Page 17 of The Ghostwriter

“Yes, I’m interested in the house at 554 Van Buren.”

Her tone turns abrupt. “I’m sorry; we can’t help you with that.”

“I thought your company handles that property.”

“We do, but that house is not for rent.”

“But it’s vacant,” I tell her.

“That may be, but the owner isn’t interested in renting it at this time. We have other properties available if you like.”

“Who is the owner?” I ask.

Her voice grows chilly. “Like I said, that property isn’t available. Please let us know if you’d like to see something else.”

Then the line disconnects. I sit, staring at my phone. A woman walking her dog passes, glancing at me and then continuing.

As a journalist, I used to have access to all kinds of databases and sources I could call, but it’s been a long time since I moved in that world. I could spend the day figuring out how to pull a property title, or I could find a new source.

I pick up my phone to text my real estate agent, Renee, but when I open the thread, I realize I didn’t call her after that last text she sent about reducing the price of the house.

Sorry I never responded to this. I’m up in Ojai and would love your help on something. I’m interested in a property here, but I’m having a hard time figuring out who owns it. It’s not on the market, but it’s vacant. Isthere any way you could you look it up for me? And I’ll seriously consider reducing the price. I promise.

I type the address into a separate text, then stare at my phone, hoping to see the three dots showing that she’s responding. But after five minutes of silence, I drop my phone into the console and head back to my father’s house.

***

I decide to take the long way back, letting my memory spool out—not just of my time living in Ojai, but the first year I lived abroad. I remember feeling cut off, lonely for the routines of home, the sound of my father in his office writing, or of his voice on the phone. I missed everything—even the things I claimed to have hated. My father’s drinking. His late nights. His frequent trips. I realized how much I missed the possibility of his presence when his presence was now thousands of miles away, out of reach. Other parents would come and visit their kids, but my father only attended one parents’ weekend the entire time I was away at school.

It was November of my first year and I’d begged him to come. My father had seemed more like himself on our calls—he was working on a new book he was excited about. He seemed sharper, responding to my questions and asking some of his own. No long pauses where I’d wonder if the call got dropped or if he’d fallen asleep. Instead he seemed excited to see me. I imagined having him there—his old self, the one who knew how to entertain with a great story. Who made anyone he spoke to feel special.

He’d arrived late Friday night and we’d made plans to meet at the dean’s coffee reception the following morning. I’d stood in the entry to the Alumni House, the last student waiting for a parent to arrive. Wondering what version of my father would be showing up. Or if he’d show up at all.

When he finally arrived, he seemed hurried. “Let’s get this over with,” he’d said.

I trailed after him. “What do you mean?”

“I set up a meeting with one of my foreign publishers while I’m here. Just a quick meet and greet.”

I halted. “On parents’ weekend?”

He turned to face me. “This school isn’t going to pay for itself.”

“I never even wanted to come here.” I hated how petulant I sounded, and I knew it wouldn’t go over well with him.

He sighed, exasperated. “Not this again, Olivia.”

I followed him into the reception, watching him grab a cup of coffee from a table set up by the back wall. We stood there, not talking, and I noticed how his cup rattled against the saucer. My father must have noticed too because he ditched the saucer on a nearby table.

One of my teachers approached us. “Mr. Taylor, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Francesca Williamson, Olivia’s English teacher and adviser. You have quite an extraordinary daughter.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to hear she’s settling in.”

Ms. Williamson said, “She’s more than just settling in. Olivia is the founding member of a new student group, the Women’s Empowerment Club. So far, we have about twenty members.”

My father rolled his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake.”

Ms. Williamson looked startled. “Excuse me?”

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