Page 10 of The Ghostwriter

“I’m sorry.”

I wave away his sympathy. “Don’t be. We were young. It was a starter marriage, but I kept his last name.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Dumont,” I say, waiting to see if he’ll recognize the name. Not for my books but for the scandal that now pops up first when you google me.

But he seems oblivious. “Where do you live?” he asks. “What do you do for a living?”

“Los Angeles,” I say, my mind slipping past the details of my life there. The home I love that I’m about to lose. The looming threat ofbankruptcy if I can’t pull off this book on the publisher’s timeline. “I’m a ghostwriter—famous people hire me to write their life stories and then we put their name on the book.”

He grows curious. “Like who?”

“Lots of people,” I say. “A few years ago I worked with Rena Salazar, the professional surfer. She started that literacy foundation in Africa.” I offer him some fries, deciding to skip over my most recent book and my collaboration on it so abruptly silenced.

He takes a fry, as I knew he would, and looks impressed. “That sounds amazing. But what brings you back to Ojai?” he asks. “Surely it isn’t to see your dad.”

I chew, thinking about how I should respond, and I wonder if I should have just kept walking. “Actually, it is,” I say.

He looks offended. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

“He’s sick,” I tell him. “Lewy body dementia.”

“I think I heard something about that, though people in town have been heavy on gossip and light on facts.”

“As usual.”

“Is it bad?” he asks.

“I think so,” I admit, setting the fries on the log between us. We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I savor his presence. How good it feels to be around someone who really knows me. Understands my family and where I came from.

“How long do you think you’ll be here?”

I shake my head. “I can’t say for certain.” I’m never comfortable when I’m prohibited from disclosing my work on a project. I hate misleading people, and I miss out on a lot of opportunities for impromptu interviews. I much prefer when my presence is known to everyone. But this time, I’m relieved to hide behind the facade of familial duty. “Speaking of dysfunctional parents, how’s your dad?” I ask.

“Supposedly retired, though you’d never know it by how often heshows up at the vineyard, offering advice and questioning every decision I make. But he’s twenty years sober.”

“That’s great,” I say. Mark Randall had always been a drinker, but as the years went on, things got really bad for Jack.

A cool breeze kicks up and my arms prickle with goose bumps. The eucalyptus trees above us cast a long shadow in the sunlight. Jack straightens his legs and leans back on his elbows.

“So tell me about you,” I say.

He holds up his left hand to show a ring. “Married five years now.”

“His name?” I ask.

“Matt,” he says. “We met at the winery, actually. He applied for a job as sommelier. He didn’t get it, but I like to say he got something better.”

I smile, crumpling up the empty burger wrapper and shoving it into the empty bag. If anyone deserves happiness, Jack does.

“So I guess you finally came out.” I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

He waves away my apology. “It’s fine. Turns out, my mother had long suspected and had done a lot of the heavy lifting for me with my dad. They both adore Matt.” He looks at me sideways. “What about you? Anyone special?”

I watch a couple biking past us, letting my eyes trail after the pair, noticing the way they pedal in slow circles, perfectly in sync. I imagine they are me and Tom, in a parallel universe, one where I haven’t lied about my past. “Yes,” I say, looking back at him again. “His name is Tom and he’s an architect.”

“Is he here with you? I’d love to meet him.”

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