could tell it troubled you. It scared you off, didn’t it? Something about the litigation is bothering you. Hannah, tell me.” Nate came around, placing himself between me and the glass enclosure. His dark eyes implored me. “You can tell me.”

“Are you
trying
to scare me off? I’d rather be home alone than talking about this.”

Hurt flashed across Nate’s face.

“I see,” he said.

“What, is there some news? Something I should know?”

“Yes. Do you want to know?”

“We’ve hardly seen the animals.” I turned away. “I want to see the birds. The tropical birds. Doesn’t Owen want to ride the carousel? Tell me later, Nate. Before I go.”

“Of course,” Nate said, and we didn’t speak about the lawsuit again as we walked around the zoo. Nate told me how Matt, in his days of drinking and petty crime, conspired to release a bunch of birds from their enclosure.

“He hated the zoo,” Nate said. “Hated it. Would never go. And if anyone mentioned it around him?” He gave a low whistle. “Anyway, it was an enclosure much like this—” Nate gestured to the open habitat, a tropical replica. Birdsong filtered through the warm air and colorful, feathered bodies flickered among the plants. “Which looked like paradise to everyone, except Matt. All Matt saw was a lot of sad birds. He propped open the doors, and then—” Nate began to laugh. “Ah, Lord. Then he tried to shoo the birds out. But of course they didn’t want to go! He terrified them and they flew all around screaming. He got so furious as they’d fly out and fly right back in.”

I laughed at the image, which I could see clearly in my mind.

“You tell great stories,” I said.

“Well, thank you. It looks like I’ve got an agent in my corner whenever I sit down to write my memoirs, hm?” He patted my shoulder.