Page 7 of The Ghostwriter

I leave the manuscript on the desk and head down to my car, needing to clear my head. I drive aimlessly at first, the winding roads of my father’s neighborhood leading me back toward the center of Ojai, letting my mind settle. My father isn’t well, and what I read about Lewy body dementia mentioned hallucinations and faulty memories. About people insisting on things that were verifiably not true. I can’t be certain my father’s scribblings aren’t any more than that. Burying Ricky Ricardo? A delusion. The man is losing his mind. And as for that last note— I wanted to kill Danny— hyperbole. People say things like that all the time. The piece I’m most intrigued by is the full page of the same sentence, over and over. She shouldn’t have gone. A rumination. But on what?

My stomach growls and I pull into a parking space a few blocks from Ojai Avenue as my phone buzzes with a text from my real estate agent, Renee, a whip-smart woman with sharp edges and a blunt way of delivering information. Showed the house yesterday. Seemed promising at first, but they ended up deciding not to offer. I think we need to have a serious conversation about reducing the price. Call me. I sit there, the temperature of the car slowly rising as I bounce between two awful truths: I will have to sell my house and I will still owe John Calder money.

I shove my phone down to the bottom of my purse, as if that will protect me from Renee’s blunt analysis, and walk toward Nina’s Diner, suddenly craving one of their burgers. But like all the rest of the shops I remember along Ojai Avenue, Nina’s is gone, replaced with a gourmet grill and a bohemian coffee shop. My stomach rumbles again, pushing me inside. The interior is airy and light; nothing like the walk-up window of Nina’s, where we could order and then sit outside on a sunny day.

I order a burger and some truffle fries, then turn to survey the new space. The tables are filled with tourists eating lunch, the blond wooden floor making the room feel brighter, hanging plants descending from a raised ceiling.

I smile at the waitress as she passes me a brown bag with my food, then make my way outside. I only get a few paces away when I see him across the street. Or at least I think it’s him. He’s taller now with broad shoulders, but I recognize the way he moves, like the memory of a song I used to know.

I should turn away. Duck into a store until he’s gone. But instead I call out. “Jack!”

He turns at the sound of his name but can’t locate anyone he recognizes so I raise my hand in a half wave. “It’s me. Olivia.”

He squints, then crosses the street, a grin breaking out across his face. “Oh my god,” he says. When he’s in front of me, he hesitates before pulling me into a tight hug, then releases me, his gaze making me uncomfortable.

I gesture for him to follow me around the side of the building, away from the sidewalk, and we cross the bike path that meanders through downtown, curving in and out of a stand of trees. We sit on a fallen log and face each other. “What happened to Nina’s?” I ask.

Jack shrugs and says, “Closed down. I think in 2006? They tried to open up another one near the high school, but that one closed too.”

I take a bite of my burger, which isn’t nearly as good, and say, “There’s nothing left.”

“Progress,” he says, then tugs on the end of my hair. “You’re blond.”

My heart does a tiny leap at the sound of his voice, so familiar yet so different. Deeper, riper, the years adding weight to it. He wears a flannel shirt and blue jeans, work boots peeking out beneath. Jack had been my best friend from age eight onward. He was the only one who never treated me like an exhibit at the zoo, something to be studied from a safe distance—causing a lot of conflict with his father, who’d been Danny’s best friend. After I’d gone to boarding school in Switzerland, we’d written letters—hundreds of them. I would tell him how much I hated it there, how much I disliked my entitled classmates. He confided in me about how his father’s drinking had spiraled into alcoholism and would report my own father’s misdeeds from the American media.

“I’ve looked for you, you know,” he says now, giving a tiny shrug. “Nothing stalkery. Just on social media. But I could never find you.”

Eventually, our letters had dwindled. By the time I was graduating from high school, it had been months since we’d written and I felt like it was time to cut all ties with my life in Ojai, including Jack.

“I went to France for college,” I say. “After that, I moved to Paris and married a professional skier. That didn’t work out,” I finish awkwardly.

“I’m sorry.”

I wave away his sympathy. “Don’t be. We were young. It was a starter marriage, but I kept his last name.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Dumont,” I say, waiting to see if he’ll recognize the name. Not for my books but for the scandal that now pops up first when you google me.

But he seems oblivious. “Where do you live?” he asks. “What do you do for a living?”

