Даниэла Стил - Finding Ashley [calibre]

“Never.” She answered his question immediately. “You have to sell your soul to be a successful writer. I did that for ten years. And in my case, I needed to be angry to do it. I’m not angry anymore. I don’t need to write and won’t again. My books and our son held our marriage together and made it work, since my husband was my literary agent. He made some great deals for me. That’s all over. I don’t need it, and everything you have to do to stay on top. My life is better now.” She had that in common with him. They could have had bigger lives, and didn’t want them. She’d had all that for a while, and Robbie had been her excuse to give it up. She realized now that in some ways she’d been relieved to stop.

“What were you angry about?”

She thought about it for a minute before she answered. “Everything. Everyone. My parents. My mother, for sending me to Ireland and forcing me to give up the baby. She was a hard, unhappy woman with a sharp tongue. I’ve been more like her than I want to be since my son died. I guess she was angry too, at my father. He was a weak man, from a successful family with money. He lost most of it and couldn’t keep a job. He was an alcoholic, but a quiet one. He let her do whatever she wanted to keep the peace, and took a beating from her every day. She died when I was seventeen, less than a year after I came back from Ireland, which I never forgave her for. And he died a year later, of cirrhosis. I took care of my sister then. She’s six years younger. She was like my own child. She wanted to be an actress, and threw all of it out the window and ran away to become a nun. I never understood it, and I hated nuns because they took my baby away. So after that, I was angry at her too. I was angry at life when my son got sick and died. I’m not angry at my ex-husband. I don’t blame him for leaving me. There was nothing left of me by then, and he was in pain too. He’s married to a quiet, unexciting woman, a writer too, but she’s a nice person and she suits him. I hope he’s happy. We don’t speak. I email him once a year. I haven’t seen him in years, and don’t want to. So I guess you could say that anger has fueled me, and my writing. I don’t want to live like that or be angry anymore. That’s all writing was for me, a place for me to vent. The books were very dark, and for some reason, people loved them. They thought they were brilliant, and so did the critics. They were just the rantings of an enraged woman, mad at life.”

“They’re a lot more than that. I’ve read them. They’re dark, but there’s a soft underbelly to them, a tenderness and poignancy that shines through. They made me cry when I read them.”

“For the characters?” She looked surprised. “Some of them are pretty awful people.”

“I cried for you. I could feel your pain when I read them.” What he said touched her deeply and she was silent for a minute. “So we’ve both taken refuge here,” he commented to fill the silence. “I’m not hiding. I really love it,” he said, as they finished the lobster. They had eaten every bit of it, and the melted butter had been delicately flavored with truffle oil. She had noticed and loved it.

“Neither am I,” she said, and then thought better of it. “Well, maybe I am hiding. Or I was. I’m not hiding now. And life has a way of finding you wherever you are anyway. I’m stunned that my sister found my daughter. I had no idea she was doing that. She got lucky, and so did I.”

“Some things are just meant to be. You can’t stop them, both good and bad.” She knew it was true. Hattie had just demonstrated that.

“I’m glad my sister and I are close again. I missed her. I just couldn’t understand why she’d want to be a nun, and not an actress. But it seems to suit her.” He smiled at that.

“Maybe for the same reason you’d rather be a carpenter or a ‘farmer’ instead of a writer, and I’d rather build houses than be a politician. We’ve made choices, and those choices have made us who we are. I’d rather go to prison than be in politics,” he said, and Melissa laughed.

“Some people do both.” He laughed too. He had always liked their exchanges, even when she was tart or sharp with him. There was usually a reason for it, and if angry, she expressed it well. But she could be kind at times too. And he loved talking to her now that they were both revealing more of themselves. She was everything he had guessed, and more. He was a good judge of people, and tolerant of their quirks and flaws. More than she was.

She often said that she was allergic to stupidity, and hated people who didn’t keep their word, or lied. She held herself to a high standard and expected that of others. He knew she was a hard worker, they had that in common too, and the no-frills life they had both adopted, although her home was supremely comfortable, in part thanks to him, and the improvements he had added, like the air-conditioning he had forced on her, and she loved now in the blazing summers. She hadn’t thought it necessary, and too expensive, and he had insisted. And now she thanked him.

They cleared away the dishes, and left them on the counter. And he brought out a plum tart he had made himself from the fruit on his property.

“It’s a German recipe I found,” he explained, and when she tried it, it was delicate and delicious.

“You should be a chef,” she complimented him.

“I’m better with houses.” He smiled at her.

“Me too. Better than with people, in my case,” she said. “I used to envy my sister for how extroverted she was, and at ease with people. She could talk to a stone before she went into the convent. She’s more subdued now. But she still has a gregarious nature. I was always the shy, serious one, which is probably why I became a writer. It’s an easy way to communicate, instead of talking.”

“Not for me,” he said with a smile. “It still kills me to write a letter. I’d rather talk to people than send emails, which I hate. They’re so dehumanizing.”

“I suppose so, but it’s easier.” They finished the tart and he poured them each a small glass of Sauterne that he had brought with him. It had been an exquisite dinner. “It was fantastic,” she complimented him. She felt relaxed and sated and had stopped worrying about meeting Michaela while she talked to him. He had a way of making everything seem peaceful. “I’m nervous about meeting my daughter,” she confessed to him over the Sauterne, when they went to sit in the living room. The evening was chilly and he lit a fire in the fireplace he had built for her that was even prettier than the original. He had found an antique marble mantelpiece at an auction in Newport, Rhode Island, from one of the Vanderbilt estates.

“She’s going to love you,” he said confidently.

“How can I compete with Marla Moore, she’s a brilliant actress, and very glamorous.”

“That doesn’t make her a great mother. And there’s room for both of you in her life. You have a lot to offer her. And you’re younger and have a different point of view.” She hadn’t thought of that before. “Most actresses are narcissists, that’s not easy either.” What he said reassured her a little, and she thought of the things he had told her about himself at dinner, about his marriage, his career, and his family. He was an interesting person, and deeper than she had realized. She was touched that he had read her books, and was very perceptive about them. She wasn’t sure that even Carson had understood them as well as Norm had, and seen the suffering in them. Carson focused on the violence and plot twists that made them sell, so he could hit her publishers for more money. Norm had seen beyond that, he had seen her.

They were both looking into the fire, as Norm turned and put a gentle arm around her. He was a big man, and she felt small next to him. Everything about him promised safety and protection. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time, if ever. She and Carson had a very different relationship, based on business, which was appropriate at the time. But she was in a different place in her life now. And Carson was six years older, always with an eye on the future, and a bigger deal. She was fine with it then, but wouldn’t have been now. He had tried to do the same with Jane, his new wife, but her work had never taken off the way Melissa’s had. She had a small following of faithful readers, but he had never been able to make a big deal of her. Melissa had been his star, and the star had closed up shop and gone out of business.