The Anniversary (7 page)

message last week when she’d told him not to call. All she’d 23

asked was that he leave her alone. Was it really so difficult? It cer-24

tainly hadn’t seemed so during the years that they were married.

25

But trust Frank Collier to make an appearance at the worst of all 26

possible times. Like last week, when she’d needed to focus on 27

preparing for today’s hearing. And today, when she deserved to 28

be happy, savoring this morning’s victory.

29

Happy Anniversary, Melanie. I haven’t forgotten you.

30

The words seemed to mock her. She hadn’t failed at many 31

things, but her marriage had been a disaster. She sometimes felt 32

as if all of her successes were consolation prizes, attempts some-33

how to compensate for the love she’d never have. Then, sternly, 34

she stopped herself, silenced the creeping self-pity. Her life was 35 S

not unusual. Marriage, betrayal, divorce. Nothing that hadn’t been 36 R

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experienced by thousands of women before her. Hundreds of thou-1

sands. Millions. Important to keep perspective. And, she reminded 2

herself, many had it much worse. She was lucky to have a suc-3

cessful career, more money than she could spend. And of course 4

there was Paul Freeman, the man she planned to marry.

5

Paul.

6

She really did need to call him. Vivian was right. She also 7

needed to ask him about that cocktail party this week. Was it to-8

morrow or the day after? She glanced at her flip-page calendar, 9

still turned to Tuesday’s date. Today was, what,Thursday? Right.

10

Thursday, April 6.

11

Thursday, April 6.

12

It was like she’d been slugged. They’d gotten married on De-13

cember 17. Frank was more than three months late. Just when 14

she’d thought he couldn’t hurt her more, he managed to twist the 15

knife deeper.

16

Happy Anniversary.

17

And he couldn’t even get the date right.

18

She welcomed the blast of anger, how it clarified her percep-19

tions. Pressing her lips together, she picked up the sheet of paper.

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She folded it once, ripped it in half, then tore the pieces in two.

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It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.

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Frank Collier, you’re out of my life.

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24

h

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Curled in a wooden deck chair, bundled in a heavy parka, Diane 26

Massey stared out over cliffs and dull gray sea. A cold gust 27

whipped her face, and she burrowed deeper into her sweater. One 28

thing she hadn’t remembered was how long the Maine winters 29

lasted. But cold as it was out here on the porch, she didn’t want 30

to go inside. Back to the cluttered dining room table piled with 31

manuscript pages. Back to the tortured confusion of the story she 32

couldn’t tell.

33

She’d always been a disciplined writer, meeting deadlines with 34

practiced ease. Her true-crime books were read by millions, ea-S 35

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1

gerly anticipated. Eight consecutive
New York Times
bestsellers, 2

and she’d never once been late. But, from the start, this project 3

had been different, plagued by repeated setbacks.

4

For months, she’d struggled in her New York apartment, trying 5

to find a rhythm. But the more she worked, the more confused 6

she got. Something wasn’t working. For the first time in her writ-7

ing career, she’d begun to avoid her desk. Started to accept the 8

dinner invitations she’d never had time for before. Even took 9

to answering the phone during the time she’d blocked out for 10

writing.

11

Her subject was Winnie Dandridge, the Houston socialite killer, 12

a charming woman who paid her mobster lover to knock off her 13

wealthy husband. The pair’s ties to organized crime had caused 14

Diane some concern. Especially after two anonymous letters 15

warned her off writing the book. And it wasn’t just the issue of 16

safety, though that preyed on her mind. There were problems 17

with the story itself, in how she wanted to tell it.

18

Then, suddenly, March was almost over, her June 1 deadline 19

looming. It was then that she’d thought of Maine, of her parents’

20

house on Blue Peek Island. The island would be all but deserted, 21

the perfect place to work. Just a handful of year-round residents, 22

mainly fishermen. Three days later, she was packed and gone.

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Only two people knew where she was, her editor and her agent.

24

She’d arrived in Maine about a week ago, determined to get 25

down to work. But much to her chagrin she’d found that the 26

change of scene wasn’t helping. She took long walks, stared at 27

the sea, and worried about her deadline. Every afternoon at five, 28

she ran a three-mile loop, the daily ritual reminding her how lit-29

tle she’d accomplished. She’d mastered the art of excuses, blam-30

ing circumstances. Light had become an obsession, its absence or 31

profusion. During the day, she blamed the bright sunlight; at 32

night, she blamed the darkness.

33

Of course, she knew deep down that this was all in her mind.

34

If she’d really wanted to work, nothing would have stopped her.

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She’d worked under far worse conditions for many, many years.

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Once she’d written all night in a motel room while a couple made 3 6

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love next door, their cries and moans mingling in her mind with 1

those of the story’s victims. Death and sex. Sex and death. How 2

often they came together, the explosion of hate following love in 3

some sort of cosmic dance. She’d written in a sort of trance, for-4

getting where she was. Then there were the years of reporting, 5

when she’d written in a noise-filled newsroom, colleagues on the 6

telephone, editors screaming for copy. No, if she were ready to 7

work, the words would be right there.

8

In the distance she saw the ferry chugging back to the main-9

land. She might as well pick up the mail now, get that out of the 10

way.

11

The post office was just down the street, a demure white clap-12

board structure with a sprightly American flag. Nothing had 13

changed since childhood, when she’d spent her summers here.

