Making it Write, page 6
I shrugged. ‘He never explained,’ I said. ‘He seems to have cut me off.’
Her expression dimmed. ‘It seems a shame. I thought you two would make a nice couple.’ I knew she was being diplomatic by appearing to go along with the ruse that Ben and I were just student and teacher.
I had kind of thought that too, but I really didn’t want to talk about it and finished off my drink before getting up to leave.
It was well after dark when I got home. The socializing had done me good. I spent too many hours alone with my computer. Rocky was company, but our conversations were one-sided.
I put the last of the leftover vegetable stew on to heat up and went to check my messages and emails. I stopped, stunned when I saw there was a text from Maeve. It was noncommittal and asked me to call her. I dithered for a couple minutes, thinking about whether it was good or bad news. It was only a little after seven, so hardly too late to call – and why leave it hanging? It was better to get the news and then deal with whatever it was.
I punched in her number and hoped when she saw the ID on the screen she would answer. It seemed to have rung a bunch of times and I prepared for a recording asking me to leave a message, but a voice answered in a whisper.
‘Maeve?’ I said, not sure I’d gotten the right number.
‘This is not a good time,’ she said so softly I could barely hear her. ‘The job is yours, if you want it.’
I was dumbstruck by the offer and I mumbled a yes without even thinking.
She seemed to be picking her words carefully. ‘I will text you the day and time.’ She was very curt, and I didn’t know what to say beyond an uh-huh. Then it seemed as if she was talking to somebody in the room with her. All I heard was something about hiring the cleaning person they’d requested before she clicked off.
Rocky looked up from his bowl and I gave him a quizzical shrug. ‘I think that was good news.’
I poured some of the stew in a bowl and, as I carried it into the dining room, there was a ping on my phone announcing the arrival of a text. All it had was Friday 3:30. Come to back door. I suddenly wondered if she’d hired me to help write her memoirs or to clean her kitchen.
SEVEN
All this mystery with Maeve had intrigued me and I couldn’t wait until our next meeting to see what would happen. It was a relief when Friday finally arrived but then the hours until the appointed time seemed to drag. There was no getting into the flow of work on anything because I kept checking the clock. There had been no more texts from Maeve with any additional explanation. I was past worrying about how I was dressed and decided the long sweater over comfortable jeans would have to do. I even stuck with sneakers. The only professional touch was the peacock blue messenger bag and I put on some lipstick.
I was keyed up by the time I’d reached the front of the lavender house, wondering what was going to happen this time. She’d offered me the gig and I’d accepted, but clearly there were things that had to be worked out first before it was official.
It felt strange, but she had instructed me to do it, so I went up the driveway and into the backyard. I gave the yard the once-over just long enough to note that the grass was still green but had a layer of fallen leaves. Beyond the grassy section there was an area of dirt that had a garden with some flowers and what looked like vegetables. A short staircase led up to a deck and a door. I didn’t see a bell and knocked lightly. When no one responded, I thought it was another dead end. I had just turned to go when I heard the door open and a whispered voice called my name.
‘This way,’ Maeve said, taking my arm and hustling me inside. I barely got a chance to check out the roomy kitchen, which had a nice combination of updated and old-fashioned touches, before she pointed at a few stairs leading up. It turned at the landing and more stairs led up to the second floor. A lot of these old houses had two sets of stairs. The front one was carpeted and impressive, with a fancy wooden banister and several landings. A window halfway up bathed the stairs in light. The back stairs were meant for the help, which apparently was common to have in the late 1800s when these houses were built. It was like a steep, narrow tunnel.
As we stepped out on the second floor, she stopped and took a moment to listen; when she seemed to feel the coast was clear, she had me follow her to a door at the back end of the hall. There were more stairs. She sent me up first and closed the door behind us. I heard her let out her breath and she appeared to relax a bit.
‘I’m sorry for all the sneaking around. I’ll explain in a moment.’ As I expected, the stairs led to the attic which had been turned into a charming room. Light filled the space that had windows to the east and the south. She showed me the little balcony at the front and I imagined sitting out there and looking at the stars.
Inside there was a bookcase and some comfortable chairs. A long worktable was set up in the middle of the room. A counter along one wall served as a kitchen area. She saw me looking at a short hall off to the side with two doorways. ‘A bathroom and storage,’ she said, answering my thoughts.
‘This might sound a little strange, but would you mind doing an art project with me while we talk.’ I must have looked a little wary because she smiled, showing off the dimples. ‘It’s like a ritual I do whenever I have a visitor up to my sanctuary. I promise it will be fun and easy.’
‘I’m more of a word person,’ I said. ‘How much is my art talent going to count in considering me to work on your memoir?’
She actually laughed a little. ‘Not at all. Well, it’s in your favor for being a good sport. I’m an art teacher at the Dupont Academy. Believe me, there’s no talent required for this project. It’s just fun. You’ll forget all about your worries about being good once we get started.’
For the first time I noticed what she was wearing. The long navy-blue dress with tucks to give it shape looked like something an art teacher would wear to work. The colorful necklace with patterned beads made from Fimo clay gave it an arty touch.
