Page 45 of The Ghostwriter

After my conversation with Mr. Stewart, I decide to take a walk through the preserve to the high school, imagining Poppy being dropped there after the ERA rally. Thinking about the story Margot had shared about the creepy man who’d driven her home and wondering if the police had it right all along. It’s feasible that despite Margot and Mark insisting my father was lying, their feelings are clouded by the conflict my father was having with Danny at the time.

It’s deserted today and I take the trail toward the pond, a gorgeous expanse of water that wasn’t put in until long after I left Ojai. I try to imagine the meandering paths Poppy and her siblings would have worn down and followed through the weeds and tall grasses. To visualize the trees in a wilder context. But I can’t. The conservation group has done a wonderful job of saving this land for local wildlife habitats, and the old acreage now exists only in the memories of people who once lived here and in Poppy’s movies.

When I finally return to my car, I notice I have several texts from friends I haven’t heard from in months.

You’re working again??? Tell me more!

Good for you!

Fuck John Calder.

And one from Nicole, with a link. Call me ASAP.

The link takes me to John Calder’s latest social media post. Good news that a certain writer is back to work, since she owes me a lot of money. I look forward to taking a vacation on her advance.

That motherfucker.

I pull away from the curb as my phone rings. Nicole. I turn it off, not wanting to talk until I know exactly how this happened.

When I get back to my father’s house, I head straight upstairs to his office. He and Alma are out at another one of his appointments, and I crash into his chair, logging into his computer, the saved password allowing me access to his in-box once again. I see my last message to him— The book is under contract and I’m happy with its progress. I’m afraid that’s where we need to leave things. And then Calder’s response. I have some ideas about that.

I take a moment, trying to calm down. To quell the rage that has risen up inside of me. Calder’s idea is to make it look as though I’m talking about the book so that they’ll fire me.

I try out several responses:

Drop dead, asshole. I delete the words.

Please do not contact me again. No.

This is Olivia Dumont. I could sue you for what you’re trying to do. Again, I delete the words.

I guess I don’t hear the door open downstairs because suddenly, my father is behind me. “What’s going on? Why are you sitting at my desk?”

I point to the computer screen. “Calder is trying to pitch you for the book.”

I scoot back so he can see the email on the screen before remembering that he can’t read it. Calder has been emailing into a black hole, and if I’d never responded, his pitch would have gone nowhere. But that doesn’t negate what he’s trying to do now.

“How would he have found out?” my father demands. “Did you tell him?”

I hold my hands up, embarrassed to see them shaking. “I haven’t told anyone anything about the book,” I say, swallowing hard. Knowing that’s not true. I’ve told Jack.

I mentally run through everyone I’ve interviewed, confirming to myself that none of them could have figured it out. “It wasn’t me,” I say again. Then I tell him about Tyler Blakewood, the man who thought they should have gone with Calder originally.

“And since you haven’t shown any interest, Calder is now trying to get me fired.” I read the post aloud, the one that sent a flurry of texts, emails, and calls to my phone before I turned it off. “‘Good news that a certain writer is back to work, since she owes me a lot of money. I look forward to taking a vacation on her advance.’”

“I’ll kill him,” my father says. I give him a sharp look and he says, “Calm down. I’m speaking figuratively.”

I glance back at Calder’s email on the screen. “What should we do? Do you want to respond?”

My father thinks for a moment, an expression I know well blooming across his face. The one he’d get when he was planning something fun. Or diabolical. Or both. “Draft this,” he tells me. “ Loved the book you did on Mac Murray. I was sad when he passed away. ” I type the words, wondering where this is going. “ I knew him for years ,” my father continues, “ and considered us close but never knew about the Guatemalan orphanage. What a revelation. ” He thinks a bit more and then says, “Send it.”

I do, and look at him, waiting for him to explain. “Mac Murray was a famous filmmaker. Mostly documentaries, but sometimes he’d branch into indies.”

“I know who Mac Murray was, Dad.”

“Mac was known for a lot of things—his talent behind the camera, but also his partying. We spent a lot of weekends together that I won’t go into detail about. However, not a lot of people knew that Mac was also a horrible racist.” My father shakes his head. “He put up a good front in public—working in the industry he had to, or risk getting passed over for jobs. But one time, he went on this rant about immigrants flooding into the country, about them taking our jobs. He hated everything and everyone south of the border.”

