know.”
“Okay, consider this,” he says, leaning toward her. “When we shell out our hard-earned bucks for a movie we do so in the knowledge that we’re going to be lied to, that some Hollywood actors are going to pretend to be people that exist only the mind of a screenwriter somewhere. We are happily complicit in this deception and call it entertainment. Do you see where I’m going here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, we’re lied to, but we’re still given a tangible product: the movie. So the transaction isn’t fraudulent, is it, although it is predicated on a series of falsehoods?”
“I suppose not.”
“In the case of this book there is also a deception. Viola Usher does not exist. But the book does. Therefore the readers, although they are buying the novel from somebody who is not real, still get a book that is. No blame no foul.”
“True. But I’m saying that I wrote the book.”
“If your brother were to acknowledge authorship of the book would it change the transaction? Would the reader s not still get a book in exchange for their money?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I think . . .”
He laughs.
“It’s all about masks, Bitsy. Some are sinister, dark, like those of an executioner or a bank robber. Others are harmless, even delightful, like those worn to a masked ball. The mask you have chosen to wear falls into the latter category. Your pretence, I would say, is nothing more than a little harmless froth.”
“You’ve made me feel a lot better.”
“I did nothing. I merely held up a mirror.”
“Well . . .”
He stands and waits as she battles to her feet.
Then he clasps her hands in his.
God how she longs to fold into his arms, breathe in the musky maleness of him.
“I’m very grateful to you, Bitsy. This is a marvelous gesture.”
“The Foundation has changed my life.”
“No, you have changed your life. All we provided was a safe space.”
He leads her toward the stairs.
“I sense you’re about to get booted out of your comfort zone, Bitsy. Just remember: in the midst of all the movement and chaos that is to come, keep stillness within you.”
He raises a hand in farewell and then turns and disappears into the shadows.
Bitsy floats rather than walks down the stairs and even the scornful look from Una, curled up on the sofa with Carlos, can’t dampen the wild soaring of her heart.
15
It’s after 2 A.M. when Jane stops the rental car outside her apartment building and drags herself into the lobby toward the elevator.
Once she got Bitsy Rushworth’s signature on the contract Jane had fired up the Honda and headed straight back to Manhattan, the long drive and her lonely apartment more appealing than another night of bedbugs in East Devon’s Sugar Maple Inn.
The girl who stares back at her from the mirror of the elevator as the doors start to slide closed looks drawn and gaunt, her black hair a greasy helmet, and is that a zit she sees incubating in the corner of her mouth?
Jane leans in close to the mirror, grimacing, trying to get a better look at the pimple when the doors shudder open again and Tom Bennett bolts in.
If Jane thinks she looks rough, Tommy boy looks as if he was dragged down Broadway tied to the rear of a car.
He’s wearing a hoodie and a soiled T-shirt over jeans and sneakers.
And he smells of sweat and something sour and chemical.
“What the hell are you doing here, Tom?” Jane asks, lunging for the elevator buttons.
He blocks her and crowds her against the back of the cabin as the doors close and the elevator rises.
“Get away from me,” she shouts.
He raises his hands.
“I just need to talk to you, Janey.”
“No. Stop this elevator and let me out.”
“I’ve been waiting since yesterday, down in the street. Where the hell were you?”
She has her phone out.
“I’m dialing 911.”
He wrenches the phone from her hand.
“Tom! Jesus!”
He fends her off and thumbs the phone, opening her photo gallery.
As
“Okay, consider this,” he says, leaning toward her. “When we shell out our hard-earned bucks for a movie we do so in the knowledge that we’re going to be lied to, that some Hollywood actors are going to pretend to be people that exist only the mind of a screenwriter somewhere. We are happily complicit in this deception and call it entertainment. Do you see where I’m going here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, we’re lied to, but we’re still given a tangible product: the movie. So the transaction isn’t fraudulent, is it, although it is predicated on a series of falsehoods?”
“I suppose not.”
“In the case of this book there is also a deception. Viola Usher does not exist. But the book does. Therefore the readers, although they are buying the novel from somebody who is not real, still get a book that is. No blame no foul.”
“True. But I’m saying that I wrote the book.”
“If your brother were to acknowledge authorship of the book would it change the transaction? Would the reader s not still get a book in exchange for their money?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I think . . .”
He laughs.
“It’s all about masks, Bitsy. Some are sinister, dark, like those of an executioner or a bank robber. Others are harmless, even delightful, like those worn to a masked ball. The mask you have chosen to wear falls into the latter category. Your pretence, I would say, is nothing more than a little harmless froth.”
“You’ve made me feel a lot better.”
“I did nothing. I merely held up a mirror.”
“Well . . .”
He stands and waits as she battles to her feet.
Then he clasps her hands in his.
God how she longs to fold into his arms, breathe in the musky maleness of him.
“I’m very grateful to you, Bitsy. This is a marvelous gesture.”
“The Foundation has changed my life.”
“No, you have changed your life. All we provided was a safe space.”
He leads her toward the stairs.
“I sense you’re about to get booted out of your comfort zone, Bitsy. Just remember: in the midst of all the movement and chaos that is to come, keep stillness within you.”
He raises a hand in farewell and then turns and disappears into the shadows.
Bitsy floats rather than walks down the stairs and even the scornful look from Una, curled up on the sofa with Carlos, can’t dampen the wild soaring of her heart.
15
It’s after 2 A.M. when Jane stops the rental car outside her apartment building and drags herself into the lobby toward the elevator.
Once she got Bitsy Rushworth’s signature on the contract Jane had fired up the Honda and headed straight back to Manhattan, the long drive and her lonely apartment more appealing than another night of bedbugs in East Devon’s Sugar Maple Inn.
The girl who stares back at her from the mirror of the elevator as the doors start to slide closed looks drawn and gaunt, her black hair a greasy helmet, and is that a zit she sees incubating in the corner of her mouth?
Jane leans in close to the mirror, grimacing, trying to get a better look at the pimple when the doors shudder open again and Tom Bennett bolts in.
If Jane thinks she looks rough, Tommy boy looks as if he was dragged down Broadway tied to the rear of a car.
He’s wearing a hoodie and a soiled T-shirt over jeans and sneakers.
And he smells of sweat and something sour and chemical.
“What the hell are you doing here, Tom?” Jane asks, lunging for the elevator buttons.
He blocks her and crowds her against the back of the cabin as the doors close and the elevator rises.
“Get away from me,” she shouts.
He raises his hands.
“I just need to talk to you, Janey.”
“No. Stop this elevator and let me out.”
“I’ve been waiting since yesterday, down in the street. Where the hell were you?”
She has her phone out.
“I’m dialing 911.”
He wrenches the phone from her hand.
“Tom! Jesus!”
He fends her off and thumbs the phone, opening her photo gallery.
As
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