“When did you move in?” she asks, her fingers tightening on the edges of the bright green leather.
“About ten years ago.” I smile. “I’m not a big fan of furniture.” It’s the easiest explanation for my empty house, one that was once crammed with expensive items and life, noises and smells. Now, I prefer the echoing, empty feel of the downstairs, the bare walls, the lone items that look forgotten in the giant spaces. The only rooms left with life in them are my office and Bethany’s room. The media room is also the same, as is my master bedroom, though I haven’t stepped into either in years. This house occupies five thousand square feet of prime New London real estate, and you could fit all of its belongings inside this kitchen—this stark, utilitarian space, one currently crowded with two strangers and this uncomfortable conversation.
“Where’s Simon?” She shifts in her chair and glances over her shoulder, as if my dead husband might suddenly appear.
“Gone.” She knows better than to ask questions, and I’m thankful she never met Bethany, never knew of my pregnancy. I can handle many things, but the mention of her name is a knife in the heart. An attempt to explain her absence would yank it through my gut.
“Oh.” She frowns, the fingers of her left hand pulling at the top of her thigh, at a loose bit of bunched fabric. “Who takes you to your chemo and stuff?”
I’m not doing chemo. Or radiation. Or any other “stuff”. But I don’t feel like a ten minute lecture on my responsibilities to myself, so I ignore that tidbit. “I drive myself. Or take a taxi.”
Her eyes widen at the statement. She probably has a score of friends, all jumping at the opportunity to pick her up, fight city traffic, walk her inside, and sit patiently—through all the forms, the questions, the blood draws and sorrowful conversations. Not that I mind doing it all myself. I’ve had a book to entertain me—Marka Vantly’s latest—an unfortunate choice, but I couldn’t resist the competitive desire to know what my rival is up to.
“I can stay here,” she offers. “Drive you places. Or,” she glances around. “You know. Help you around the house.”
“No.” I can’t think of anything worse. The conversation alone would kill me, her incessant chatter and offers and pitying looks… it’d be hell. A worse hell than the one I currently occupy, one where I have to struggle through basic tasks and am ignored by my mouse.
“When did you find out?”
“About ten days ago. I’ve been losing weight for a while, and my energy…” I don’t even feel up to finishing the sentence. It hadn’t just been my energy, though that had been the most annoying. There had also been the headaches, the nose bleeds, the equilibrium shifts and fainting spells. I think I’ve had mood swings, though it’s hard to tell when I have so little interaction with others. “The doctor said the tumor is about a year old.”
“Oh Helena.” She reaches out, across the table, and I move my hands, underneath the table, squeezing them in between my thighs. I regret the action, her face pinching in hurt, her eyes dropping to her hand, and there is a painful moment of embarrassment before she recovers. Her back straightens and she opens her purse, pulling out a folder and pen. “I brought you the paperwork for terminating the Broken contract. You’ll have to return the initial payment, of course.”
I must have given something away on the phone, raised some internal alarm that caused her to print out this contract, drive three hours to New London, and hand-deliver it here. If I had the energy, I’d feel violated. Instead, I just want to sleep.
A notebook is also withdrawn, and I perk up at the sight of a pen, some sort of action eminent. “I understand you don’t want my help,” she begins. “But let’s talk about what you do need.” She raises an overgrown eyebrow in my direction. “Housekeeper? Cook? Oh!” She bends her head down and starts to write. I watch the word DRIVER appear in neat, block-like letters.
A year ago, I would have asked her what the hell she’s doing, barging in and trying to take over my life. A year ago, she wouldn’t even be sitting at this table. I would have ordered her off my lawn, told her to go back to the city, and then sent her a tersely worded email where I listed all of her errors while subtly threatening to fire her.
A year ago, I didn’t need anyone’s help. Now, I’m not in the position to turn away assistance, despite the snarl of my pride, which I swallow.
“So,” she says brightly, as if this is a class project and she’s been appointed our captain. “We can find someone to take you to the doctor, and pick up your medications and such. And a housekeeper and cook—are you okay with that?”
I pull at my bottom lip, considering the idea. Simon always wanted a “house manager”—someone to pick up after us, to handle the landscaping guy, and replace light bulbs, and tend to his every need. I had shot that idea down at every turn, panicked at the idea of a stranger opening my drawers, rearranging my things, and jumping into the middle of our lives.
“We can set private zones,” Simon argued, his jaw stubbornly jutting out, his arms crossing over that broad chest. “She won’t set foot in your office, or the media room, or…” he glanced around as if the kitchen might be up for discussion. “Or wherever else you don’t want her.”
Her. It had always been a her. And maybe that’s why I hated the idea. I didn’t need a woman in my house, laying claim to my processes, analyzing my marriage, or parenting, or personal quirks.
“I don’t want someone here.” I release my lip and look up at Kate, my muscles tensing for a fight.
“Fine,” she smiles, and I am reminded of how annoying it is to be around overwhelmingly cheerful people. “I can look into daily meal deliveries, someone to just drop off the food.” She eyes the floor and I wait for her to mention cleaning, to notice the dust bunnies that have begun to accumulate as my health has deteriorated. I watch her pen move, her attention returning to the page, and she writes DAILY MEAL DELIVERIES down, then looks back to me. “Do you need a nurse?”
“No.” I’m suddenly hungry. It must be this talk of food, my stomach pinching at the thought of something fresh and home-made, my last few months spent sampling every TV dinner out there. But I can’t mention food now. It’d only encourage Kate’s pesky invasion, justify her meddlesome activity and give credibility to this stupid list she is intent on creating. I wonder if these daily meal deliveries can include desserts. I would kill for some strawberry shortcake. Or French toast. Or—
“Anything else?” She peers at me, and I can see in her barely hidden smile that she is enjoying this. Not my pain or sickness, I don’t think she’s a Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy candidate. But the action pleases her, the ability to assist me, to do something—that she enjoys. And maybe it’s that understanding that causes me to open my mouth, to confess the need, the fear, that I hadn’t fully yet faced myself.
“I need you to find me a ghostwriter.”
KATE
A ghostwriter. Kate presses her tongue against her teeth in an attempt to not open her mouth, to ask for clarification on a concept that she never thought Helena Ross would ever, ever, consider. Forget swallowing the pride of having someone fix her meals. This was a job a thousand times more personal, more invasive—not to mention impossible. There is no way that Helena Ross will ever be okay with another set of hands touching her manuscript, reading her words, much less writing on her behalf. Kate carefully sets down her pen, sliding her hands into her lap and schooling her features into a pleasant mask of acceptance.
“You want to hire a ghostwriter,” she repeats. “For the new book you’re writing?” The book that she had driven here to talk Helena out of, hoping that a face-to-face with the woman might go further than a phone call.