“Nice friends, Dad.”

He shrugs off my words. “He had good drugs. But the Guatemalan orphanage Calder wrote about? The trips Mac supposedly made every year?” He shakes his head. “They never happened.”

The email pings with Calder’s response. “Read it,” my father demands.

“‘As I said before, I can do the same to rehab your image.’”

My father gives a bark of a laugh. “Rehab my image by making shit up.”

“Are you absolutely positive Calder lied in the book?”

My father looks smug. “I’m not the only one who’s good at writing fiction.” Then he nods toward the computer and says, “Send this to Monarch: It has come to my attention that Tyler Blakewood has spoken to John Calder about the existence of this book. I expect Mr. Blakewood to be taken off this project immediately. ”

Just as we’re finishing up, my phone buzzes with another text, Tom’s name appearing on the screen. Something white-hot passes through me, and I reach out to cover the screen.

“Who’s that?” my father asks.

I turn the phone upside down and say, “No one.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like no one to me, based on the way your shoulders flew up into your ears.”

I close out his email and put his computer to sleep, then swivel to face him. “Thanks to this job, he’s now my ex.”

“Explain to me how the book has anything to do with your relationship. That seems a stretch,” he says.

“The secrecy,” I say. “My inability to tell anyone why I’m here or what I’m working on.”

My father shakes his head. “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts you never told your boyfriend who your family even is.” He tips his head to one side and says, “Let me guess…you’re a poor orphan whose parents died tragically. What was it, a plane crash? A car accident?”

I look away. “A heart attack,” I mumble. “And cancer.”

My father barks a laugh. “Smart. Nothing newsworthy anyone can google.” But then he looks at me with sad eyes and says, “You want me to be vulnerable, but you can’t even do that yourself.”

“I’m not the one who has to write a memoir,” I shoot back.

“No, you just have to live your life. And you’ll live it alone if you can’t figure out how to be honest.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I tell him. When he doesn’t take the bait, I continue. “Besides, there are worse things. Like being sued by a misogynist and losing my career. Like having to sell my home. Or dying a slow death where you lose control of your body.”

I expect my father to agree. He’d never remarried or dated anyone seriously after my mother left, claiming he didn’t have time for relationships. But he shakes his head and says, “There’s nothing better than being truly seen—truly known by another person. I would like you to have that someday.”

He nods toward my phone. “Read the text.”

It’s another link to Calder’s post and a statement. Once again, I don’t know what to believe.

I look up at my father. “It’s nothing important,” I tell him. Solitude is my lot in life. Those seeds were planted by my parents long ago, and it’s futile to think I would grow into something different.

“Why did Mom leave?” I ask.

My father looks as surprised as I feel at the question. We’d never discussed it. When I was little, I was too afraid to ask, for fear of upsetting him. And as I got older, I’d convinced myself I didn’t care.

“Your mother struggled a lot with depression,” he says, his voice resigned. “In fact, she reminded me of my own mother, spending days in bed, unable to get up to do the most basic tasks of caring for you. For me.”

“Did she drink like your mother?” Because I’d been so young when she left, I doubted any habits like that would have registered with me.

But my father shakes his head and says, “No. Never. She hated feeling out of control.”

“What about therapy? Medication? Surely there were solutions other than abandoning her only child.”

“She tried medication for a while. But back then, the only ones available left her feeling like a zombie.” He looks down at his hands. “Believe me. She was heartbroken to leave. But we both felt it was best.”

“I grew up without a mother because you thought it would be best? My whole life, I thought she didn’t love me or want me. Do you know what that does to a person?”

He’s silent for a moment, but when he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “When you get to be my age, there will be many moments—many decisions—you’ll wish you could go back and make again. Choose a different path. That’s one of mine.”

I stare at him, wondering what good it does me to know that now. To understand that he feels regret without actually having to make amends for any of it.

