The Accidental Bestseller (55 page)

Though of course she’d always known it.

“Yep,” Trudy said. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me when I tried to push you into something with that Brett Adams. Things never work out the way we want them to for people like us.” She nodded at the freeze-framed shot of Faye Truett and her husband. “Maybe for folks like them, but not us.”

Trudy took another sip of her screwdriver. “We all have our ways of hiding out and avoiding the pain,” her mother said. “Me, I’ve always used the bottle. It’s quick and reliable. You,” she said, pointing her glass at Tanya. “You use your work and your kids.”

Tanya picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. She didn’t care at all for the way her mother had lumped them together. Hadn’t she spent her whole life trying to prove she wasn’t one bit like Trudy?

Tanya wanted to go back to bed, but Trudy would not stop yammering.

“I was thinking the other day that it was my . . . struggles . . . that made you strong. It was me that taught you how to stand on your own two feet.”

Although she wouldn’t have thought it possible, Tanya felt even worse than she had before. And pissed off, too. Where did Trudy get off taking credit for anything remotely motherly?

“So you became a helpless alcoholic in order to make me a stronger person?”

“Well I might not exactly have planned it,” Trudy admitted. “It just sort of turned out that way.”

Tanya wanted to cry like Faye had done on TV, wanted to let out great big bruising sobs that might make the sick feeling inside of her disappear.

“You see, you’re right to show Crystal and Loretta not to trust or depend on anyone else. They’ll thank you for it one day.”

“Oh, Mama.” Tanya felt everything she’d been holding on to so tightly whoosh out of her. Here she’d bent over backward to be everything to her girls that her mother hadn’t been to her and she’d ended up teaching them the same lesson her mother had taught her? She did not want to hear it. She did not even want to think it.

Brett had said she was afraid of him. Afraid to take a chance. Afraid to let anyone in. And he was right.

She got up from the couch, her mind racing. “So you think I’m right to give up on writing now that I’ve lost my contract with Masque? That I shouldn’t try, say, single title? Try to sell to someone else even if I have to do it under another name?”

Tanya began to pace back and forth in front of her mother as she spewed out her questions even though she knew exactly how Trudy would answer.

“And I suppose you think I shouldn’t go out with Brett, even though I like to be with him, because he might disappoint me? That I should never do anything that might not turn out the way I want it to?”

Tanya could hardly breathe as she faced the final, annihilating truth. Despite a lifetime of trying to be the opposite of Trudy, she’d turned out just like her. Only without the alcohol and lazy streak. The message she was sending her children was the same one her mother had sent her.

Not waiting for or needing Trudy’s confirmation, Tanya jumped up and ran to the front door of the trailer and pulled it open. “Ya’ll get ready to go over to the Adamses’,” she shouted to the girls, who were playing outside. “I’m getting dressed right now!”

Tanya scooped up her cell phone and punched in Brett’s number. She raced into the bedroom and started rifling through the pile of abandoned clothes while the phone rang. “It’s me,” she said, when he answered. “I changed my mind. The girls and I will be over if we’re still invited.”

“Um, sure,” Brett said. “That would be great,” he said. And then, “This is Tanya Mason, right? The woman who accused me of trying to lull her into a false sense of security?”

“It’s real ungentlemanly of you to throw that back in my face right now,” Tanya said. “I want to talk to you about that when we get there. And a few other things, too.”

Twenty minutes later she was showered and dressed. She wasn’t planning on inviting Trudy, but her mother had somehow gotten herself ready.

At Brett’s the girls headed into Valerie’s room and Trudy made her way to the waiting six-pack of Budweiser. Tanya took Brett by the T-shirt and pulled him out onto the front stoop.

All the way over in the car she’d been trying to find the words for what she wanted to say to Brett, but now that she was facing him she couldn’t remember how she’d meant to start. All she knew for sure was she wasn’t going to be controlled by her mother’s negative thinking for one more minute. And she wasn’t going to pass it on to her children for one more day.

She liked to be with Brett. He thought highly of her and said so. And he was a good father and fun to be with. And he was damned good in bed. And if it wasn’t meant to be forever then so what? She’d more than proven she could take care of her girls. She didn’t have to be afraid of what would happen if he left, because they would survive. She’d make sure of it. So why shouldn’t she enjoy the company of someone she liked being with? After all these years of struggle, didn’t she deserve some pleasure?

Brett watched her quizzically. She had the feeling he was fighting a smile, but she was too preoccupied thinking about what she wanted to say to be as annoyed as she might have been.

“So I’ve decided there’s no reason why we shouldn’t date if we want to,” she said without preamble.

“OK,” he said.

“Now that doesn’t mean you’ve been elected to be in charge or anything. I’m not going to be swooning and batting my eyelashes at you or any stupid damn thing like that.”

“OK,” Brett said.

“And if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out,” she said adamantly. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said.

“Isn’t there anything you want to say?”

“Oh,” he said, pretending surprise. “You mean I get to talk, too?”

She knocked him on the shoulder as the smile he’d been holding back spread over his face.

“Raise your right hand,” he said. “And repeat after me.”

When she didn’t move, he raised her hand for her. “I, Tanya Mason,” he said.

He waited until she gave in and repeated her name.

“Do solemnly swear.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she said, “I do solemnly swear.”

“That Brett Adams is allowed to . . .”

He motioned her to continue and she did.

“. . . do the occasional nice thing, make the occasional nice meal, and maybe even watch my kids for an hour or two now and then . . .”

