Dune Road by Jane Green Page A

used to be his chef,” Edie says. “And house manager. I was sort of his Girl Friday for years. He loved my macaroni and cheese, used to say it was even better than his mother’s.” She smiles at the memory.
    “When was the last time you cooked for him?” Kit says.
    “Years ago.” Edie struggles to remember.
    “You should have brought him some macaroni and cheese tonight,” Kit says with a laugh.
    “You’re right.” Edie’s face falls. “I wish I had.”
    “Oh Edie,” Kit puts a gentle hand on her arm, “I was kidding. You have enough to do.”
    “But you are right,” she says, worried now. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
    “You can always make some this week,” Kit says, “and I’ll bring it with me as a surprise. He’d love it.” And with that they step forward to join the back of the line, inching closer and closer to Robert McClore’s table.
     
    Robert McClore had forgotten how much he loves doing these events. He had forgotten how much he enjoys talking to intelligent people, people who read his books, about their thoughts, their feelings. He had forgotten how much he enjoys discovering how his books have touched people, made them think about things differently, sent them off, on occasion, on journeys they would otherwise not have gone on.
    He is not, naturally, nearly as much of an isolationist as his reputation would lead you to think. In fact, back in the day, he was as gregarious as they come. He loves people, what kind of a writer would he be, in fact, if he did not love people, was not interested in everyone, fascinated by how people think, the motivations that lead them to do the things they do?
    But the press attention was so overwhelming after Penelope died. Even though it went away, eventually, recently it started again: a few years ago he was snapped coming out of hospital, just a colonoscopy, entirely routine, and the next thing he knew the National Inquirer had printed this terrible picture of him, looking thin, gaunt and old, and stated that he had colon cancer and weeks to live.
    He didn’t have colon cancer. He had two precancerous polyps, but they had been removed, and as far as he, his gastroenterologist and his internist were concerned, he had never been better.
    For a while the photographers seemed to be everywhere, their long lenses poking over the high walls of Hillpoint, and some even rented boats and tried to take pictures from the Sound but the rocks prevented them from coming too close, seeing too much.
    Robert stopped going outside to garden, kept the blinds of the house down, and then, on the advice of his publisher, went on Larry King Live to correct the story that he was near death, brought his gastroenterologist with him, and used the opportunity to state the importance of regular and early colonoscopies.
    The researchers, those eager, earnest young kids who telephoned him beforehand, brought him into the green room when he arrived, told him there was nothing to worry about, didn’t tell him Larry King would bring up Penelope.
    And not just Penelope, and the mystery and rumors surrounding her death, but they peppered it with photos of her, photos of her he hadn’t seen for years, looking so beautiful it quite literally took his breath away, and he didn’t know quite what to say.
    Larry King had been gentle, had seen the discomfort in Robert’s face, the grief that flashed in his eyes, and he didn’t push as much as he might have done, but this, Robert realized, is the reason he avoids the press. Even now, all these years later, they still want to know whether there was more to the story, still want to hear if he’s in touch with Plum Apostoles, still ask whether either of them had, indeed, been having an affair with the other’s spouse.
    It didn’t seem to matter how many times he said no. They still refused to believe him, or perhaps they thought that truth was always stranger than fiction, and that a simple death was far too prosaic for a writer of