The Last Word (6 page)

Millay tapped her forehead. “Athena, goddess of wisdom. She busted right out of Zeus’s head wearing a full suit of armor. Talk about some serious labor pains . . .”

“Imagine if he’d had twins!” Laurel chuckled. “Anyway, that’s how The Wife came about. She literally forced every other character out of my mind and started whispering her story to me. I literally cannot stop writing. It’s like being high on drugs.”

Rawlings arched a brow. “Oh? Is that something you’ve personally experienced?”

“No!” Laurel cried in horror and then realized the chief was joking. “I know I just dropped this on all of you with no warning, but I wanted this chapter to be read without any preconceptions. So I’m ready now. Fire away!”

Millay volunteered to go first. “I totally thought this woman was going to be some whiny Stepford wife, and I guess, on the surface, she is. She’s got the tan and the toned bod and the French manicure, but I felt sorry for her when I read about all the things she did to make herself more attractive to her husband. I was, to my own surprise, rooting for her.”

“You did an incredible job describing the scene where she gets Botox.” Harris gave a little shiver. “I hate needles. And the way she just sits there—thinking about how good she’ll look without those lines on her forehead and around her mouth while the doc sticks her again and again—I kind of wanted to shake her and tell her she didn’t have to go through that.”

The group of writers began to argue vociferously over whether The Wife had been wasting time and money trying to improve her physical appearance, since her husband didn’t seem to notice anything she did.

“You’re forgetting that she also attempts to become a better person on the inside,” Olivia said. “She begins volunteering at the hospital. She bakes meals for the employees at her husband’s company that have had babies or fallen ill. She reads dozens of biographies about strong and powerful women.
That’s
what saved her as a character in my eyes. She wants to be the whole package. She is deeper than she appears.”

Rawlings threw up his hands. “But she wants to be Wonder Woman and that’s ridiculous. Impossible.”

Everyone began talking at once. This was unusual, as the writers were careful never to interrupt one another. Olivia wondered if the afternoon’s physical labor coupled with several beers had produced this chaotic atmosphere. She glanced over at Laurel and saw her friend smiling with happiness.

Eventually, the rest of the group noticed her expression and fell silent, gazing at her inquisitively.

“It doesn’t bother you that we want to push this woman off a bridge half the time?” Millay asked.

“Not at all,” Laurel replied. “She’s evoked emotion in you in a way the duchess never did. I’m thrilled.”

Rawlings reviewed the notes on his paper. “An excellent point, but I think you need to revamp your title.
Lessons for Ever After
doesn’t seem to reflect the complexity of The Wife’s character.”

Olivia agreed. She’d made a note about the title as well. “You may need to wait until your story develops further before deciding what to call this book. We already know from reading one chapter that The Wife must figure out what makes
her
fulfilled, with or without the husband, and that she needs to redefine her definition of happily ever after.” She scanned over the pages in her hand. “Don’t get too caught up in the fairy-tale theme,” Olivia cautioned. “I sense this romance is going to have more depth than your previous project. It might turn into more of a Chick-lit romance if you use too many Cinderella elements.”

Laurel nodded in agreement and then Harris pointed out bits of unclear dialogue. Millay finished the critique by voicing reservations about Laurel’s word choice in the final paragraph, but overall, it was clear that the Bayside Book Writers were impressed by her new project.

“You’re on the chopping block next week,” Millay informed Olivia after examining her day planner. “It’ll be nice to be back in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. I like your choice of booze better.”

Olivia gestured at the pair of empty bottles at Millay’s feet. “You didn’t seem to suffer. Besides, you’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

“And what about you, Chief?” Millay’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You going to wash down that Coors with a chocolate milk chaser?”

Rawlings, who was known to have a penchant for chocolate milk, gave Millay a wink. “You should get in at least three servings of dairy per day. It’s never too late to protect yourself against bone loss.”

Millay threw one of the sofa cushions at him.

Harris rose, banged his pen on the neck of his beer bottle, and cleared his throat. “I have a strange and wonderful announcement.”