14

She remembered waiting at the counter for stamps, unable to see 15

the top.

16

A bell tinkled as she opened the door.

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“I’m still sorting, Diane. It’ll be at least ten minutes.” Jenny 18

Ward, a sturdy island native, was a few years younger than Diane.

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She’d taken over as postmistress when her mother retired.

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“That’s okay. I’ll wait.” The room was bright and warm, smelling 21

of coffee and glue. Rows of small brass-fitted boxes lined the long 22

front wall. Diane sat on a wooden stool tucked beneath a win-23

dow.

24

“So how’s the book going?” Behind the counter Jenny was 25

working, her hands flying through the mail.

26

“Oh . . . it’s okay.” Diane’s lips curved in the same false smile 27

she smiled at her friends in New York.

28

“Well, I hope you finish it fast ’cause I can’t wait to read it. I 29

don’t know how you write all those words, I really don’t.”

30

Neither do I,
Diane thought.
Believe me. Neither do I.

31

Jenny kept up a stream of chatter, a running commentary on is-32

land life. Lobster season. A new baby. Last year’s property tax in-33

crease. She seemed so utterly at ease with her life. Diane envied 34

that. Though at this moment she might have envied anyone who S 35

didn’t have to write a book.

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“Here you go.”

2

Jenny handed her FedEx packets from her editor and her 3

agent.

4

Diane turned to her editor’s packet first, quickly ripping it 5

open. Inside were three smaller envelopes in a range of soft pas-6

tels. Pale pink. Pale blue. White. They reminded her of Easter 7

eggs. A note was clipped to the stack in Marianne’s familiar 8

scrawl: “Looks like fan mail,” she wrote. “Thought you could use 9

a boost.” Diane smiled, though a bit uneasily, reminding herself 10

that Marianne couldn’t know how far behind she really was.

11

Diane opened the pink envelope, skimmed the spidery cursive.

12

“My daughter gave me
Dreams of Dying
and since then I’ve read 13

every one of your books. Are you ever afraid that some of the 14

people you write about might come after you?”

15

The next envelope she opened was white. She unfolded the 16

single thin white sheet and read the short typed message.

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Happy Anniversary, Diane. I haven’t forgotten you.

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Happy Anniversary?

19

Puzzled, she turned the paper over, looking for an explanation.

20

There was her AA anniversary, of course, but that was months 21

away. Again, she looked at the envelope. No postmark or return 22

address. Maybe she should call Marianne, find out where it came 23

from. For now she stuck the mail in her purse. She’d open the rest 24

at home.

25

She said good-bye to Jenny and headed up the road. Between 26

buildings she glimpsed the flat sea against the backdrop of sky.

27

Mild cramps pinched her stomach. She’d been drinking too 28

much bad coffee. While she’d brought out a stash of French 29

Roast, it didn’t taste the same. The old aluminum percolator 30

worked a curious alchemy, transforming the beans’ dark richness 31

to something sharp and bitter.

32

Longingly she thought of her home in New York, the lights, 33

the traffic, the noise. She lived in a loft in Tribeca, a sun-34

drenched open space. On an ordinary day, she’d have breakfasted 35 S

at Le Pain Quotidien. She could almost taste the flaky croissant, 36 R

the bowl of caffe latte. After a few hours at her desk, she’d have 3 8

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headed off to the gym. Worked out with Bob, her personal 1

trainer, maybe had a massage. Back home, the mail would have 2

arrived, with its cache of invitations. Book signings and film 3

openings. Requests to come and speak. She had a life in New 4

York, friends and dinners and parties. All those distractions she’d 5

come to escape seemed endlessly alluring.

6

Back at the house, she went straight to her desk and forced 7

herself to sit down.
Keep your butt in the chair. No more procrasti-8

nating.
She worked for a couple of hours, then made a tuna fish 9

sandwich — a far cry from the take-out sushi she’d have picked 10

up back home. Sandwich in hand she returned to her desk and 11

continued to work as she ate.

12

By three o’clock, she was amazed to find that she’d written 13

more than two thousand words. She stuck another log in the 14

woodstove, then printed out the new pages. At her desk, she 15

reread what she’d written that day, making penciled notations in 16

the margins. It was good, much better than she’d thought.

17

When she next looked up it was almost five. A solid day’s work.

18

The best she’d done in months. Standing up, Diane stretched her 19

legs, then headed upstairs to change. She tied back her hair, 20

pulled on a hat, dropped her necklace under her shirt. On im-21

pulse, she picked up the phone and dialed a New York number.

22

Her editor’s assistant picked up.

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“Hi, Kaylie? It’s Diane. Is Marianne around?”

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“Sorry, Diane. She’s in a meeting. Anything I can do?”

25

“No. Well. Actually, I was wondering . . . I just got the mail 26

you forwarded, and there was a letter, something without a return 27

address. It must have been dropped off. Anyway, I was trying to 28

figure out who it was from.”

29

A pause. “Oh. Yeah. Someone dropped it off in reception. I 30

don’t have a name, though. If you want, I can check to see if they 31

have a record down there.”

32

“Great. That would be great.” Diane heard phones ringing in 33

the background, someone calling down a hallway. “One more 34

thing. Do you know when it came in?”

S 35

“Sure, let’s see.” A flipping of pages. “We got it yesterday.”