He turns, and the afternoon light hits his face, the weathered skin almost pink in its light. “I have a daughter,” he says slowly. “Her name is Maggie. She’s nineteen.”
“Good for you.” My daughter’s name is Bethany. Three weeks ago, I should have lit ten candles on her cake. I straighten, and when I lift my hand from the chair rail, I am still standing. “What does that have to do with my book?”
“I wouldn’t want her to spend her last months, stuck in an empty house, working on a book with someone like me.”
“That’s not for you to decide.” I step forward, and suddenly I don’t like this man. “It’s not really any of your damn business.”
“My name’s on this contract, it’s my business.” He lifts the pages, and I suddenly wish I’d added another short and simple request to it. Don’t be an asshole.
I open my mouth to tell him off, and instead, the truth falls out. “The book is about my husband and my daughter. They’re gone. I’m dying. I’m sorry that you don’t like it, or my agenda for the next three months, but this is what is important to me. Their story… it’s all that matters to me.” I turn my head, looking back at the table where we sat, my jaw clenching with the effort it takes to keep my tears at bay. If I look at him, I will fall apart. If I say another word, it will be a sob.
He steps toward me and kindness isn’t what I want. I can’t…
I can’t.
MARK
She’s breaking. He can see it in the rigid grip of her stance, the clench of jaw, the tremble of her entire frame. He can feel it in the air, the rough pain that emits, and this is so much deeper, so much stronger, than her own mortality. In that news, there had been no emotion. In this, she is a raw current. He doesn’t know when it happened, or how, but grief is a song he is well versed in.
There are few ways to comfort a person like this. He was her, gripping his mouth so hard he left bruises, when they told him about Ellen. He was her, in the middle of a hospital hall, when the orderly touched his shoulder, asking to get by. He was her, when he smashed the man against the wall, when he sobbed into his chest, then tried to punch him, again and again, for no reason at all.
He steps closer, and she flinches. She blinks, and tears fall. He wants to hug her, he wants to cry for her, but he doesn’t know her, and that is the problem.
“Stop.” She lifts a hand, and he does, watching as she closes her eyes, steeling herself, swallowing everything. It can’t be healthy, that inhalation of emotion. Then again, maybe if he had inhaled more and drank less, he’d be in a different position, with a lot less regrets. “I’m fine.”
It’s a lie if he’s ever heard one, but she is stronger when she turns her head, her gaze meeting his, her chin raising. “I’m fine,” she repeats, almost as if to convince herself.
Silence grows between them, the hallway suddenly warm, and he reaches back, touching the contract in his pocket, the terms unimportant now, everything rooted in her confession.
“Will you help me?” The words are dead, spoken by a woman who has given up hope.
“I don’t know.” He needs to think, needs fresh air and sunshine and to be out of this miserable house. He needs to drink, to fight, to climb onto a stallion and gallop so hard he loses his breath. He needs to live, and to forget, to abandon this girl and her death wish, her depressingly realistic book. Then, he thinks of his daughter. If she is ever in this situation, if she ever needs help… will he be there? And if not, who will? Who will spend those final months with her? Who will help her with the most important tasks she has left?
In that light, he really has no choice.
HELENA
“Okay.” He pulls something out of his back pocket and it’s the contract, his steps slow as he walks forward and flattens it against the wall. I watch, and feel the tears start to clog my throat. I’m terrible today. I haven’t cried in years, yet I’m now welling up like a fountain. He flips to the last page and holds the paper there, the other hand pulling at a pocket on his shirt.
“You’ll do it?” My heart skips when he pulls out a pen. He crosses out Marka Vantly and writes in his true name, his handwriting tight and messy, the scrawl of his signature even worse. “There is a lot in those pages,” I say. “You might want to read it—”
“I don’t care.” He caps the pen with his mouth and returns it to his pocket, holding out the paper to me. “I’d like half of the funds up front.”
“Okay.” I glance down at the agreement, and feel the first crack of relief. “The amount is wrong; it still says—”
“It was kind of you to increase the amount, but I’m not taking advantage of your situation.” He steps toward the door. “A million is more than fair.” He is swinging open the door when I get there, and I reach out to stop him. Something needs to be said, something other than contract logistics.
“Thank you.” I don’t know when I last spoke those words. I know that right now, they seem inadequate, two syllables that say nothing, yet mean everything to me.
He looks down at me, and there is vacancy in his eyes, a lack of connection that I don’t understand. “It’s fine. I’ve got to go… some things to do.”
I’ve got to go… some things to do. It’s the last thing he says, his boots heavy on my porch, his trot down my stairs hurried. A minute later, I watch his car jerk into drive and down the street.
And to think, people consider me odd.
I was once told that marriage is a facade. I ignored the wisdom of the words, mainly because they came from a fifty-two-year-old swinger, one who believed that monogamy was a self-destructive concept, and a good orgy is the answer to everything.
But that slimy stick of sex appeal was right. Not about the orgy, though I never tested that concept out. Marriage is a facade. Simon and I… our facade started early and grew, deep and dark, a pit of secrets and lies.
I loved my husband. But I also grew to hate him.
Prologue: Helena Ross
I never write out of order, yet the prologue comes to me as Marka’s—Mark’s—contract scans in. I hand-write it quickly, before I lose the thought, my pen scratching over the notepad as the machine hums. When all of the pages are done, I staple the contract together, using a fresh pin to stick it to my board, a wave of relief pushing through me at the sight of his messy scrawl. Mark Fortune. He hasn’t written a single word, yet I already feel relief, a lift of the pressure that’s weighed me down since my diagnosis.
I look down at the prologue, reading over the content. Good stuff. It will intrigue the reader, while also confusing them. I tap the final line and step to the side, my fingers softly dragging across the laptop keys, the screen coming to life from the pressure. I look over at the prologue and feel a familiar stirring. I click on the book file, the feeling growing.
I should be eating something. And take some meds. But first, I’ll just write a paragraph. Maybe two.
When I finish the scene, it is almost five the next morning, fourteen hours after Mark’s departure. I turn off the music and save my work, stretching in the doorway before dropping on the office’s couch. I hug a pillow to my stomach.
I’d written four thousand words, my last for a while. I finished the initial courtship of Simon and set a hopeful tone for the book, one that Mark will spend the next few months strengthening, then decimating.
A part of me fears the passing of the torch, exposing my secrets, telling him everything.
A part of me fears how, in the final novel, I will come across.
A part of me is terrified. The rest feels almost giddy with liberation.
Soon… my final story will come out, and everyone will know the truth.
The knock comes five hours later, at a time too early for visitors. I practically crawl down the stairs and open my door, squinting up into Mark Fortune’s face.
At least he knocked, proof positive that men can be trained. I lean forward, far enough to see the driveway. And he parked on the street. Two points in his favor. Both of which are moot because the contract, of which I emailed him an executed copy, clearly states that he is supposed to be at home. Far away from me. I work alone, he writes alone, and everyone is happy. I look down, at the leather duffel bag in his hand, and raise one eyebrow.