“Estelle is knocked up and you’re eloping to Vegas?” Millay interrupted. Rawlings returned fire with the pillow and gestured for Harris to continue.

“Thanks, Sawyer.” Even after months of having the chief as a critique partner, Harris always looked pleased to be able to address the policeman by his first name. “You’ll never believe it, but I met Nick Plumley yesterday.
The
Nick Plumley. Right in front of my house.” He beamed. “Man, that feels so good to say. My house.”

Olivia frowned. The bestselling author had failed to buy the bungalow, but he was clearly still interested in it. “What was he doing here?”

“Said he’d been doing research for the sequel to
The Barbed Wire Flower
and came across a newspaper article describing how all the houses on Oleander Drive had been relocated. I told you guys about that earlier, but what I didn’t know was that one of the trucks broke down in the middle of Main Street on a Sunday. A local minister with initiative blessed the house and held an impromptu service inside.” Harris smiled. “It wasn’t my house though. Plumley came inside and looked around but said the floor plan didn’t match the description in the newspaper. He’s lucky he caught me. I was only here because I’d come over to meet the cable guys.”

Nick Plumley’s motive to see the inside of Harris’s house sounded plausible, but something in Olivia’s gut told her that there was more to it than research. For some reason she could not fathom, the writer had a connection to this house. It was important to him. Because it could enable him to pen another excellent novel? Perhaps. But would he decide to purchase the property just to be able to study the interior? Olivia didn’t think so. Nick might be wealthy, but he didn’t seem like a compulsive spender. When she’d met him at the diner, he’d been dressed in khaki trousers and a white button-down. His shoes and watch were of good quality, but neither was especially costly.

Even his soft briefcase was modest and similar to the one Rawlings carried. It had the worn suppleness of those toted around by professors, not millionaires. Yet Nick had wanted to buy this house instead of continuing the lease on the spectacular beachfront property near Olivia’s place. She wondered if he was still a mile down the road or if he’d bought another home. Dixie hadn’t seen him at the diner for the last two weeks, and Olivia’s feisty friend had pretended to be extremely offended that Oyster Bay’s newest celebrity had eschewed Grumpy’s in favor of other eateries.

“Are you certain he’s defected?” Olivia had asked, amused.

Dixie didn’t even crack a smile. “He’s been at Bagels’n’ Beans every single day. Even if he doesn’t like eggs or pancakes, there’s still Grumpy’s lunch menu! I can’t stand the thought that he didn’t like our club sandwich. Who makes a better one, I’d like to know!”

Olivia had tried to assure her flustered friend that there wasn’t a restaurant within two hundred miles that could top Grumpy’s “mile-high club sandwich,” but Dixie was not to be consoled.

Except for the fact that Flynn McNulty had created an entire window display at Through the Wardrobe featuring signed copies of Nick’s book, no one in Oyster Bay had called attention to the writer’s presence. This in itself was an oddity. Normally, a rich, handsome, and unattached celebrity would have had the gossip chain on red alert, but even though he’d been in town for several weeks already, Nick had kept such a low profile that Olivia had nearly forgotten about him.

After all, she was a busy woman. Between preparing for the grand opening of The Bayside Crab House, outlining the next chapter in her novel, and adjusting to the existence of her new family, Olivia hadn’t had time to dwell on Nick Plumley.

“Wait, there’s more to this story!” Harris declared exuberantly. “When Plumley heard I was an aspiring writer, he actually offered to read my work in progress. He said that he loves science fiction and has always admired authors of the genre. He’s going to swing by on Tuesday to pick up my manuscript.” Glancing around at the scores of unpacked boxes, Harris’s eyes took on a frantic look. “I totally have to get my computer and printer hooked up.”

Laurel’s mouth had formed a perfect
O
of surprise. “Harris, this is
wonderful
! I’d heard that Mr. Plumley was in town, but I still haven’t laid eyes on him. Do you think he’ll give you feedback?”

Harris tried to look modest. “Yeah, I do. In fact, he said he’d love to attend one of our meetings if we were willing to have him.”

“Seriously?” Millay asked. “Why would he want to do that? He’s already made it.”