I looked at the long white table littered with art supplies and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
‘So you call this your sanctuary?’ I said, taking in the space again as I tried to stall.
‘It is,’ she answered. ‘It’s off limits unless you’re an invited guest.’ She seemed to sense my hesitancy about the art project. ‘You’ll like it, I promise.’
She pulled out one of the chairs on wheels for me and I sat, rolling it close to the table. ‘Along with the art project, I always offer visitors a drink. Coffee or tea?’ she asked. We narrowed it down to tea and she suggested Masala chai.
‘Chai actually means tea in Hindi,’ she said. ‘Sorry, it’s the teacher in me. I can’t help myself from offering extra information.’ As she created the drinks, the fragrance of spices filled the air with a wonderful scent. She brought two blue patterned cups of the creamy-looking tea mixture to the table along with a sugar bowl. I had the same old cups and thought of mentioning it, but I was afraid it would sound like I was trying too hard to show how simpatico I was.
‘Cheers,’ she said, holding up her cup from across the table. I joined her in the toast and took a long sip.
Her manner and the drink were beginning to work on me, and all the confusion of my previous visits there faded away. There was something infectious in her manner as she pulled off paper from a long roll at the end of the table and set down a sheet in front of each of us. She seemed to have a sense of fun as she pulled out a palette with pots of colors. ‘I promise you are going to like this.’ Her dimples were on full display as I asked about brushes and she held up her finger and said, ‘This is all you need. These are ink pads, not paint.’
She proceeded to demonstrate and I was mesmerized as she made colorful shapes on her paper. She showed me how to wipe my finger between colors and finally how to use a pen to add details to enhance the marks. The shapes became pumpkins, witches on a broomstick and a caterpillar.
‘OK, it’s your turn,’ she said, giving the palette a subtle push toward me. As soon as I made my first mark, I realized she was right. It was fun and easy. I had a thought as I made a red heart. Maybe instead of the store-bought cards I’d been offering Caleb, he could make his own. The handmade touch might finally cut through to his wife’s heart. I’d think about it later. For now, I wanted to get things straightened out with Maeve.
I was trying to think of what to say to focus in on why I was really there, but she started without any help from me.
‘Now that we have drinks and something to do with our hands, we can get down to the real reason you’re here,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I don’t remember what I told you, so please forgive if I repeat. The first thing that is essential is that you don’t disclose even that you’re working on the memoir with me.’ She stopped and her face clouded. ‘I thought I could write it myself, but I’m not a word person. I wrote the beginning, but then I got lost and it started going all over the place. I have notes and sort of an outline, but it needs a professional to put the rest together and to make it interesting.’
I continued making marks on the paper as she talked. Making a memoir interesting about a private school art teacher sounded like a challenge, but I knew how to make ice-cream flavors sound exciting and paint colors sound poetic. I was sure I could find a way to inject something fascinating into her notes. I did wonder about all the need for secrecy, but thought it might be her way of making the whole thing seem more exciting.
‘I think I covered this before, but since it’s really important, I need to ask you again. It would ruin it if news of what we’re working on got out. This neighborhood is like a small town. All it takes is telling one person and then it’s all over.’ I smiled at her comment, thinking of Tizzy and she continued. ‘I need your word that you will tell no one about the memoir or what’s in it.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’ve had other clients who have asked for anonymity and it’s never been a problem.’
‘OK then,’ she said with a smile. ‘The way I thought we could work is that you and I would get together and go over sections of what I have and then you would turn it into chapters. I’d sign off on what you’d written and we’d move on. Everything is in the notes except the ending. I plan to tell you about that when we get to it. I don’t want to take a chance on it getting out. It’s a bit of a surprise.’ She looked at me directly.
‘Though in your case, you might figure it out on your own. I read your mystery and you seem good with clues.’ I waited to see if she’d add something about my book, as in that she liked it, but she left it at that.
‘What exactly is the endgame you want for these memoirs?’ This was the sticky part. I hoped that she didn’t think I had connections to get it published.
‘I have a deal with a small publisher. They want the release timed to an event.’
‘That’s why the six-week deadline,’ I said, remembering she’d brought that up before. I was intrigued that she had a publisher. Since she appeared close to me in age, I had to wonder what could be so compelling about her story that she got a publishing deal based on a pitch?
‘Now that I have more of an idea what you want, I can put together a proposal,’ I said. It was my way of opening the door to a discussion of money. It was going to be a consuming job and I had no idea how difficult she would be to please. I might have to write and rewrite portions numerous times. People tended to think that having the idea or subject matter had all the value and what I did was like filling in a template. I usually had to build up my importance to a project as the client tried to diminish it. In the end both sides needed to feel it was fair. And there was something else. I’d had clients who’d claimed to be unhappy with the final work and simply reneged on our agreement and paid me less, usually with some unkind comments to go with it. Yes, we had an agreement, but I wasn’t going to sue and they knew it. The best I could do was try to work with people I thought were honorable and to get a good-sized deposit.
