Page 103 of Lucky Night

She shrugs. It’s a midwestern thing, I think. And a woman thing. Praise is a trap, you know? If I take the bait, I might be found out. Exposed as a fraud.

Look, he says. I expose frauds for a living. I also conceal and deny them as the occasion demands. The point is, I know frauds. You aren’t one. You’re amazing.

So are you! she says instantly.

He shakes his head, mystified.

You are, though. I’ve read about your cases in theTimes. That big antitrust one last year?

Sure, he says. Asshole Gets Asshole Corporation off the Hook. I’m a credit to the species. But we’re not talking aboutme.

He takes her hands. You, Jenny Parrish? Are great.

She tries to pull away, but he holds her tight.

Stop it! In the time I’ve known you, look at what you’ve done. You were a, what, a stay-at-home mom with two kids, frazzled, exhausted, being mauled and manhandled all the time. And the work you’d done before that hadn’t been anything special, right? What wasit?

I was a digital marketing manager.

I have no idea what thatis.

It involves using the internet to…you know what? she says. Doesn’t matter.

Right. Anyway, you had this full life, crammed with people and their wants and needs. Always grabbing at you and making demands. Even more when I came along. But one day, you had an idea. You started to write, fitting it in—before the kids woke up and after they went to bed, you told me once—and you didit!

She’s looking away. She’s blushing! Too bad. He’s not finished.

You wrote, with no experience, no outside encouragement, not knowing if it would come to anything or if anyone would ever read it, and now you’re famous! Your books are everywhere. I saw them in the Dubai airport last month.

It’s not like I took any risks, she says.

Just like you can’t take any goddamn compliments, Jenny, Jesus!

I mean it, she insists. We had money, I didn’t sacrifice,or—

Why is that the metric? What astounds me is that you did it. You reinvented yourself. Two huge bestsellers, a third on the way—and who knows what’s coming after that?

You’re awfully impressed by my books all of a sudden, she says.

I’ve always been impressed.

By the author photo, sure. She smiles. You might not be so thrilled by what’s inside.

Right, he says, nodding. I…right.

He rises and walks to the window.

The snow is scanty now. Just the occasional flake whippingby.

He looks out at the night. Feeling a little killed.

She has no idea what he thinks of her, and she doubts his sincerecompliments, because he has consistently diminished and mocked her. Pretended he’s too good for her books, made crude jokes about them. Showed no consideration for how she might feel about her accomplishments.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against the glass. It’s pleasantly cold.

Who wouldn’t feel undeserving of praise if they were belittled, teased, all in the guise of good fun?

He nearly confessed, earlier. When she asked for his deepest secret. He almost said:

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