Misery Loves Company Page 8

  “I’m only doing this for Jason.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Chris slid his phone back into his pocket and walked out of the office, quietly closing the doors behind him, but not before glimpsing one more time the sea of white madness that covered what in all other respects seemed to be a very tidy study. Maybe this wasn’t a clue to what happened to Jules, but it certainly pointed to the man’s state of mind. And whoever Blake Timble was, he ought to watch out.

  “What are you doing?” Jules looked up at Patrick as he stood over her. “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

  “It’s called The Living End.”

  “I don’t care what it’s called. It’s cruel.”

  “It’s necessary.” He peered sharply at her.

  “I don’t want to read a scene about how my husband . . .”

  “You think this is about your husband?”

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence, no.” She glared at him. “Did you have something to do with his death? Is that what this is all about?”

  He walked away from the table for a moment, pacing a bit and seemingly distracted from the tense conversation they were engaged in. He was rubbing his brow furiously and mumbling to himself.

  “Speak up,” Jules growled. “I can’t hear you.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “That’s because you are not listening. You believe you know, but you don’t. You don’t know anything!”

  “Then why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “Because you’re obtuse! All of your generation is obtuse! Unwilling to scrape at the bottom to find deeply buried truths. You want to scratch the surface of everything you write about. You want to merely play, tickle a feather across the parched and cracked land and call it observation.”

  Jules wiped her eyes, vaguely aware that there were still tears in them. His nonsense was beginning to terrify her.

  “And they call you brilliant. Brilliant! All of you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Jules clutched the edge of the table.

  “Do you not think that I understand what they’re trying to tell me? They send me a manuscript, ask for my blessing. ‘It’s won this award and that award,’ they declare. They want an endorsement, but what they are really trying to impart to me is the idea that I’ve become irrelevant. But truth is never irrelevant. And these new, celebrated young writers who break all the rules and write with some perceived wizardry or magic undertones are celebrated. Celebrated! They’re hacks. Blake Timble is a hack!”

  Jules froze as the words spewed out of his mouth. His face turned red and his eyes narrowed, slicing back and forth between each breath he took.

  “This is the fluff that the publishing world wants now?” he continued. “This is asking a lot of questions and solving nothing. This is pretending to be relevant when in reality, it’s only smoke and mirrors. Blake Timble cannot go where he needs to go to make his book what it needs to be.” Then, as though he’d suddenly been bathed in some kind of sedative, Patrick seemed to realize he was ranting. He glanced at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. His hand ran across his chest like he was making sure he still had a heartbeat. The other hand pulled at an earlobe, what appeared to be a nervous habit. But he seemed to have resolved inside of himself that he should calm down.

  He cleared his throat. “You will take those pages, and you will read them in your room. You may come out when you are finished, and we shall discuss them like two civilized human beings. Understood?”

  Jules stared at the stark paper on the table. “This hurts,” she said. “You’re hurting me. Do you get that?”

  Patrick nodded. “You have a lot to learn, Juliet. And learning is painful. Pain is the greatest teacher. We learn that the first time we reach our little hands up to touch a hot stove. You cannot come to any real conclusions without suffering. I truly believe that. It’s just that many people are not strong enough to endure. But you’re strong enough.”

  Jules was trying to decide whether she was hearing a compliment or a threat.

  “I see brilliance in you,” he said as tenderly as if she were a baby rabbit sitting in his cupped hands. “And you must believe me when I say this is for your own good.” He waved his finger in the air. “I sense talent in you. I see heart. I feel your soul but, right now, only its edge.”

  Jules clutched the pages. “I don’t want to read these.”

  “I will call you when dinner is ready.” He nodded toward the bedroom. “Don’t go in there and pout and feel sorry for yourself. Learn, Juliet. Learn the power of the gift. We will discuss it all over dinner, more matter-of-factly than now, as I understand you’re still in shock.” He shooed her with his hands. “You will find a red pen in the drawer next to the bed. Use it wisely. Find my weak points, but more importantly, find yours.”

  Long hours passed and shadows shifted across the room. Jules guessed it had been five hours but was not sure. Outside her room, she could hear him in the kitchen.

  She knew she looked a wreck. But it had been grueling hours of reading and rereading, trying to figure out what he wanted from her. Surely he wasn’t just after a critique partner.

  At first she’d circled a thing or two with the red pen, written some rudimentary notes, but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d lain on the bed, her arms and legs stretched out like she was in the middle of a jumping jack, staring at the message on the ceiling that had fulfilled its promise. She loathed the day she wrote those words.

  After a short nap and another crying session, she decided to try to tackle the pages without being emotionally tied to the scene. It involved a police officer named Kurt who was shot multiple times as he was investigating some kind of theft ring. His partner, Jake, had tried to save his life that night by administering CPR. The scene was written in vivid detail, with Kurt gurgling blood as Jake tried to listen to his last request, Jake begging him to hold on while trying to protect them both from an enemy that was hiding in the dark, perhaps poised to strike again.

  It was vintage Patrick Reagan, but so much of it mirrored what happened to Jason that she was having a hard time concentrating on the task at hand. And truthfully, she didn’t really know what the task at hand was.

