Page 85 of The Housekeeper

Chapter Thirty-five

That February wasone of the coldest months on record. Both outdoors and inside my house. Not a lot of snow; plenty of ice.

Harrison still hadn’t really forgiven me for not liking his manuscript, even after his editor also complained about its length. Not that he confided any of this to me until I asked about the publisher’s response. “She feels it needs a bit more work,” he admitted reluctantly.

“What kind of work?”

He hesitated. “She feels it’s a little long. She wants me to make some cuts.”

“Oh.”

“Go ahead,” Harrison said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say ‘I told you so.’ I know you’re dying to say it.”

“That’s not true.”

He shrugged. The shrug said he didn’t believe me.

“Did she say when they plan to publish it?”

“No. She said that they’ll wait till they have the finished product in hand before making that decision.”

I nodded, knowing that the publication date had already been pushed back numerous times because the book wasn’t ready. Ialso knew that Harrison wouldn’t receive the next installment of his advance until the manuscript had been accepted. Which meant that our income would depend solely on what I earned for the foreseeable future. Which meant that this was not the best time to cut back on my schedule.

After a relatively quiet few months—December and January were traditionally a slow time for house sales—the market was starting to heat up again. I couldn’t afford—wecouldn’t afford—to slack off now.

Harrison wasn’t happy about it, but then Harrison wasn’t happy about much these days, especially where I was concerned. Although, interestingly enough, our sex life had never been better. What it might have lacked in tenderness, it more than made up for in frequency.

I was happy to take what I could get.

I told myself that once he’d finally finished with that damn book, the tenderness would return. The success and acclaim he’d had with his first book, while initially validating and rewarding, had come to feel like an albatross around his neck, weighing him down, holding him back. If he could just get that second book out of the way, no doubt that weight would be lifted. He could lay claim to being a legitimate author, and not simply a flash in the pan, the literary equivalent of music’s one-hit wonder.

I tried to imagine what it was like for him, the anxiety and frustration he lived with on a daily basis, in much the same way as I’d tried to picture what it had been like for my mother. The difference, of course, was that Harrison had chosen his path, while my mother had not.

Yet, somehow, I’d managed to fail them both.

As for Tracy and me, we were barely speaking. I’d called to wish her a happy New Year, and she’d wished me the same, but after that, unless I reached out, there was little contact. I’d invite her for dinner; she’d respectfully decline. I’d ask what she was up to; she’d say she was busy, working out with a new personaltrainer, exploring the possibility of starting her own blog, taking acting classes and looking for an agent.

Valentine’s Day came and went. The only two valentines I got were handmade cards from my children.To the greatest Mommy in the world!Sam’s card read;I Love My Mommy!said Daphne’s. Both were accompanied by surprisingly similar-looking drawings of a round-faced, curly-haired woman with stick-like arms and legs, and a wide-eyed expression that could be viewed as either joyful or deranged. I kept both cards on my office desk as a reminder that there were at least two people in my life who loved me unconditionally.

“Knock, knock,” a voice said, followed by a gentle rapping on my office door.

I returned the cards to their previous positions as Stephanie Pickering popped her stiffly coiffed helmet of blond hair inside the room.

“Can I talk to you a minute?”

I motioned for her to take a seat. “Everything okay?”

Stephanie perched at the edge of the chair across from my desk and leaned forward, her impressive cleavage peeking out from the top of her white silk shirt. She crossed one slim leg over the other and smiled, revealing a row of perfect white veneers. It was a smile that graced ads on benches all over the city. I shuddered to think of how many times she’d heard some man drunkenly boast that he’d sat on her face. “How’s your father doing?” she asked.

“He’s good,” I said, although I hadn’t talked to him in days, and hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“Still living over on Scarth Road?”

“Yes.”