The Last Word (5 page)

Gabe acknowledged the praise with a smile and pointed at the brass clock in the shape of a ship’s wheel. He then set a tumbler filled with irregular-shaped ice cubes and two fingers’ worth of Chivas Regal Reserve on a napkin. “She’s a neat kid. Doesn’t say much, but you can tell she’s smart.” He poured a blend of tropical juices over ice in a highball glass and then added a splash of lemon-lime soda. “That’s for the other lady. Is she your . . . ?”

“Sister-in-law,” Olivia replied. “Hudson is my half brother. I didn’t even know he existed until this fall.”

Gabe paused in the act of polishing the spotless bar. “Whoa. And he’s going to move here?”

Olivia nodded and took a large sip of her drink.

Obviously sensing his employer’s reticence to elaborate on her newfound family, Gabe continued with his prep work. But after she’d collected Kim’s drink and turned toward the kitchen, he looked up from the dish he was filling with green olives and said, “It’s probably going to be weird for a while, but I’m glad you found each other. Family keeps you anchored, you know? Like the boats out that window. Even in a strong wind, they won’t be set adrift.”

Olivia was tempted to give Gabe a snide retort about bartender wisdom but knew that he meant well. She acknowledged his statement with a dip of her chin and returned to the kitchen.

Michel had just left the office, and Caitlyn was once again buried in the folds of her mother’s sundress.

“Why are you acting like this, honey?” Olivia heard Kim ask.

“I don’t like that man,” Caitlyn murmured, her voice trembling.

Kim stroked her daughter’s hair, but she didn’t look concerned. “Sweetie, he just looked scary using those big, sharp knives. But Daddy has the same ones at home. It doesn’t mean they’re going to hurt anyone. It’s just a tool, like how a barber uses scissors.”

Caitlyn scooted away, her eyes flashing. “I’m
not
scared of knives. I just don’t like him.”

Clearing her throat, Olivia entered the office and handed Kim her drink. She looked at Caitlyn. “Why does he scare you?” she asked very gently.

Perhaps because an adult was taking her seriously, Caitlyn answered right away. “He’s got a secret. I can tell.”

Olivia nodded. “He probably does. Most people have secrets, I think.”

Caitlyn was silent for so long that Olivia doubted she’d answer, but the little girl finally murmured, “Like Betty did. I knew she wrote you that letter. The one she sent when Grandpa got too sick to come downstairs anymore. Mom told me. She said that’s why we met you.”

Taking an involuntary step backward, Olivia recalled the mixture of anger and anguish she’d felt after reading the anonymous letter. The claim that her father was still alive coupled with the demand for one thousand dollars in cash for more information had filled her with fury. Even now, a fresh wave of hostility toward her father’s longtime friend and nurse swept over her at the memory.

Kim looked down at the floor, discomfited by the topic, but Caitlyn moved forward and took hold of Olivia’s hand. “But I’m glad she wrote it, because my daddy found a sister,” she whispered and then immediately retreated to the floor and buried her small fingers in Haviland’s fur.

After the Salters left, Olivia stood in the doorway of her office, studying Michel’s face as he shoved a live lobster deep into a pot of boiling water.

Nothing struck her as being amiss.

But I’ve been wrong before,
Olivia thought and returned to the bar for a refill.

—VIRGINIA WOOLF

 

 

 

 

O
livia came home from an exhilarating inspection of the refurbished harborside warehouse that would soon become The Bayside Crab House and brewed a pot of strong coffee. Carrying the coffee and a white chocolate chip biscotti to her desk overlooking the ocean, she printed out Laurel’s chapter, uncapped the green pen Harris had given each of the writers to use for critiques, and began to read.

Olivia put down her pen, too stunned to make a single mark on Laurel’s paper.

“What is this?” she asked, flipping to the next page and skimming over the lines. “What happened to the duchess? She was falling for the highwayman. He was on his way to collect the ransom from the duke. Laurel had set up an ambush. This is supposed to be the ambush scene!”

Reaching for her computer mouse, she clicked on Laurel’s e-mail. Olivia hadn’t bothered to read her friend’s note. Too interested in seeing what would befall the rakish highwayman, she’d just opened the file and printed out the chapter. Now she carefully read Laurel’s note.

 

Olivia sat back in her chair and took a bite of biscotti. Laurel had written over one hundred pages in her historical romance and now she was just going to stick it in a drawer and begin a new project? The decision took courage, Olivia knew, but she wondered if something else hadn’t prompted the change. Was the passage she’d read an autobiographical account of Laurel’s marriage to Steve? Olivia truly hoped not.

“I can’t read into it like that,” she admonished herself out loud and handed Haviland an organic dog treat from the jar on her desk. “That’s not my job as a critique partner.”

It didn’t take long for Olivia to finish a run-through of the chapter. She was surprised to find that it was much stronger than Laurel’s previous work. She made a note below the last line that she’d never sensed the presence of voice in the historical romance, but that this woman’s voice, whom Laurel refers to only as “The Wife,” was both vibrant and authentic. The duchess was self-serving and often shallow, but Laurel’s new protagonist was an interesting blend of self-doubt and pluck. She was sympathetic and multidimensional, and Laurel’s switch to first-person succeeded in drawing in the reader.