“Los Angeles,” I say, my mind slipping past the details of my life there. The home I love that I’m about to lose. The looming threat of bankruptcy if I can’t pull off this book on the publisher’s timeline. “I’m a ghostwriter—famous people hire me to write their life stories and then we put their name on the book.”

He grows curious. “Like who?”

“Lots of people,” I say. “A few years ago I worked with Rena Salazar, the professional surfer. She started that literacy foundation in Africa.” I offer him some fries, deciding to skip over my most recent book and my collaboration on it so abruptly silenced.

He takes a fry, as I knew he would, and looks impressed. “That sounds amazing. But what brings you back to Ojai?” he asks. “Surely it isn’t to see your dad.”

I chew, thinking about how I should respond, and I wonder if I should have just kept walking. “Actually, it is,” I say.

He looks offended. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

“He’s sick,” I tell him. “Lewy body dementia.”

“I think I heard something about that, though people in town have been heavy on gossip and light on facts.”

“As usual.”

“Is it bad?” he asks.

“I think so,” I admit, setting the fries on the log between us. We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I savor his presence. How good it feels to be around someone who really knows me. Understands my family and where I came from.

“How long do you think you’ll be here?”

I shake my head. “I can’t say for certain.” I’m never comfortable when I’m prohibited from disclosing my work on a project. I hate misleading people, and I miss out on a lot of opportunities for impromptu interviews. I much prefer when my presence is known to everyone. But this time, I’m relieved to hide behind the facade of familial duty. “Speaking of dysfunctional parents, how’s your dad?” I ask.

“Supposedly retired, though you’d never know it by how often he shows up at the vineyard, offering advice and questioning every decision I make. But he’s twenty years sober.”

“That’s great,” I say. Mark Randall had always been a drinker, but as the years went on, things got really bad for Jack.

A cool breeze kicks up and my arms prickle with goose bumps. The eucalyptus trees above us cast a long shadow in the sunlight. Jack straightens his legs and leans back on his elbows.

“So tell me about you,” I say.

He holds up his left hand to show a ring. “Married five years now.”

“His name?” I ask.

“Matt,” he says. “We met at the winery, actually. He applied for a job as sommelier. He didn’t get it, but I like to say he got something better.”

I smile, crumpling up the empty burger wrapper and shoving it into the empty bag. If anyone deserves happiness, Jack does.

“So I guess you finally came out.” I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

He waves away my apology. “It’s fine. Turns out, my mother had long suspected and had done a lot of the heavy lifting for me with my dad. They both adore Matt.” He looks at me sideways. “What about you? Anyone special?”

I watch a couple biking past us, letting my eyes trail after the pair, noticing the way they pedal in slow circles, perfectly in sync. I imagine they are me and Tom, in a parallel universe, one where I haven’t lied about my past. “Yes,” I say, looking back at him again. “His name is Tom and he’s an architect.”

“Is he here with you? I’d love to meet him.”

I look back toward the bike path, but the couple is gone. “He’s busy with work, so no,” I say. Imagining what it would be like to have the two of them in a room together, sharing their own Olivia stories. And while I wish that could be a reality, I know it won’t be. Those two worlds will never collide.

We’re silent for a few minutes, and I savor the substance of him next to me, how familiar it feels. “Are you happy, Livy?” he asks.

I stare at the trees above us. “I’d like to think so,” I say.

He checks the time and stands, brushing dirt off the seat of his pants. “I’d better get back. Friday afternoon traffic is horrific.”

He reaches down to pull me up and wraps his arms around me. He smells the same—mint and pine—and I inhale it. “We need a proper catch-up,” he says. “Can you get away for dinner this Sunday?”

“I think so, but I’d like to keep my return quiet,” I say, thinking of the book and the stipulation that I not reveal my collaboration on it. Knowing that once it publishes, people might have questions if they knew I was here for an extended period of time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been an exhibit at the Taylor Family Zoo.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. “Text me at that number. It’s my cell.”

He squeezes my hand, his fingers warm and calloused. I squeeze back, and for the first time since I returned to town, I feel a sense of calm, a belief that everything is going to be okay.

***

Around dinner time, I call Tom.

“Hey there,” he says when he answers. “How was your day?”

“Long,” I tell him, imagining him in his apartment in Brentwood, splayed out on his couch, his flat-screen TV showing some kind of ball game on mute.

“Let me guess. You’re holed up in Oprah’s guesthouse, hired to write a tell-all by her personal chef.”

I laugh, looking around the crowded space, which is most certainly nowhere near what Oprah’s guesthouse must look like. “I’m definitely not in Montecito,” I say.

