Between the Pages: A Novel (4 page)

“Shit, Hannah. I didn’t see you there.” I clutch my chest. She saunters over to me slowly.

“That’s Emerson Whittaker?” She says it interrogatingly. I assume she means because he’s so handsome. I nod. “One, that man’s a sexy beast, and two, you’re already smitten.” She places her hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to challenge her.

My cheeks redden. “No. It’s not like that.”

“You’re such a chicken-shit liar. You were grinning like a crazy person.”

“He’s funny,” I exclaim, grabbing a pillow from my bed and throwing it at her. “I smile when you’re funny, too.”

She giggles and throws her hands up in the air. “Not like that. You’re acting mighty defensive. But I digress.” She watches me for a second, as if she just learned something new about me. Her scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I shift my stance. “You hungry? Geoff wants to get Pho, and I’m inviting you.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I
won’t
miss being the third wheel on your dates. And I’m sure Geoff won’t either.”

“You’re not a third wheel,” Hannah says, turning to leave. “We’re attached at the hip, so technically we’re conjoined fraternal twins. One person. Be ready in five.” She closes the door behind her, and I look around my room.

I like my room—I’m proud of the simplicity and efficiency, and the neutral colors. My walls are a light blue and the furniture is white. Hannah and I scored our matching vintage, white desks at a thrift store when we first moved in, and the white iron bed frame is a hand-me-down from Hannah’s cousin’s best friend. Over the years, the room has accumulated things I’ve come to love. Floral-scented candles adorn many of the shelves, and quotes from my favorite books are taped onto the walls. One of Emerson’s quotes is up there.

You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires.

It’s from his first book—my favorite. I take it down from the wall and tuck it into a pocket in my wallet.

I glance around at my surroundings. My eyes go to the one picture on my white dresser. Chloe’s shining face smiles back at me, her blonde hair wavy from being in the ocean water. I took the picture one summer at our beach house. Her light eyes are fading—it’s an old picture, printed on a piece of computer paper a long time ago. I don’t even remember when.

I wish I could tell her about Emerson. I wish I could tell her a lot of things. Big sisters are supposed to be your sounding board. You’re supposed to ask them about men, makeup, weird things you can throw together to eat when you’re poor. I know Chloe would’ve had great advice for all of those things.

Nostalgia washing through me, I pick up my phone and draft a text to my mom. I edit and re-edit the same two sentences over and over. Finally, I decide on something.

I don’t know why I’m texting you. But sometimes I need my mom.

I decide to delete it. There’s no point. Besides, it’s not her who decided to forego communication. It was me. I have no right to start up a conversation, not when I’ve gone over four years without a word. I close my message app and throw my phone onto my bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Emerson

After I hang up with Finley, I walk into my house, leaving the back porch door open. It’s rare that sunshine inspires me, but it’s June, the sun is shining, and why the fuck not? I hop in the shower and rinse off quickly. After I’m done, I make another cup of coffee. I carry my laptop to the table on the deck overlooking the ocean.

I open the outline document I’ve been working on for months. Now that Finley has agreed to write for me, I’m feeling hesitant to share everything—especially chapters 23–25. I highlight the large chunk of text, debating whether or not to delete it.

I decide to keep it.

Besides, if I didn’t include those chapters, I wouldn’t be telling an honest story. And I would be leaving out a very important part of my life—perhaps
the
most important part of my life.

I do make some final tweaks here and there. It’s a lot of information, and I’m not sure how she’ll react. A lot of people can say they’ve had a crazy life, and I’m definitely one of them. Embarrassment creeps up my neck as I realize Finley will know so much about me—a pretty, young girl will carry my many secrets. Is that what I want? Especially from Finley Matthews? I’m not so sure anymore. I was
so
sure I wanted to do this.

And then I met her. Formally, at least.

Bright, attractive, effervescent. Three words to describe her. Maybe it’ll be a good thing. Maybe she’ll fuel her talent into me. Maybe she could even be my muse—Lord knows I’ve done it before. I think of her long, blonde hair; her petite, athletic-looking body; and her peach-colored lips. Anything is possible.

I certainly never expected to hire ghostwriters for all of my novels. After my first book, nothing else came. I had the idea, but sitting in front of the computer for hours, trying to string sentences together stopped appealing to me. It was a difficult time, and I lacked the motivation to write. My publisher wanted another book, so I went out and found a kid to help me write.

And then it became really easy to keep doing that.