“I can’t wait to see what the rest of the group makes of this new chapter,” Olivia said to Haviland and drained her coffee cup.

Unfortunately, it was two weeks before the Bayside Book Writers were able to meet again. The sellers had officially accepted Harris’s offer, and the closing went through without a hitch. Clearly Millicent Banks had gotten the job done. It had been decided to postpone the next meeting until moving day. They’d all promised to help Harris cart boxes and small pieces of furniture from his old apartment to his new house on Oleander Drive.

Whether Nick Plumley had made any attempt to contact the sellers, Olivia didn’t know, but she’d seen Millicent at the grocery store, showing off her new Chanel purse to a group of admirers gathered around the deli counter.

Despite overcast skies and the fact that the day would be spent hauling things from one residence to another, Harris couldn’t stop smiling. Upon seeing Olivia standing in his living room, he greeted her with an exuberant embrace and then shook Haviland’s paw. The poodle quickly disengaged and jogged off to explore the apartment. With the knickknacks boxed and the furniture piled in the center of each room, there was an array of exposed scents waiting to be investigated.

Harris had secured the aid of two coworkers by bribing them with promises of pizza and beer in exchange for helping him move the bed, sofa, and kitchen table. The congenial software developers made several trips in a commercial-sized pickup, sparing the Bayside Book Writers from having to manhandle the massive leather sectional or the heavy oak coffee table.

However, they were all sore, sweaty, and tired by the time the last box had been carried across the bungalow’s threshold. Olivia sank down on the sofa while Millay perched on the coffee table, surveying the haphazard arrangement of furniture and accessories.

“Where’s Little Administrative Assistant?” she asked Harris. “Isn’t it the girlfriend’s job to help haul her lover boy’s crap when he moves? This is, like, a
major
Kodak moment. A freaking milestone. How can she miss it?”

Harris blushed and turned away from Millay’s sharp stare. “Estelle volunteers at a senior center on Saturdays. She would have been here if she didn’t have another commitment.”

“How sweet of her!” Laurel quickly exclaimed. “And I’m sorry I arrived so late to the moving party. The twins are going through this biting phase, and I’m afraid Dermot sank his teeth into my father-in-law’s thigh and hung on like a little bulldog.”

Rawlings and Harris hooted with laughter.

Millay nodded her head with approval. “A pint-sized vampire. Way to go, Dermot.”

“The in-laws don’t think he’s so cute at the moment,” Laurel answered with a giggle. “And Steve tried to make it seem like Dermot’s bad behavior was
my
fault for not being by his side every second of the day. I told them Maddie Jackson is still biting people and she’s old enough to wear a training bra!”

Harris’s house was filled with the sounds of mirth.

Later, over six-packs of cold beer and several large ham and pineapple pies from Pizza Bay, Harris’s friends toasted his new home.

The coworkers took off with the leftover food, but only after pausing at the doorway to haze Harris about spending Saturday night with his book club.

Millay was on her feet in a flash. “It’s not a book club, nerds. We’re a
writers’
group. We
write
books. Book clubs discuss someone else’s published works. You just wait.” She pointed a finger at their chests while slinging her free arm around Harris. “One day, this übergeek is going to be signing his book for packs of hormone-crazed hotties. And what’ll you clowns be doing? Playing online video games with some twelve-year-old in Albuquerque?”

Instead of being offended, the young men were delighted by Millay’s sauciness. “Now we see the benefits of this group. You’ve got sweet Millay on Saturday and Estelle Sunday through Friday. We didn’t know you were such a player, dude!” They took turns exchanging high-fives with a dumbstruck Harris.

Harris pushed them onto the porch just as Millay lunged forward, her eyes flashing. Amused, Rawlings mollified the lovely bartender by handing her a fresh beer. He raised his own bottle in salute.

“If you ever consider a job in law enforcement, come talk to me. You could scare the good back into half the town’s criminals.”

Millay grinned, her face relaxing as she took a sip of beer. Twirling a strand of her glossy black hair, which was dyed fuchsia at the tips, she walked back to her spot on the coffee table, giving Laurel a squeeze on the arm in passing. “Let’s get down to it. Mama’s got a brand-new bag.”

Harris dug around in a nearby box until he found a file folder from which he pulled out Laurel’s chapter. “Is it okay to ask why you ditched the duchess?”

Laurel had clearly been anticipating this question. “The more I worked on that book, the less sincere it felt. With every paragraph, I was struggling to place myself in her shoes. The scenes felt forced and then, one day, I realized I didn’t even like her.”

“You could have gone back and edited her,” Rawlings pointed out.

“Sure,” Laurel agreed. “But it was too late. She is who she is. I just got to this point where I didn’t care what happened to her and so how could I expect a reader to care?” She pointed at the pages in Harris’s hands. “But
this
woman! She leapt from my mind like, um, who was the Greek goddess who was born fully matured?”