‘I already talked to my publisher and they know I need help finishing the book. The credit will read “by Maeve Winslow as told to Veronica Blackstone”.’ She’d gotten out a laptop computer and, after a moment, turned the screen to face me. ‘It’s a contract with the publisher.’ She let me read it over and it spelled out what she’d already said, including the time frame and the credit. There was also an amount at the bottom. It was more than I would have asked for by several thousand dollars.
‘All you have to do is sign it electronically and we’re ready to start.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry for rushing you around and being a no-show for our first meeting. I was actually up here. I’d thought I’d be home alone and when I wasn’t, I panicked.’
I read the agreement over again and hit a key to sign it. We both seemed relieved that we’d settled our deal and she encouraged me to go back to the artwork as she showed me how to make Christmas trees and Easter bunnies.
‘Now we can officially start,’ she said. ‘The first thing I should probably tell you about is my husband. He goes by the name of Michael Angel and he’s an artist.’
My first impulse was to jerk my head up and mention the reception, but this was really about her talking and me listening, so I let it go by. But as she did, I tried to put the pieces together. Tizzy had found out that Suzzanna was the artist’s daughter. Did that make Maeve her mother? I looked at the art teacher and again realized she was just a little older than me and remembered that Suzzanna appeared to be closing in on thirty. OK, so she had to be the second wife. I stopped the artwork and took out a notebook and pen, scribbled down some notes.
‘It’s my memoir,’ she said, ‘but he’s really the story. He’s far more interesting than I am,’ she said.
Ah, now it made sense.
‘What a coincidence,’ I said, before mentioning my attendance at the reception. ‘Were you there?’ I realized since I hadn’t met her yet, she could have walked right by me and I wouldn’t have known.
‘No. I used to go to everything, but well …’ Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. ‘Things have changed, and his daughter has anointed herself as his side person. She’s not exactly a fan of mine.’ I almost nodded in agreement, remembering Suzzanna’s tone as she talked about Maeve. ‘We’ll get to all the relationships with the people who have come into our life when we work on the manuscript. Just a hint, they aren’t as they seem – except for with my stepdaughter. With her it’s very clear. She would like me out of the picture.’ Maeve’s lips curved in a sly smile. ‘There’s a certain irony to that.’ She glanced at me. ‘You’ll understand when we get to the end.’
‘I love the Scotty dog pictures,’ I said. I thought of the postcard that was still in my purse and considered bringing it out to show her.
‘You and everybody else,’ she said. ‘They seemed to have touched a common spot in different kinds of people. I think the paintings speak to the heart.’
I remembered Tizzy and Theo’s argument over which of the local art fairs he’d gotten his start in. I might not be able to tell Tizzy and Theo how I found out, but I could at least settle the dispute between them, so I asked about it.
‘The community art fair. The committee for the 57th Street fair rejected us. We were so disappointed, but … I guess it turned out OK,’ she said with a little laugh at the obvious understatement. She’d continued with the ink pads as we talked and added some details to a bumblebee she’d created. ‘Who knows if the painting would have been noticed in the other art fair?’
Her expression grew wistful. ‘I wish I’d been there for the kismet moment when Sophia saw the painting and the Scotty looked just like her dog. Michael was so excited at the sale and even more that her companion owned a prestigious art gallery.’ She let out a sigh. ‘If only I hadn’t gone out to get sandwiches, everything might have been different. Michael threw in the copyright when they offered him some extra money.’
‘What does that mean?’ I said. I knew what a copyright meant with writing, but not with art.
‘It means she could make all those posters and T-shirts and stuff. But it was really a win for Michael. All that exposure put him where he is today.’ She finished making a set of tulips with the ink set and pushed the paper away. ‘I didn’t expect to start talking about anything until you’d looked over what I have.’ She got up and came back with a stack of papers held together with oversized rubber bands, handing it to me.
‘Oh,’ I said, taking the hefty pile. I glanced at the top page and saw it was handwritten.
‘I didn’t want to use a computer,’ she said. ‘So be careful with it. That’s the only copy.’
I was barely able to get the thick wad in the messenger bag.
‘And the check,’ she said, putting it on the table in front of me. We hadn’t discussed it, and I assumed it would be a deposit, but it was the whole amount. I started to say something, before she stopped me. ‘I wanted to make sure you got paid even if there are some snags.’
‘What do you mean snags?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure there won’t be, but in case anyone tries to stop the project.’ Her expression darkened as she said it. ‘That’s why all the secrecy. It’s about family and well, they might not like what I’m going to say.’
She froze at the sound of a car door closing outside. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. I rushed to gather up the paper I’d covered with colorful markings, realizing too late that I hadn’t cleaned off my finger from the bumblebee I’d just started; I left a mark on the teacup. I went to wipe it off, but Maeve seemed more concerned with my speed at leaving. She walked me down the attic stairway, holding a finger to her lips to signal me to be quiet and sent me on my way.
I tried to be as stealthy as I could as I went down the dark back stairs, only catching my foot once on the matting meant to make them less slippery. As I turned onto the last few steps ending in the kitchen, someone came in through a swinging door. I found myself face to face with Michael Angel.