I know that makes me sound like a jackass. It’s like a mental block. I do the best I can with what I have: I create
very
detailed outlines, leaving little to the imagination. Then, I hire someone who’s writing style is similar to mine. I like to use someone different every time. It keeps things interesting. Usually, I ask Madeleine for a recommendation. It’s all very secretive. Nobody likes to admit they use a ghostwriter, but in this industry, it’s prominent.

In this case, Finley fit the bill. Not only is she extremely talented (according to my writer friends), but she seems like she needs a little help right now, and I’m more than happy to help her. I’m a big softie when it comes down to it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before today.
Of course
she would be the perfect person to write my autobiography.

Once I’ve groomed her to fit my writing style, she writes while I provide outlines. And afterward, I’ll go through and edit extensively. I guess you could say they do all of the hard work, and I get to do all the fun stuff.

And I guess that
does
make me sound like a jackass. I compensate by paying my writers well and treating them like family. I’m still good friends with my first two writers. Allen and Harriet are going places, and I’m happy to have helped them get there. As for Penny, my last writer, well . . . she was a little crazy. I hope Finley isn’t crazy.

My phone rings. I reach for it and look at the screen.

Fuck.
I hit decline and wait for the next call. It comes twenty seconds later.

Decline.

Ring.

Decline.

And on and on. I finally power my phone off and forcibly push away from my desk. The house phone rings.

How the fuck did she get this number?
The paging tenor infiltrates my eardrums and makes me clench my jaw. I let it die, but soon the ringing starts again.

Jesus
fucking
Christ.

I sprint to the master landline in the kitchen and yank the jack out of the base. I’m breathing heavily as I slide down against the cabinet. I put my face in my hands.

I guess it’s true when they say you can’t outrun your past. No matter how many times I change my number, she still finds me. I think a part of me likes it—perhaps because it’s possible that she
cares
.

I doubt it.

I’m done. I’ve been done for a long time.

CHAPTER FIVE

Finley

I’ve said my goodbyes to Hannah a thousand times when I get the call from Brady. His voice startles me—he sounds so young. I hug Hannah one last time. “Okay, he’s here. I’ll be back Friday night.”

“I’ve cleared my schedule for you.” She smiles and smacks my butt, pushing me out the door. I drag my small suitcase behind me, clunking against each step of the forty-five stairs down to the street. I take a deep breath. This is actually happening. And it’s real—the twenty-five thousand was securely in my bank account as of seven p.m. last night.

A silver Subaru SUV is waiting at the curb. I wave, and a small, nerdy guy hops out and runs up to me.

“Finley? I’m Brady.” He shakes my hand and takes my suitcase.

“Nice to meet you, Brady.” I study him as he loads my luggage into the trunk. He’s wearing an NYU shirt, and his curly hair is matted to one side. He’s sporting thick glasses, and he’s at least two inches shorter than me—and that’s saying a lot since I’m only five-foot-four on a good day. “Hey, you went to NYU too?”

“I
go
to NYU. I’ll be a junior in the fall. I’m just helping Emerson out with the house and various chores for the summer.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointment lodging in my throat.
Why
did I think we’d be the only two in the house? And more importantly,
why
do I care that we won’t be? “That’s nice of him to hire you.”

“We go way back. My older brother, Isaac, is his best friend. I’m fifteen years younger than Isaac, so Emerson’s been around pretty much my whole life. We grew up on the same street on Long Island. Are you from the area?” His nasally voice is endearing, and as I hop into the passenger seat, I make a mental note that Emerson is from Long Island.

“Yeah. I grew up north of here.” I don’t specify, but Brady continues to probe.

“Oh, uptown?”

I nod. “Mmm-hmm.” That seals it—Long Islanders know the kind of people who live uptown.
I
know those people. I ran away from those people as soon as I could. “But don’t worry. I’ve long since grown to love downtown more.”

“Cool,” is all he says. He pulls away from the curb, and I buckle myself in. I don’t say anything as we inch along the western border of Manhattan, uptown and toward Harlem. When we finally get to the I-95 ramp, I lean back and smile.

“So, what’s it like to work for Emerson Whittaker?”

Brady just shrugs. “He’s a good guy. But I’m biased because he’s practically family.”

“Are your families close then?” I imagine Emerson and Isaac biking around the idyllic suburbia as kids, eating too much cotton candy at the local theatre, and promising to always stay friends. Just the fact Brady works for Emerson must mean he values where he came from.

“Um, not really. From what Isaac told me, Emerson’s parents weren’t really around.”