***

Back in the guesthouse, I collapse onto the bed, exhausted from the day. It seems ages ago I sat across from Mr. Stewart and listened to him defend himself about taking my mother for an abortion. About his denial that he was the father. But before I can get to work transcribing the interview and figuring out how it all fits into the narrative of that time, I need to call Nicole.

Even though it’s late in New York, she picks up right away. “Jesus, Olivia. Where have you been? We’ve got a situation here.”

“I know,” I tell her.

“How in the hell did Calder find out? This isn’t good.”

I tell her about the email he sent to my father, pitching the book. And the confirmation that Tyler Blakewood had been the leak. “My father and I emailed Neil and Sloane tonight about it.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can pull them back. I hear an intake of breath and Nicole says, “Hold up. Your father ?”

My stomach twists and I close my eyes, wishing I could hang up and pretend this call never happened. I’d love to blame John Calder for the slip, but the truth is, the fault is mine for keeping such a monumental secret from my agent for so long. “I haven’t been honest with you about a couple things,” I say. Not the best start, but maybe I can get her to understand the complicated history of my relationship with my father and my family history. Maybe I can get her to understand why I haven’t told anyone who I am.

So I start talking. Telling her what my father was like when I was young. The treasure hunts. The two of us against the world after my mother left. How I first heard about Danny and Poppy, and my father’s slow unraveling over the decades. The rift and my desire to cut him out of my life completely. When I’m done, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”

She’s silent for a moment and I wonder just how angry she is. How badly I’ve betrayed the trust we’ve built between us over the years. Finally she says, “I can understand your hesitancy. Your desire to cut ties. But we need to disclose this to Monarch.”

I panic. “They can’t pull me off the book. This is my family. My story to tell, and to be honest, I don’t think my father will talk to anyone else.”

“You misunderstand me,” she says. “Olivia, this is explosive. The only child of Vincent Taylor, a famous ghostwriter in her own right, returned home to reveal the secrets he’s kept for decades. This is marketing gold.”

I hadn’t really thought that far. Up until now, it had been made clear to me that this would be one of those projects where everyone believed the subject wrote the book himself. My father—at one point—was certainly capable of that. But I can see what Nicole is saying. This collaboration is too good to conceal.

“This is going to be huge, Olivia,” Nicole continues. “This is going to make that thing with John Calder seem like a tiny grain of sand in your shoe.”

“Speaking of John Calder,” I say. Then I tell her about the Mac Murray book. “I’m sure my father would be happy to connect with the Books editor at the New York Times . They’re old friends.”

Nicole laughs. “I think we can quietly arrange that,” she says. But then she sighs. “Even though it would be great to see that man get what he deserves, you’re still going to have to pay him. Though the good news is that you probably won’t have to sell your house to do it.”

A flutter of joy passes through me as I imagine calling Renee. Telling her to take the house off the market. And then my mind lands on Tom, and how he will feel when this information goes public. When he reads about it in the paper or on social media, and how he will feel betrayed all over again. “I need my connection to this project to stay quiet until I finish the manuscript,” I tell Nicole.

“I don’t know, Olivia. The marketing team will need some lead time to change their strategy. To start pitching it right away…”

“Please,” I tell her, an idea forming in my mind. Of a way to give Tom the entire truth, all at once. In a format I can control. “Let me just get to the end of this story.”

Nicole sighs, thinking. “Fine,” she says. “But can we say no later than end of May?”

That’s only six weeks. It’s going to have to be good enough. “I can work with that,” I tell her.

“So on that note, tell me how things are going,” Nicole asks. “Neil seems pretty happy with the chapters you’ve sent so far, and I agree, they’re good. Very atmospheric. And yet, sort of heartbreaking too.”

“The films are really helping set the tone,” I tell her. “Not just recounting the events on them, but the glimpses I’m getting of Ojai in 1975. The cars. Clothes. The vibe.”

“How many reels are there?” she asks.

“Only ten. They begin shortly after she gets the camera for her birthday in early March, but unfortunately they end about a week before the murders. We don’t have anything after June 5th. The camera was lost shortly after that.”

“What happened to it?” Nicole asks.

I stare at the clutter of boxes that still surround me, the windows dark. “No one knows,” I tell her. “She had the camera one day, and the next it was gone.”