  Was he trying to tell her he wanted an honest review, that he had a thick enough skin? That was hard to believe, considering his rants. He seemed to be telling her that he wanted her to know something, but like a good suspense novel, he kept only small clues coming. What did Patrick Reagan know?

  He spoke in weird riddles. He wanted her to find her weak spots? She was clutching it in her hands. Jason’s death would forever be a weak spot, a place where she could easily be broken time and time again. But she suspected the author in the other room already knew that.

  “Dinner is served,” she heard him say formally from outside her door. The shadows from the day were long gone and darkness had settled outside. And inside as well.

  “ADDY, YOU ARE out of this world,” Maecoat moaned as he leaned over his soup bowl.

  “You mean the soup is out of this world?” Chris asked from the other side of the dining table. In the kitchen, Addy smiled.

  “What did I say?” Maecoat asked.

  “Whatever’s on your mind,” Chris growled.

  Maecoat flashed a grin at Addy. “You really are a spectacular cook.”

  “Thank you, Greg,” she said, bringing her bowl to the table and joining them.

  Maecoat pointed his spoon toward Chris. “Is he always such great company at dinner?”

  Addy cocked an eyebrow at Chris. “Usually a little livelier. Something on your mind, Brother?”

  “Just . . . trying to figure out this Jules case. There’re so many unanswered questions.”

  “The good thing,” Addy said, “is that there is no sign that harm has come to her. That’s good, right? In the police world?”

  “An optimist. I like that,” Maecoat said.

  “Since when?” Chris said.

  �
��Since riding with you, grumpy.”

  Chris sighed. “I know. Sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Even Addy’s world-famous chowder didn’t sound appetizing. He looked up at them. “The captain is sending me to New York tomorrow. With Detective Walker. We tried to get it set up for this afternoon, but they had to schedule it for Saturday.”

  Maecoat sat up straighter. “Seriously? Why?”

  “I presented him with this idea about Reagan. He seemed at least somewhat intrigued.”

  “That’s surprising. The captain doesn’t seem intrigued with much these days, except making our ticket quota and budget.”

  “Honestly, I was surprised at how seriously he took me. I mean, he asked the usual question—how was I doing and all that—but as far-fetched as the theory sounded, he actually seemed to think I was onto something.”

  “What’s in New York?” Addy asked.

  “Reagan’s editor and agent.”

  Maecoat asked, “So what’s going to happen? You’re going to go in and ask his editor if he’s involved in some disappearance of a lady they’ve never heard of?”

  “I guess. I’ll let Walker take the lead.” Chris set his spoon down and leaned back. “I just can’t believe that he was spotted in town, which never happens in the winter, on the same day Jules wrote a bad review of his book. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? The same grocery store? At the same time?”

  “Weirder things have happened, like how this soup magically disappeared in this bowl here. Seconds, Addy?” Maecoat held up his bowl.

  Addy smiled graciously. “Sure.” She rose and went to the stove. “I read her blog last night. I wanted to get a feel for what you were talking about.”

  “And?” Chris asked.

  “And I think that she’s a very sad woman. You have to kind of read below the surface, but she’s crying out in her loneliness. She’s heartbroken in every way.”

  “How’d you come up with that?”

  “I guess you have to be a woman—”

  “—which you are,” Maecoat inserted cheerfully.

  “Shut it, Maecoat,” Chris said. “Go on, Addy. What do you mean?”

  “I mean that she’s trying to reach out to the world while keeping herself fully protected inside her home. She doesn’t know where to turn to help her anguish.”

  “You gleaned all that from lighthouses and the history of that famous poet?”

  “Sure. The poem she quoted from Freezan was about whether the perils of life are worth the risk of love. And the lighthouses. It was obvious how she paralleled their existence to her own—a single light shining against a dark harbor.”

  Maecoat looked impressed. “What were you? A genius major?”

  “You’re getting pathetic now,” Chris said.

  “Hey, it’s getting me more soup. I’ll go real pathetic for chowder.”

  “I was an English minor.” Addy shrugged. “So maybe that’s how I read. Maybe I see metaphors in everything.”

  “You read any of Patrick Reagan’s stuff?” Maecoat asked.

  “Not lately. I did a few years ago. I’m not into the genre, though.”

  “When you were reading Jules’s blog, do you remember her ever mentioning a writer named Blake Timble?”

  “No. Who is that?”

  “Nobody,” Chris sighed. “Just another random clue that is leading nowhere.”

  “Maybe you’ll find something tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So,” Maecoat said as Addy returned to the table with his bowl, “who is up for a nice warm fire and long conversations into the night?”

  Chris hunched over his soup bowl and ate in silence.

  Dinner first, Patrick had insisted. Then they could talk. The food was nice. A seared chicken breast and roasted winter vegetables under generous amounts of gouda, all between sourdough. It was simple and elegant and under any other circumstance would’ve been delightful.

  They chatted mildly, mostly about him. He talked about the places he’d been to research his novels, the famous people—including two presidents—that he’d met over the years. It was as if he was trying to impress her, which seemed ridiculous. She’d already been impressed with him over the years. He had to know that if he’d read anything other than the last two, maybe three, reviews of his books.