The rigid tone of voice doesn’t register in my mind, so I probe further. “Oh, but I thought you said you grew up on the same street?” I needle, confused.

Brady’s jaw clenches, and he grips the steering wheel tighter. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

I tense next to him, multiple scenarios playing through my mind. His parents weren’t around much? Like . . . they worked too much? Or something far more sinister? It must be the latter, because Brady looks pissed for saying anything.

“So, what are you studying at NYU?” I buzz cheerfully. I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Brady.

“Film. I want to be a director one day.”

I smile. “That’s so cool.”

“Isaac is a film editor. It’d be nice to work in the same industry as him.”

“You two are close?” I ask, fidgeting with the raw hem of my white, sleeveless blouse. Thank goodness I remembered my sunglasses, as the closer we get to the shore, the brighter it gets. Or maybe it’s because there are wider, open spaces around here—no buildings to block the sunlight.

“Yeah.” He hasn’t looked over at me once, and I get the distinct impression Brady is done talking.

I don’t say anything else as he not-so-subtly turns the radio on. NPR drones through the speakers, and I listen quietly as Ira Glass discusses Iran and Syria. I’m mildly invested when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Hannah, checking up on me. I give her the lowdown, everything from Emerson and his mysterious past to the fact that Brady dislikes me. She tells me Geoff is already at the apartment, moving around the furniture. She says it endearingly, but it makes me sad that change comes so quickly after I leave.

“We’re almost there,” Brady announces about an hour later as he pulls off I-495 to NY-27, towards Montauk. I’m reminded of times my father and I used to take day trips to our beach house in the winter. He loved Montauk. It’s less crowded than the Hamptons. We’d visit for fun because the beach is beautiful when it snows.

A small, tugging feeling begins in my chest when I think of our house in Montauk, not too far from the Hamptons. In fact, I can still remember exactly how to get there. I don’t even know if my parents still own it. Ten years—that’s how long it’s been since I’ve been back. For once, I’m glad to be back in this part of New York. I wonder if the air feels the same as it did when I was a kid.

The Hamptons are such a juxtaposition from the city—and yet every New Yorker comes here at least once in their lives. The wide roads and serene setting are the exact opposite of Manhattan.

Brady turns right off NY-27, edging past mansions built right on the beach. I spot the ocean between them, and my smile widens. Matching pastel colors assault my eyes, and I dream of one day owning something this spectacular.

“Here we are,” Brady mumbles, pulling through an open gate and into the driveway of a large but modest home. It’s a classic beach house—light-blue paint, navy shutters, and a navy front door. There are lots of windows that probably don’t have drapes. Because why would you
hide
the sunlight? New Yorkers come here
for
the sunlight. Not to block it out. No drapes needed here.

“It’s beautiful.” As Brady pulls up to the door, I scan the front yard for Emerson.

“Emerson is out right now,” he says quickly, answering my silent question. “He’ll be back soon. I’ll show you around.”

He opens his door and jumps out. As he opens the trunk, I get out of the SUV and study my home for the next six months—Monday through Friday, at least. Tall hedges divide us from either neighbor, and the gravel driveway is surprisingly elegant and formal as it curves around a small fountain, leading back toward the gate and the main road. The two-story house is smaller than I imagined. I wonder if he lives alone. I never thought to ask. For all I know, he has a wife or girlfriend, or possibly even a family. I didn’t think this through. God, what if he’s
married
? I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask him.

“This is lovely,” I say, taking my suitcase from Brady.

“Yeah. It’s pretty great. His first two books were optioned by Paramount, so he took that money and invested it in this house.”

“Is he married?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too clueless.

“Nah.” He chuckles, and I’m left wondering why he thought my question was so funny. He locks the car and I follow him to the blue front door. He punches in a code, and the door clicks open. “The code is Emerson’s first publication date: December eleventh, 2008. 121108,” he adds, as if I didn’t comprehend the numbers the first time around. He pushes the door open for me and I walk into a small foyer.

A stack of mail lies on a small, vintage wooden table right next to a coat rack. The wood floors give the place a rustic, charming feel. I follow Brady down the hallway, passing a casual living room with a fireplace, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen with stainless steel appliances.

“Feel free to use anything in the kitchen. Emerson and I both like to cook, and some nights my brother will join us.”

I nod. “Okay.”

My eyes graze the wine rack and the cookie jar. I think I will be just fine here, especially if there are cookies and wine. Brady continues the tour, pointing to the large floor-to-ceiling window opposite the kitchen.

