Page 68 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
He took it from his mouth and looked at it as if surprised to see it. “I know you disapprove of cigarettes, and cigars stink, but I thought you’d be okay with a pipe. My grandfather left me his collection when he died, and Mr. Vanderhorst was kind enough to leave several tins of tobacco in the freezer.”
“But you don’t smoke.”
He shrugged. “No, I really don’t. But I didn’t want to start drinking again, and smoking was the next best thing. And it worked for Sherlock Holmes—he always smoked a pipe when solving complex puzzles. Besides, after I’m gone, the pipe smoke will let you know that I’m hanging around.” He offered a half smile.
“Don’t say that, Jack.” I wasn’t sure if my concern was more over him mentioning his death or over his need for a drink. I walked across the room and stopped near his chair. “What’s happened?”
A crease formed above his nose as if he was trying to remember. “Well, for starters, when I woke up at three in the morning, the first thought in my head was that I needed a drink.” He took a long puff from his pipe, then coughed a little. “It’s been years since I had that thought first thing.” His eyes met mine, and I felt the heat of his gaze. “I usually have better things to think about when I wake up.”
A flash of heat spiraled up from my core, nearly making me dizzy as it reached my head. He’d had that effect on me since we’d first met. I took a deep breath. “Has something happened?”
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Let’s start with the good news,” I suggested, thinking in the back of my head that maybe I could distract him from telling me the bad news.
“I heard from Steve Dungan, my architect friend. He finally looked at the building plans for both mausoleums, examining all the measurements, comparing the width and length of all the walls, the angles of the triangle that forms the structure, looking for any differences.” He sucked on the pipe, his eyes closed briefly. When he blew out the smoke, I smelled a not-unpleasing mixture of sweetness and spice.
“And?” I prompted.
“He found only two changes from the original. The first is that the original mausoleum had spaces for ten crypts, not just the three that are there now. The other thing he noticed is that the second mausoleum is exactly two brick widths taller than the first.”
I thought for a moment. “The row of bricks with the strange markings is two bricks wide. Which tells me that the whole purpose of rebuilding the mausoleum was to add that double row.”
“Yeah, so that might be the reason why the first mausoleum was demolished and replaced with a nearly identical one two years later. Hopefully we’ll figure out what the reason was when we finish thepuzzle on Jayne’s dining room table.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you can ask the ghost of Sherlock Holmes for help on that one for me?”
I frowned. “You do know he’s a fictional character, right?”
Jack leaned his head against the back of his chair and looked at me through half-closed eyes. “Sure. Just trying to keep my fantasy world intact so I can still write books.” He tilted his head slightly. “You look real sexy with your hair like that—all rumpled from sleep.”
I smiled, glad not only that distracting Jack was going to be easier than I’d thought, but also that I didn’t have to listen to the bad news. I took a step closer, his eyes following me.
“And then there’s the bad news,” he said, and I stopped.
He lifted his head. “I made the mistake of checking my e-mail instead of trying to go back to sleep. My brilliant editor, whom I’m beginning to believe really must be a twelve-year-old boy in disguise, told me that in a marketing meeting where all the powers that be discuss what to do with problem children—books they don’t know how to market, that is—the brilliant suggestion had been made to convert my next book into a graphic novel.”
“A graphic novel? What’s that?”
“Basically? A cartoon. They’re going for that younger market.”
“But your book is about a mentally ill mother with Munchausen syndrome by proxy who kills her daughter. Not sure how that would translate into a cartoon.”
“Bingo. You don’t know how refreshing it is to hear the voice of reason. It’s rare in the publishing business, apparently.”
“But they can’t do that if you don’t agree to it, right? And if you don’t, you’ll just find another publisher.”
He barked out a laugh, a dark, ugly sound. “If it were only that easy. If there’s such a thing as being blackballed, that’s what would happen to me. Nobody is taking my phone calls or returning my e-mails. I couldn’t find a new agent right now unless I could prove I was the reincarnation of Margaret Mitchell. It’s like I’m the plague and nobody wants to be infected.”
I sat on the edge of the ottoman, unsure of my role. He was always the one with the answers. The first person I ran to. It was hard to reconcile the accomplished man with the chiseled face and piercing eyes with this man referring to himself as an infectious disease. For an instant I considered looking past this moment to the next, of closing my eyes to a problem I had no idea how to solve and telling him what I’d just seen upstairs, hoping that answering the question of Eliza would make him forget about his own.
But I couldn’t do any of those things. Because Jack needed me. Needed me to be strong and to shoulder some of the problem solving on my own. I had a small fantasy where I figured out what Eliza was trying to tell me tonight and it was the key to everything. I imagined solving it all and handing it to Jack and him immediately turning it all into a bestselling novel. Maybe that’s why my grandmother had called. To tell me I needed to take care of things, to protect Jack while he dealt with his personal demons.
Placing my hands on his leg, I leaned forward and said, “This is all temporary, Jack. You’ve got a great book already written, and the idea for another one—you’re not out of the game. Not by a long shot. You’ve got a respected body of work and that alone speaks volumes.”
He blew out a puff of smoke, temporarily obscuring his face. “I want to believe that. You have no idea how much. But, Mellie, my career is my identity. I’m a writer. A bestselling author. Without that, who am I?”
I leaned closer. “You’re a father, a son, and a husband. And you’re damned good at all three of those roles, and those are a heck of a lot more important than anything else.” I tried to think of what else might jolt him from his despondency, but I was woefully lacking in the ability to give a pep talk. As an only child and a single woman for most of my adult life, I hadn’t learned that skill. Maybe, just this once, I’d revert to the old Mellie and pretend that Jack’s despondency didn’t exist. It was simple, really. I just wouldn’t allow it.
“Do you mean that?” he said, his voice smoky.
