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How did you hear about the project?
The response came within two minutes.
I have sources in high places. I’m perfectly positioned,not just to write the book, but to market it as well. Like you, my name is synonymous with blockbuster. We would be a formidable team.
I’d responded.
Why are you pitching for a book that’s already under contract?
I tried to imagine how he would respond. What he might say about me, about my ability as a ghostwriter. Perhaps slamming my reputation and legal troubles in the process.
But he hadn’t responded, and I’ve spent the last several days reading and rereading the exchange, wondering exactly what I want from it. Questioning my own motives and wondering if this is a distraction I can afford.
Voices float through the open window as Alma and my father return from whatever appointment he’s had. I head downstairs and into the house, where I find Alma in the kitchen, pulling food for dinner from the refrigerator.
“Is he upstairs?” I ask.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t disturb him right now. These occupational therapy sessions tire him out.”
“I just have a quick question.”
I’ve spent all afternoon trying to make sense of a small scene in my father’s handwritten manuscript about an argument Danny had had with Poppy, who’d been spying on him. Following him around, filming. All of our conversations over the past few days have been about Danny and his conflicts with my father. But this is the first mention of an argument between Danny and Poppy.
Alma takes a step toward me and says, “I have to ask that you save it until tomorrow morning.”
The idea of sitting around the guesthouse waiting until the morning is crazy. I ignore her and jog up the stairs.
I find him in his office, staring out the window. He turns when I enter, his expression startled. “When did you arrive?” he asks.
I falter. “A couple weeks ago,” I say. “Remember?”
“Why? You said you’d never come back here.”
“You hired me to write your memoir,” I remind him.
He shakes his head. “You can’t write a book, Lydia. You need to leave,” he hisses. “You can’t be here.” He turns toward the doorway. “Alma!” he yells, panic threading through his voice.
Alma arrives, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“He thinks I’m my mother again,” I tell her.
“Go downstairs. I’ll handle it.”
As I exit, I hear him say, “Did you know she was coming? She knows about the book. Did you tell her?”
Alma says, “Shh, Vincent. That’s Olivia, your daughter. She’s the one helping you with the book, not Lydia. Lydia lives in Bakersfield, remember?”
Alma finds me ten minutes later.
“You can’t ambush him like that. He’s easily confused in the afternoons. Sometimes paranoid. He forgets things, and that scares him, and he covers it up with anger.”
“I’m familiar with that, at least,” I say, remembering the times when I would hear my father railing at someone on the phone—his agent, his publicist, a reporter.
Alma shakes her head. “This is different.”
“The manuscript,” I explain. “It’s not exactly cohesive, and when I have questions, I don’t have time to wait for an appointment to get answers.”
Alma’s expression is steely. “I think I’m going to have to set some boundaries,” she says.