“The deck is out here. Behind it is a private beach. Again, make yourself at home.” He continues up the stairs to the bedrooms. The first door is open. “This is your room.” He gestures to a quaint bedroom. I smile and walk in, setting my suitcase down.

A massive, white plush rug covers the floor, and a substantial four-poster queen-sized bed with luxurious white linen sheets looks too good to be true. The room is painted a light grey, and most of the furniture is either white or raw wood. I
love
it.

“You have an en-suite bathroom, too,” Brady says, pointing quickly to the white-tiled bathroom and claw foot bathtub.
Yes!

“Awesome,” I reply, giddy. Brady just laughs and walks out, pointing to three other rooms down the hallway.

“Next to your room is Emerson’s office. He’s very secretive about it. Don’t go in without permission.”

“God,” I laugh, “does he keep dead hookers in there or something?”

This makes Brady laugh. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve always wondered, though.” He looks at me with amusement. “But now I’m not going to stop thinking about dead hookers.” It seems I’ve found a friend with a quirky sense of humor like mine. This could be fun. “Next to the study is my room. I don’t stay over most nights, but Emerson likes to keep my room furnished. Isaac has a house close by, so I usually just stay with him. And the one at the end of the hallway is Emerson’s bedroom.” The door is closed, but I want to see what
it
looks like. I’ve always been extremely nosy, and with Emerson’s mysterious past, I’m particularly intrigued. “I’m going to go downstairs and make lunch. You can get settled. Do you have any allergies or aversions?”

I smile. “I dislike green peas and chunky peanut butter. No allergies. Thank you, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I say, grinning.

“No problem,” Brady says abruptly, turning quickly and walking down the stairs.

As weird and as stiff as he is, I think I’m starting to like Brady.

I close my bedroom door. The first thing I do is take my shoes off and climb up onto the bed, jumping and squealing like a giddy schoolgirl. I reach into my pocket and attempt a SnapChat to Hannah, but I can’t connect to WiFi.

Shit.
I forgot. No Internet. No TV. I never could afford a data plan, so I rely solely on WiFi.
This might be more difficult than I thought.
I call Hannah instead. She doesn’t answer, so I leave an excited voice message.

When I’m done bragging, I hang up and jump off the bed. I begin to unpack, laying my clothes neatly in the drawers of the birch dresser topped with white marble. I walk to the bathroom and put my toiletries away. I set my laptop on top of the small white desk. When all is said and done, I place the picture of Chloe on my bedside table along with the five books I thought to bring along—two of which are Emerson’s.

I quickly change out of my khakis and blouse, throwing on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. It
is
the beach, after all. I pull my hair back into a high ponytail and open his very first book, which is my personal favorite.

Underground Love
is the kind of book that really makes you think about life. The premise is appealing—two people are trapped underground for weeks, relying on the kindness of their kidnapper for meals and showers. They start out as complete strangers. And yet, the man and woman begin to fall in love. The whole thing comes to a head when they’re finally rescued. They don’t want to leave their captivity, because those five weeks were the happiest of their lives.

I flip through it, rereading his beautiful words. Now that I know this is the only book he’s written himself, it makes it that much more special. A few minutes later, I’m studying Emerson on the sleeve of the hardcover. He’s much younger in the picture—and his hair used to be longer.
Emerson Whittaker grew up on Long Island but now resides in the East Village. He is currently a professor at New York University and teaches multiple creative writing classes.

I snap the book shut. He taught at NYU? I
went
to NYU, and I majored in Creative Writing. I don’t remember his name on the course list, so he must’ve left before I had a chance to take one of his classes. This book was published in 2008, and I started in 2008. I make a mental note to ask him about it later. No wonder all of my other professors pushed his books so often—they
worked
with
him.

This guy is getting more and more mysterious as the day goes on. I want to know more. Without thinking, I walk to my door and slowly open it. I can hear Brady clanking around downstairs in the kitchen, but other than that, the coast seems clear. I tiptoe to the room next door. Using my super-sleuth skills, I turn the handle and feel relieved it’s not locked.

Yesss.

It’s a regular office. There are no dead hookers. I leave the door cracked so I can listen for any noises from Brady and walk slowly to the desk. Papers are scattered all over. A laptop sits haphazardly on top of some of them, and below that, a birch desk. A camel-colored leather desk chair sits tucked in neatly. A large bookcase houses multiple copies of his four books. I finger the spines of all of them. I’ve read them all—and they’re all mind-blowing.