She smiled softly and nodded. “I met him only once or twice, but we were sort of pen pals. He wrote to me years ago about an error in an article I’d written. He was right, of course, and the way he criticized me was so gentlemanly that I wrote back to thank him. We continued to exchange letters over the years, pretty much until the day he died. And I know how much he adored his house and how happy it would make him to see you and your family growing and thriving in it.” Her lips thinned. “Just as much as he’d dislike Marc Longo darkening your doorstep.” She tilted her head. “So, what happened?”
I took a deep breath. “Marc threw a wrench into Jack’s career. Not just by stealing Jack’s book idea, which resulted in Jack’s publisher canceling his book. Marc—who apparently has connections everywhere—spread lies and rumors about Jack and those he’d worked with so that Jack’s supporters in the publishing world were all gone. Marc promised Jack he would fix things if we allowed the filming, even promised to make introductions to several top literary agents. He also agreed to split his gross fifty-fifty with us. More than anything else, I think the lure of finally earning money for his own story idea is what made Jack cave and agree. But despite our due diligence, I’m convinced that this is just another lie Marc has told us, and he just wants to get inside the house to find treasure he believes might still be hidden there. I have no doubt that when this is over with, he will find a way to somehow weasel out of his promises and leave us right where we were. Except it will be worse because we will have allowed the filming of a movie based on a book that Marc stole from Jack. Not only that, but we both signed a contract stating that whoever breaks the contract loses everything.”
“Assuming you’re caught.” Suzy gave me an impish grin. “And what does Jack think?”
I studied my hands, opening my left one, where my wedding and engagement rings winked the sun’s reflection, reminding me of Jack’s bare ring finger. “I’m on my own here. It’s . . . complicated with Jack and me right now. I just know that I can’t sit back and wait for the train to crash without trying to stop it first.”
I looked up at the sound of her clapping. “Brava, Melanie. Brava.” She grinned impishly again. “I think we have a lot in common, and I expect we’ll enjoy working together.”
I returned her smile, then quickly sobered. “My only hesitation is from wondering if I’m wrong about Marc. What if he has every intention of following through on his promise and I inadvertently take this opportunity away from Jack?”
“What does your gut instinct tell you?”
“That a palmetto bug can’t change its wings.”
“What?”
“Sorry—that’s Charlestonese for ‘a leopard can’t change its spots.’ My own regional adaptation.”
Suzy nodded slowly. “Okay. I happen to agree with you regarding Marc. Once a low-down dirty liar, always a low-down dirty liar. He’s greedy and dishonest and I could see him selling his own child if it might benefit him.”
I refrained from voicing my thought that if the child Rebecca was currently carrying had the opportunity to be raised by different parents, it might not be a bad thing. “It looks like our thoughts have been running parallel to each other. I’ve been thinking of a way to stop the filming and to get Marc right where it hurts—his wallet and his ego. It would involve using my . . . ‘abilities.’ It would also involve your journalistic skills and bringing back your series on buried treasures in the Holy City.”
Suzy leaned forward. “You’re right. We have been having parallel thoughts—which is a very good thing. I’m eager to hear more and even more excited to get started.”
I met her gaze. “Me, too. But I’m hesitant about getting started because the outcome will be the same—Jack’s career will be permanently stalled whether or not Marc gets his movie filmed. Marc will probably make me the scapegoat so that Jack blames me.”
Suzy surprised me by laughing. “Don’t worry about that, Melanie. Trust me on this. Marc Longo isn’t the only one with important connections in the publishing world. And Jack has many fans, me included.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“Maybe it’s because you never return my phone calls or texts.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
She held up her hand to stop me. “Water under the bridge. Now,” she said, pulling out a pad of lined paper and a pencil, “we have work to do.”
CHAPTER 17
I pushed open the door to the Normandy Farm Artisan Bakery on Broad Street, enjoying my favorite mixed aromas of baking bread and coffee. I had been forced to find another purveyor of sugary confections and whipped-cream-smothered coffee near my office after the sudden and recent closure of Ruth’s Bakery. Ruth’s rent had tripled and her daughters had sweetened the incentive to retire by buying her a small house on the same street where they and Ruth’s grandchildren lived. Catherine Jimenez had been both the listing and selling agent—of course—so I’d been left not only without Ruth’s sweet smile and delicious coffee and pastries waiting for me each morning, but with the dire necessity of finding a nearby replacement.
I found a table in the middle of the small dining area and sat down with my large coffee and ham and Gruyère croissant. I’d considered taking it the few doors down to my office and eating it at my desk, but I didn’t want Catherine to see me sitting down or eating because I’d never seen her do either.
I had just taken my first bite of croissant when I heard the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. Then I felt a bump as it collided with the leg of my table, spilling my coffee. With my mouth full, I looked up in annoyance, surprised—although no less annoyed—to see Michael Farrell sliding into the chair now placed next to me.
“Good morning, Melanie. I was just about to come see you at your office, but saw you come in here. I hope you don’t mind.”