“Maybe he wants to share his knowledge of the publishing process with us,” Laurel suggested. “Maybe he wants to pay it forward.”

Rawlings crossed his arms over his chest, as though pondering what it would be like to receive constructive criticism from the famous author. “I wouldn’t say no to an offer of assistance from Mr. Plumley. I truly admire his work and would enjoy hearing the story of his success.”

“That’s three votes for him,” Harris stated, raising the fingers of his right hand in front of Millay’s face. “Your book is closest to being ready for publication. I bet Plumley could tell you a thing or two about finding a literary agent.”

Millay gazed dreamily at her writing journal. “I do have a
ton
of questions about the querying process, so it’s fine with me if Oyster Bay’s own Dan Brown wants to hang out. Let’s see what he can do for us.” She turned to Olivia. “Does this mean you’ll be breaking out caviar and the top-shelf liquor?”

Olivia wasn’t pleased. “We’re not changing a thing for Nick Plumley’s visit. Personally, I don’t care for the idea of him being there for the critique of my chapter, but I guess I’ll deal with it, as everyone else wants to extend him an invitation.”

Having come to a decision, the group broke up. Millay left for her shift at Fish Nets, Rawlings needed to swing by the station to sign paperwork, and Laurel had to be home in time to bathe the twins and put them to bed.

Even after taking Haviland outside for a brisk walk down Oleander Drive, Olivia felt restless. She could go home, change clothes, and get to The Boot Top in time for the evening rush, but she was reluctant to leave Harris’s house. She wanted to know why Nick Plumley found the modest bungalow so intriguing.

“I need to do a little snooping,” she told Haviland. “You’ll have to wait another hour for dinner. I’m going to offer to help Harris unpack some boxes and see if the house wants to whisper a clue in my ear.”

Harris was delighted to accept her offer. “Could you set up the kitchen? Not to sound old-fashioned, but women have a better sense of where stuff should go in that room.”

“I doubt Michel would agree with that statement,” Olivia remarked with a laugh and got busy putting away dishes, pots, and pans, and Harris’s odd collection of flatware and cooking utensils.

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was dated. It desperately needed new flooring and a fresh coat of paint, but the cabinets were solid, and Harris had done his best to clean them. The entire room was redolent with the smell of bleach.

When she was done setting up the room, she began to make a mental list of all the changes that would have to be made to freshen up the space. She hadn’t bought Harris a house-warming gift but decided on the spot to splurge and hire one of the men from Clyde’s team to rip up the worn and discolored linoleum and replace it with tile.

She wandered around the rest of the downstairs but found nothing unusual in the coat or broom closets and didn’t feel she had cause to be poking around upstairs. Harris, who was putting clothes in the chest of drawers in his bedroom, might find it odd to discover her jumping up and down on the floorboards in the attic. After scrutinizing the paneling in the living room for a final time, she gave up. Haviland hadn’t picked up any alarming scents either, and the house felt as it had each time she’d visited: solid and dependable.

Thoroughly tired now, Olivia wished Harris good night and stepped out into the warm evening. Casting a backward glance at the illuminated bungalow, Olivia decided she was going to have to investigate any and all public documents pertaining to its history. As Clyde had said, all houses had secrets.

“Yours might be well hidden,” Olivia addressed the timeworn facade. “But I will discover it.”

—WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

 

 

 

 

 

T
he following Monday Olivia began her search into the history of Harris’s house at the offices of the
Oyster Bay Gazette.
She could have just asked Laurel to look into the matter, as her friend wrote for the paper, but Laurel had enough to juggle as it was.

The receptionist at the
Gazette
listened politely to Olivia’s request to root through the paper’s archives but was quick to offer her an alternative to spending hours going through decades’ worth of dusty tomes. “You should just talk to Mrs. Fairchild over at the library. She’s lived here forever and has a larger memory capacity than my computer. If your research has anything to do with this town or its residents, she’s the person to see.” She shook her head. “Wow, I’m having a major case of déjà vu. I made the same suggestion to that good-looking author, Nick Plumley, last month.”