“Okay. You’re in San Diego working on a book about the Famous Chicken who has always felt shortchanged by never being the Padres’ official mascot.”

“Definitely not in San Diego either, though that sounds like an amazing book idea. I’ll pitch it to Nicole when I’m done here.” I settle back, letting the stress of the day melt away, Tom’s voice low in my ear. “What makes you think I’m even in California?” I ask.

“Math,” he tells me. “You have to be somewhere within driving distance.”

“Maybe I drove to LAX and flew somewhere.”

“Not a chance,” he counters. “Even without the lawsuit, you’re too cheap to pay for airport parking.”

I laugh, imagining what it would feel like to tell Tom that I’m in Ojai with my sick father, that it feels complicated and scary. That, perhaps for the first time in my career, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do the job I’ve been asked to do.

“Do you have a scope of the job yet?” he asks. “How long will you be there?”

“Not sure.” I glance at the stack of legal pads, wondering what I’ll find when I really sit down and look. “I’ve been told it’ll only be a month, but I’m thinking it might be longer.” My father and I had agreed to give it a week, but already I know I’m not going to walk away.

We make small talk about his day for a few more minutes before he yawns. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” I say.

“I love you.”

I think about what that means to me, the safety I feel with Tom, and hope that in a few weeks, this will all be behind me. The book will be done, and I will be back home again. And eventually, the lie I’ve fed the world, about my father at least, will be true.

“I love you too,” I say.

***

Later that night, I’m hate-scrolling through Instagram, noting which of my colleagues are releasing new books, wondering which of their subjects would have wanted to work with me, had their editors allowed it, when I hear frantic yelling coming from the house. My father’s voice, an urgent jumble of words I can’t make out. The time on my phone reads just past midnight. I leap from my bed, throw open the door, and tumble down the stairs of the guesthouse and across the courtyard, my father growing louder as I approach. The window to his room is open and I can see the top of his head as he struggles with the bottom sill.

My heart pounds as I follow the sound upstairs, into his bedroom where I find him wearing a T-shirt and a pair of threadbare pajama bottoms. Alma stands next to him, her hand on his arm trying to soothe him.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is he okay?”

My father’s gaze snaps onto me, his eyes widening as if seeing a ghost. “Oh, Lydia,” he says. “I think I lost it.”

The air rushes out of me. Gone is my commanding father, replaced by a scared old man I barely recognize. I’m about to remind him of who I am when I catch Alma’s expression, cautioning me not to argue with him. “It’s okay,” I say instead.

Alma steps forward. “Let’s get you back to bed, Vince. I’ve got your medicine right here.” She takes an empty water glass from the nightstand and goes into my father’s bathroom to fill it up.

He looks at the window again. “I can’t figure out why it won’t work.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” I ask.

“Poppy’s hiding place. It’s supposed to lift up,” he says, his voice a whisper. “But now…I can’t find the opening. It’s gone.”

Alma returns with the water. Before she can reach him, my father turns toward the window again, running his hand along the base of the sill as if searching for something. “Where did it go?” he asks Alma.

“We’ll look more carefully tomorrow, when it’s light,” Alma says, guiding him away from the window. She wears an oversize nightgown that hits right above her ankles, and I notice her toenails are painted purple. My father hangs on to her, his hair mussed from the pillow. The bed is in disarray, the covers torn off and in a pile on the floor, as if he threw them off in his panic.

“Here,” Alma says, holding out her hand, a pill cupped in her palm.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Your medication,” she says. “It keeps you safe. It lets you sleep. That feeling you’re having right now? The overwhelming fear and panic? The medicine will make it melt away, remember? Now take a deep breath with me, in and out.” She models and my father follows along. “Another one,” she says. He complies. “Now the pill.”

He’s jittery, his hand shaking as he plucks it from her hand and drops it in his mouth. She helps him hold the glass of water and he swallows it down. Together, they form a tableau, standing in a pool of light, the black window behind them, latched on to each other’s eyes as they wait for the medication to kick in. My legs feel like jelly, the adrenaline still rushing through me, and yet I feel like an interloper. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to handle this.

“I just wanted to check on it,” my father says to me, his voice sounding calmer. “Make sure it was still there.”

I finally find my voice. “Check on what?” I ask. “What did you hide in there?”

He gives me a withering look I know well. As if he can’t believe he has to spell it out for me. “The knife, Lydia.”