Page 18 of The Ghostwriter

“I sent her here to get the best education money can buy. Not to start some feminist club that won’t accomplish anything other than to make a lot of noise and cause a lot of trouble.”

“I disagree,” Ms. Williamson said. “So far, the club has given a voice to many young women about issues they care about. Equity in student government. Making sure female authors have representation on class syllabi.”

“Jesus,” my father muttered, setting his coffee cup down and lookingtoward the exit. His voice grew louder, catching the attention of several people around us, silencing their conversations. “When history repeats itself, only the fool stands around and watches it happen.”

“Please don’t do this,” I whispered.

“Do what?” he said. “I want you to focus on getting the education that I’m paying tens of thousands of dollars for you to receive, not become the next Gloria Steinem.” At this point I could see the sweat blooming on his forehead. The panic rising in him—a caged animal looking for an escape.

More people were looking at us now and I could feel my face burning. The silent judgment of Ms. Williamson, who I’d desperately wished would excuse herself so that she wouldn’t have to bear witness to my father’s unraveling. “Why can’t you just behave?” he asked. “Do what you’re supposed to do—go to school. Do your homework. Listen to the adults. Why do you always have to be agitating toward something? Making waves. Noise.”

He wasn’t making any sense, although that wasn’t new for me. “All I wanted was to have more current authors on my reading lists,” I said, though my voice was low, barely above a whisper.

“I need to go, but we can discuss this more at dinner,” he said. “I made reservations at the hotel; I assume you can get there on your own?”

“No,” I said. “I need you to pick me up.”

But he was already turning away from us.

“Students can’t leave campus unless an adult signs them out or it’s a school-sanctioned trip into town,” Ms. Williamson explained.

“Call Melinda. She’ll sort it out,” he said over his shoulder.

“In California?” I called after him. Melinda could make pretty much anything happen, but I doubted she could sign me out of my boarding school thousands of miles away.

He pushed through the doors and was gone. Around us, conversations resumed, and I suddenly noticed how the other parents were with theirchildren. A mother straightening a collar. Brushing hair off a forehead. A father’s hand on a shoulder.

“I think I’ll go back to my room,” I said to Ms. Williamson.

Thankfully, she let me go.

***

Renee gets back to me later that night.I’m sorry but I’ve been called out of town for a family emergency. I’ve got another agent in the office handling all my clients, though to be honest, you won’t get much more interest on the property until you drop the price.

My thumbs hesitate over the keypad of my phone, wondering if I should fire her or press her for what I need. She didn’t even bother to include the name of the agent covering for her. But another option comes to me—my friend Allison, who works for an escrow company. I’m sure it would be no problem for her to look up the property and get me what I need.

I type out the text quickly.Doing some research on a potential project and need to track down the owner of a house in Ojai.I drop the address into the message and then hit Send, hoping for a quick answer so I can get into that house and search Poppy’s hiding place myself.

Chapter 8

On Sunday evening, I leave the lights on in the guesthouse and skirt around the side of the garage to my car, not wanting to answer any questions about where I’m going or who I’ll be seeing. Once I’m on the highway, I relax my grip on the steering wheel, reminding myself I’m forty-four, not fourteen, and make my way to Jack and Matt’s house.

When I arrive, Jack peers out the window and two seconds later he’s standing in the open doorway of their cottage on the grounds of the winery, tucked between a small hill and the vast vineyards beyond.

“I would have brought wine but…” I gesture toward the vineyard.

He ushers me inside and says, “I’m so glad you came. I was half-worried you’d cancel.”

I pretend to be offended, but a spark of shame flares inside of me because I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out how to do just that. Allison had texted me back:On an island in Fiji with limited cell service. Okay if I do this when I return in two weeks?

I’d sent her a thumbs-up, swallowing down my frustration. Trying to figure out a faster way to get what I needed. But there wasn’t one.

I step into the cozy cabin with colorful art on the walls, a shabby-chic decor that belies the dusty environment outside. Matt emerges from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to him, a dish towel tucked into his belt.

He’s about my height and lean, like a runner, with sandy-brown hair that flops in an artful way I can tell costs money to maintain. After the introductions, I hesitate, wondering what Jack has told him about me and about my family. What kind of context he’s given for this long-lost friend suddenly appearing in town after so many years away. But Matt’s wide smile melts away all my reservations. “Olivia, you’re exactly how I’ve always imagined you,” he says, letting me know, in just those few words, that no explanation is necessary.

***

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