Page 11 of The Ghostwriter

I look back toward the bike path, but the couple is gone. “He’s busy with work, so no,” I say. Imagining what it would be like to have the two of them in a room together, sharing their own Olivia stories. And while I wish that could be a reality, I know it won’t be. Those two worlds will never collide.

We’re silent for a few minutes, and I savor the substance of him next to me, how familiar it feels. “Are you happy, Livy?” he asks.

I stare at the trees above us. “I’d like to think so,” I say.

He checks the time and stands, brushing dirt off the seat of his pants. “I’d better get back. Friday afternoon traffic is horrific.”

He reaches down to pull me up and wraps his arms around me. He smells the same—mint and pine—and I inhale it. “We need a proper catch-up,” he says. “Can you get away for dinner this Sunday?”

“I think so, but I’d like to keep my return quiet,” I say, thinking of the book and the stipulation that I not reveal my collaboration on it. Knowing that once it publishes, people might have questions if they knew I was here for an extended period of time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been an exhibit at the Taylor Family Zoo.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. “Text me at that number. It’s my cell.”

He squeezes my hand, his fingers warm and calloused. I squeeze back, and for the first time since I returned to town, I feel a sense of calm, a belief that everything is going to be okay.

***

Around dinner time, I call Tom.

“Hey there,” he says when he answers. “How was your day?”

“Long,” I tell him, imagining him in his apartment in Brentwood, splayed out on his couch, his flat-screen TV showing some kind of ball game on mute.

“Let me guess. You’re holed up in Oprah’s guesthouse, hired to write a tell-all by her personal chef.”

I laugh, looking around the crowded space, which is most certainly nowhere near what Oprah’s guesthouse must look like. “I’m definitely not in Montecito,” I say.

“Okay. You’re in San Diego working on a book about the Famous Chicken who has always felt shortchanged by never being the Padres’ official mascot.”

“Definitely not in San Diego either, though that sounds like an amazing book idea. I’ll pitch it to Nicole when I’m done here.” I settle back, letting the stress of the day melt away, Tom’s voice low in my ear. “What makes you think I’m even in California?” I ask.

“Math,” he tells me. “You have to be somewhere within driving distance.”

“Maybe I drove to LAX and flew somewhere.”

“Not a chance,” he counters. “Even without the lawsuit, you’re too cheap to pay for airport parking.”

I laugh, imagining what it would feel like to tell Tom that I’m in Ojai with my sick father, that it feels complicated and scary. That, perhaps for the first time in my career, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do the job I’ve been asked to do.

“Do you have a scope of the job yet?” he asks. “How long will you be there?”

“Not sure.” I glance at the stack of legal pads, wondering what I’ll find when I really sit down and look. “I’ve been told it’ll only be a month, but I’m thinking it might be longer.” My father and I had agreed to give it a week, but already I know I’m not going to walk away.

We make small talk about his day for a few more minutes before he yawns. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” I say.

“I love you.”

I think about what that means to me, the safety I feel with Tom, and hope that in a few weeks, this will all be behind me. The book will be done, and I will be back home again. And eventually, the lie I’ve fed the world, about my father at least, will be true.

“I love you too,” I say.

***

Later that night, I’m hate-scrolling through Instagram, noting which of my colleagues are releasing new books, wondering which of their subjects would have wanted to work with me, had their editors allowed it, when I hear frantic yelling coming from the house. My father’s voice, an urgent jumble of words I can’t make out. The time on my phone reads just past midnight. I leap from my bed, throw open the door, and tumble down the stairs of the guesthouse and across the courtyard, my father growing louder as I approach. The window to his room is open and I can see the top of his head as he struggles with the bottom sill.

My heart pounds as I follow the sound upstairs, into his bedroom where I find him wearing a T-shirt and a pair of threadbare pajama bottoms. Alma stands next to him, her hand on his arm trying to soothe him.

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