She rolled her eyes, but repeated the words as instructed. “. . . without accusing him of trying to make me dependent and/or beholden.”

She repeated the words, her own smile growing to match his.

“So help me God!”

When she’d repeated the final words to his satisfaction and dropped her pledge hand, he studied her for a long moment, the dimple twitching in his cheek.

“Don’t you think we should go ahead and seal our vow with a kiss?” he asked, still smiling.

“I guess,” she teased, wanting to do exactly that. “Unless you think pricking our fingers and signing in blood would be more effective.”

Fortunately he ignored the suggestion and swept her up in his arms and kissed her soundly, just like the hero in one of her novels. Which set her to thinking about what she might like to try writing next.

And whether there might be some way to make contact with Kendall and Faye and Mallory—maybe through Lacy Samuels—without having to rehash everything that had driven them apart.

Chris was already seated at a favored table in the back of the first-floor dining room of the Spotted Pig when Mallory arrived. She felt his steady gaze assessing her as she approached and she tried to read it, but she sensed a part of him had been closed off to her. He gave nothing away. He stood as she reached the table and pulled her chair out then waited as she took her seat.

More nervous than she’d expected to be, Mallory kept her hands in her lap so that their shaking wouldn’t betray her. She’d chosen the trendy Spotted Pig because it was vibrant and upbeat. Had she really believed that the lighter ambience would keep darker emotions at bay?

“I’m not sure what to call you,” he said when they were both seated. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered I didn’t even know my wife’s real name.”

Mallory nodded, saddened by the hurt in his voice, by the damage she’d done. “I know,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry you found out that way.”

He didn’t respond and Mallory fought the urge to look away. A part of her wanted to cut and run. To simply apologize and accept that she had damaged their relationship irretrievably and simply let it go. “Irreconcilable differences” sounded so much nicer than “failure to share self with spouse.”

Except she couldn’t bear the thought of living without him. Not now, when everything else had been stripped away and she’d finally discovered that success and financial security meant nothing if she couldn’t share them with Chris.

The waiter brought a basket of bread and took their drink orders. He was friendly and the bread was warm and crusty, but Mallory found herself resenting every interruption now when all she wanted was to make Chris understand.

“I realize now,” she said, “that I was drawn to writing because I was so desperate to try to control some aspect of my out-of-control life.”

He’d heard the details of her past on television and in the press. There seemed little point in retelling them, but she wanted to make sure he understood her “why.”

“Writers are all-powerful, you know. It’s the one certain reward for all the gut-wrenching hours we spend creating a novel. A writer doesn’t always get rich or famous, but she controls what her characters say and think. Who lives, who dies. Whether they achieve their hearts’ desires.”

She smiled at Chris. “I’m sure you can imagine how attractive that would be to someone who’d been through what I had.” She looked away, searching for the right words, knowing that they were more important than any she’d ever written.

“In my mind I was already Mallory St. James when I met you. Marissa died when I was eighteen and there was nothing of her left worth knowing. She was a bundle of fear and insecurity and . . . neediness. Even a glimpse of all of that would have sent any healthy male—even a caregiving Sir Galahad like you—running for his life.”

He didn’t disagree, but she thought she sensed a slight thawing. “I just can’t believe I married someone I didn’t know at all,” he said.

She waited for their salads to be placed in front of them. Chris began on his, but Mallory couldn’t imagine chewing or swallowing. “But you did know the real me, Chris, the me I decided to be. You’ve always known her. You just didn’t know the details of her life.”

She didn’t know if what she was saying would change anything, whether he’d be able to forgive her or even want to. She realized, as she looked into his eyes, that it was no accident that she’d chosen to write such strong female characters. It hadn’t been a marketing decision or a smart business move.

She wrote what she wrote because she’d needed to believe that resourcefulness and strength of will—something with which she’d imbued all her characters—were enough to win the day. She also believed in the redemptive power of love. And at the moment, she desperately needed to believe in happy endings.

She paused and took a sip of water. The thing was, she didn’t get to write the ending of their story. She could only reveal her character’s feelings and motivations, throw in a final plot twist. They’d already lived their black moment. The resolution was up to Chris.

Their entrées arrived but neither of them picked up a fork or made a move to start eating. Like she did each time she confronted that first blank page of what would become a novel, Mallory made the decision to take that leap of faith.

“I love you,” she said. “More than I can tell you. More than I even realized until I understood that I might lose you.” She swallowed but didn’t look away, horribly aware that this could be the beginning of something even better than what they’d had. Or the end of everything.

“I can’t change how things have been,” Mallory said. “But I can change how they will be.” She looked deep into his eyes but saw no answers in them. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out an airline ticket and laid it on the table in front of him.

“I bought us tickets to Cabo San Lucas,” she said. “I managed to get the casita where we spent our honeymoon. I booked it for the first three weeks of July.”

Surprise registered on his face, but still he didn’t speak.

“I hope you’ll join me there,” Mallory said. “I’d like us to spend the time together.”

Still no response. Mallory continued to speak calmly, though it took all of her willpower to keep the desperation she was feeling from stealing into her voice.

“I’ve also told Patricia and Zoe that I’m cutting back to a book a year. So that, assuming you’re willing, we can have time together. So we can have a real life.” She swallowed, afraid that he was going to tell her it was too little too late. That he’d just push the ticket back across the table and tell her to have a nice life.