  There was a candle lit between them, a short, fat one that made it seem like they’d stepped back into the nineteenth century. The warmth and flickering of the candle set Jules at ease. For the moment, she was pretty sure Patrick wasn’t going to murder her. The glowing amber light washed over his face, softening his features. But something kept telling her to stay on guard. Maybe it was Jason.

  As dinner wound down, she decided to make herself useful. She went to the kitchen to start cleaning the dishes.

  “Your notes? Written on the page?” Patrick pointed to the white paper waiting on the table near where she’d sat.

  “Yes,” Jules said, barely above a whisper.

  “Hm.”

  She turned her back to him, thankful for the distraction of washing the dishes. She didn’t think she could bear watching him read her notes. She’d tried to think like an editor would and been glad for a few typos, just for something to circle. He’d given her only one scene, so it was hard to understand the whole context. And it was still hard to understand why he’d written something similar to her husband’s murder.

  After a few minutes Patrick simply said, “Good thoughts.”

  Then he came to the sink and dried while she washed. She wanted to watch him, figure out what was making him tick. But instead she dutifully washed and he dutifully dried, like they were some old married couple in a routine they both knew.

  After he finished drying the last dish, he grabbed a bottle of wine that sat on the counter. “Care for any?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. Good for the heart, though.” He took a glass, held it between two fingers, and poured gently. “In more ways than one.” He walked to the living area, sitting himself down and staring into the fireless fireplace.

  There was nothing left to do in the kitchen, but Jules wasn’t sure she wanted to be near him. She still had no concept of time. What she wouldn’t give for a clock or a watch with a working battery!

  She decided to join him in the living room. It was cozy, with afghans and plush pillows. Architecture magazines were neatly spread across a coffee table that was formed out of a large tree stump. A few logs sat next to the fireplace. The room smelled like pine. But with the sun set, the cabin was even colder. She took one of the afghans and spread it over her legs as she sat down.

  “It’s awfully cold in here,” she said. “Why not light a fire? That’s such a lovely stone fireplace.”

  “It was. Yes, it was,” he said quietly.

  A few minutes passed. He’d sip his wine, swallow it slowly, stare into the air.

  “Patrick,” Jules finally said. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “But I don’t want to be here.”

  “It’s because you don’t yet understand.” He sighed and set his wineglass down, turning his attention to her. “Do you think I am in the sagging middle?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He just stared at her.

  “What is the ‘sagging middle’?”

  “I thought you would know such a thing,” he said, looking away and returning to his wine.

  “Obviously you have a lot to teach me,” Jules offered with a small smile.

  He seemed to want to oblige. “The sagging middle usually happens around chapter 17. Somewhere within the second act. It is the most difficult area for the writer to wade through. The beginning is easy. Your task is to set everything up. To introduce all the characters. The end can pose challenges, most especially if you’ve written your character into a corner, but that makes it that much more fun to try to resolve. But the sagging middle . . . that’s where
your subplot runs out and your characters have shown all their cards. Where you must rise up out of the ashes or you will lose your reader.”

  Jules nodded. “I see now.”

  “No. Not everything. Not yet.” He leaned back more comfortably in his chair. “There are some who say I’m in the sagging middle of my career. My own personal chapter 17. What do you say?”

  Jules kind of wished for that glass of wine now. “The last thing I said got me into a lot of trouble, so maybe I’d do well to keep my mouth shut.”

  He smiled at her. Not the warmest of smiles, but an acknowledgment of her wit, she guessed. “You’re here now, with me, so you might as well get it all off your chest.”

  “This conversation lends itself to a nice fire.”

  “It stays unlit,” he said tersely.

  “Fine. But your ‘guest’ is freezing cold, so you should at least acknowledge that. To get back to the subject at hand, you know that I am a big fan of yours, if you’ve read anything I’ve written at all.”

  He nodded slightly while gazing at the fireplace.

  “True, I haven’t cared for your last three books. The last two in particular. So what? Plenty of people have liked them. Obviously. You remain on the bestseller list. What does my opinion matter to you?”

  “I suppose it matters because I believe you have great insight into my work. You always have. I’ve appreciated that, you know,” he said, glancing slightly at her. “With the invention of the Internet, any hack can type out his opinion, with no thought to what he’s doing or saying. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve read the book at all. They cheapen our world, our offerings, by their ignorance. An opinion not steeped in wisdom and intelligence is worthless. But you . . . were different.”

  Jules swallowed, hoping not to say the wrong thing. She’d once read that he never read his reviews. But here he was, confessing to it. “Thank you. It was easy because you always drew me in deeply to your stories.”

  “I’d say you’re just trying to flatter me, except I know it’s true. You’ve said so for years.”

  Jules nodded and smiled at him. Something about him made her want to make him feel okay. For years, she’d imagined him as a man completely in control of his world. A man who rose above everything and everyone else. But now, as he sat in his chair with his glass of wine and his empty fireplace, she was sensing something much different about him.