Glumly, he said into the phone, “I wish.”
She slammed down the phone in response.
For months after, he thought about using his resources to track her down. What would he say to an eighteen-year-old girl? The age gap was too great.
Because he was thinking about age differences, he thought about his first love, and his first time, with Brynn.
At the time, their age difference had been a canyon, but now it was almost nothing at all. They were practically the same age.
He went to the computer to see if he could find her phone number.
She was listed, under her married name.
Part 3: Book Club
Tori
The plane from Montreal had a rough landing, and I caught a glimpse of panic on one of the flight attendant's faces, so naturally I thought we were about to crash and die.
You'd think that in the moments before my demise, I'd have some clarity of thought—some idea about what I was supposed to do next in my life. My heart pounded, and in my mind, I felt the crunching of twigs under my feet as I ran—ran from Smith, or from that moose I'd encountered my first day in Vermont. If we'd crashed, my final mortal thought would have been, what is the plural of moose?
We landed, and as the small plane taxied through the network of runways, I had three more thoughts:
I'd never been so hungry in my life.
I had nowhere to wear a necklace as fancy as the one Smith had hidden in my purse.
My mother was going to be pissed I didn't even get an autographed paperback for her.
Inside the little airport, I hit the fast food counter and ate a big, greasy burger, plus fries and a milkshake. It was the first junk food I'd had in weeks, and I could feel the nitrates and preservatives filling me out and bringing me back to my old life.
I went outside to hail a cab, my stomach already distended with regret. Instead of giving the driver the address of my apartment, where nobody would be waiting for me, I had him take me to my mother's.
There was a party going on at her house, and I would have turned right around, but the cab's red taillights were blinking away down the street. The sun had set during the long drive from the airport, and I could see the ladies of my mother's book club through the sheers.
The door was unlocked, as usual, so I let myself in.
My mother waved me over to the table. “Victoria! You're home early!”
All six of her friends peered up at me with curiosity. One of her friends said, “Spill the beans, girl. Who was this author you were working for? We're all dying to know.”
“You told them?”
My mother looked guilty. “I didn't say who it was.”
“Only because you didn't know.”
She looked even more guilty, twisting her lips from side to side.
I thought about how fun it would be to see the looks on all their faces if I told them I'd been working in close contact with one of their favorite authors, the creator of the Detective Smith Dunham series.
Then I thought about the non-disclosure agreement I'd signed.
Then I thought about Smith Fucking Wittingham and all the twatty things he'd done, including tossing a lamp across the room like a spoiled brat and scaring the shit out of me.
One of the ladies complimented my mother on the “fancy” cheese she'd put out.
I took a seat at the table. “Who are we discussing?”
My mother pointed to her copy of the most recent Dunham novel, little tongues of Post-It Notes peeking out from the pages. “We tried to read Cutting for Stone, because Noreen thought it was 'luminous,' but I couldn't get past the first chapter about aromatic soil or whatever. Now we're talking about our favorite bad boy.”
My mother's friend Noreen said to me, with hope in her eyes and voice, “Have you read Cutting for Stone?”
“No, but I did spend the last two weeks working for Smith Fu... Uh, Smith Wittingham. Did you know he has the entire book worked out in his head, and then he recites it to someone who does the typing?”
My mother narrowed her eyes. “Very funny, miss smartypants. Don't tease us. Do you want some wine?” She shook a white cardboard box with a spigot. “It's the good kind.”
“Seriously. I was working for Smith Wittingham, at his writing cabin in Vermont.” I grabbed the box of wine and filled a glass for myself. “This is all top-secret, though, so it can't leave this room. His publisher could sue me if I blab about the actual story, but… I can tell you about Smith, if you want.”
The ladies peppered me with questions:
“What does he smell like?”
“Did you get a crush on him? I'd be too embarrassed to even talk around him. My heart's all pitter-patter right now just thinking about being in the same room with him.”
“Is Detective Dunham ever going to settle down with one woman?”
“Is Smith dating anyone? I mean the author, not the detective. He's single, isn't he?”
“I don't think he's married. Is he, Tori? He was married to some woman. She does all that charity work, where they rehabilitate people with horseback riding. What's her name? Brynn. Brynn Wittingham.”
I raised my hand to get the seven of them to shush for a moment. “One question at a time, ladies. First of all, he smells like luxury, and he showers two or three times a day. Secondly, he does have a rather charismatic presence, and it's hard not to be put off-balance by him. His eyes are the color of sapphires, for real. The author photos are not retouched. As for the detective, he'll never settle down, because it would end the series, but mostly, I don't think Smith would like that idea. Finally, he's, um…” I glanced over at my mother. “He's currently single.”
My mother's cheeks reddened, and her expression became a confusing mix of emotions.
The other ladies looked from her, to me, then back again.
My mother picked up the paperback and flipped to the back page, to the author photo of Smith Wittingham looking into the camera with his trademark sexy sneer.
“He didn't take advantage of me,” I said.
My mother scowled. “The man is practically twice your age, and richer than God. He had no right. No right.”
I gulped down the top half of my glass of wine. “I'm twenty-three and he's forty-one. That's only eighteen years.” Even as I said it, I surprised myself. Now I was defending Smith?
My mother's best friend Roberta patted my mother's arm. “She is an adult. She has to make her own choices. I might remind you, my daughter's dating a drummer. A drummer! He has more tattoos than a junkyard dog has fleas.” She moved in closer to my mother, putting her arm up around her shoulders. “Actually, I suspect the drummer has fleas as well. He's got such long hair, and talking to him makes me itchy.”