But I don’t get why my unconscious chose to place him in a hotel room with me. It suggests sex, an illicit rendezvous.
The idea unsettles me. Paul was handsome in his own way, but I never experienced even a flutter of attraction toward him. And even if I had, he was married, and so was I, and I would have squelched any feelings immediately.
Positioning my upper body against the headboard of the bed, I dispatch my memory back to that night before the accident in Boston, to me sitting outside the hotel ballroom as a line of plucky, hopeful women, eager to have their books signed, snaked toward the table. Paul showed up out of nowhere—and also out of context. We’d brainstormed several times in meetings at the publishing house in Manhattan, and we’d even been to lunch twice, once in a group and once alone, but his appearance at the event surprised me. The explanation he offered had made sense—that this was an opportunity for him to sneak a look at my fan base as he generated marketing ideas for the paperback release of Twenty Choices—and there was nothing the least bit flirtatious about his manner, no suggestion of a come-on. And yet I realize now that on another level I’d found the whole thing slightly odd that night. Odd that he should arrive out of the blue; odd that he should ask me to dinner. I’d agreed to the ride home in part because he was a colleague and it would have been rude to say no.
Had there been an underlying motive that I missed, sexual or otherwise?
Maybe the location in the dream is simply because my encounter with Paul that night was at my hotel.
I slip out of bed and dress quickly. I’m now remembering a moment in my recent conversation with Casey that had seemed slightly odd as well, something I hadn’t been able to put my finger on.
Downstairs, I grab my phone and call her. Her assistant informs me that Casey is on another line, but she asks me to hold, saying she knows Casey will want her to interrupt the other call so she can take mine. That’s what bestseller status will do for you. As I wait, I pace my kitchen.
“Everything okay?” Casey asks when she picks up thirty seconds later.
“I’m not sure. I have a question and I need you to be completely honest, okay?”
“Of course. About the proposal?”
“No, something else. When we spoke the other day, I mentioned I was considering contacting Paul’s widow, and I asked what you thought. You said you didn’t think it was a good idea. Tell me why.”
An awkward silence ensues, exactly like the one that occurred when we were discussing Paul earlier.
“Uh, it’s just what I told you before,” she says. “I hear she’s still in a terrible state. I didn’t think it would be beneficial for either one of you to talk right now.”
“You hesitated, as if there’s something more going on. Is there, Casey? Please, I really need to know.”
I hear the deep intake of her breath.
“There is something, and I had every intention of sharing it. But I wanted to wait until you were feeling better. You’ve been dealing with enough as it is.”
“Does his wife think I was having an affair with him?” I say. It finally hits me that if Paul surfacing at my talk in Boston had seemed strange to me, it might have to her as well. “Is that it?”
Another pause.
“Apparently she’s had concerns, yes,” Casey finally says. “And unfortunately there’s been buzz around the publishing house, too. People thinking that you and Paul were having a fling.”
The news sickens me—not only do people assume I’ve behaved inappropriately, but also Stephanie has had these ugly rumors piled onto her grief.
“But why would they assume that? What are they basing it on?”
“Apparently Paul never told anyone, even his assistant, that he was planning to give you a lift back to the city.”
“He wouldn’t have mentioned it because it was decided only that night, when he came to my talk.”
“But he hadn’t mentioned his plan to do that either. It all seemed kind of secretive and clandestine to people.”
My chest tightens, as if someone has gripped me from behind with both arms and is squeezing hard.
“This is dreadful,” I say. “I can’t imagine what his poor wife is going through.”
“Now that you know, we should probably discuss how to handle it. You don’t even have to tell me if the rumor’s true or not. Just whether you think we should leave it alone, figuring the gossip will burn off, or institute any kind of damage control.”
Damage control. That obnoxious phrase again.
“It’s not true, Casey. There was absolutely nothing going on between Paul and me. I admit—and this is just between the two of us—I was a bit surprised when he dropped by that night, but his explanation sounded legit. He was in the area, and he was starting to drum up marketing ideas for the paperback.”
I’m trying to rationalize with her the same way I did with myself earlier.
“He didn’t get flirty in any way?”