Page 49 of The Shape of Night

I go very still and don’t say a word.

“Stop blaming yourself, Ava. You threw a party, and he drank too much. What were you supposed to do, tie him up and keep him from getting in his car?”

“I didn’t do enough to stop him.”

“He wasn’t your responsibility. Nick was an adult.”

“I still blame myself. Even if Lucy doesn’t.”

“It sounds to me like you need to talk to someone about this. I know a very good therapist. I can give you her number.”

“No.” I pick up my glass and drain it in one gulp. “What I need right now is to eat dinner.”

“Considering how much you’ve had to drink tonight, I’d say that’s a good idea.”

I deliberately ignore his remark and pour myself more wine. By the time the salad’s been tossed and the lobster pie is on the table, I’m so irritated by what he said that I focus all my attention on the food, not on him. When did Simon become such a nanny?

He takes a bite of the lobster pie and sighs with pleasure. “Oh yes, this recipemustgo in the book.”

“I’m glad to hear that something I’ve done meets your approval.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Ava. I wouldn’t have signed you up for this book if I didn’t think you’d deliver. Which begs the question again, whenwillyou deliver?”

“And that’s why you’re really here.”

“I didn’t spend five hours sitting in traffic just to say hello. Of course that’s why I’m here. And to check up on you, too. When your sister called me—”

“Lucy called you?”

“She hoped maybe I knew what was going on with you.”

I stare down at my wine. “What did she tell you?”

“She says you two hardly talk anymore and she has no idea why. She worries it was something she said, something she did.”

“No.”

“Then what? I always thought you girls were joined at the hip.”

I take a rebellious sip of wine to put off my answer. “It’s this book. It’s consuming me,” I finally say. “I’ve been struggling for months, but now it’s coming along. I’ve written six chapters since I got here. Living in this house has made all the difference.”

“Why? It’s just an old house.”

“Don’t you feel it, Simon? There’s so much history in these walls. Think of the meals they cooked in that kitchen, the feasts they enjoyed in this dining room. I don’t think I can write the book anyplace but in this house.”

“And that’s the only reason you left Boston? To look for inspiration?”

I manage to look him straight in the eye. “Yes.”

“Well then, I’m glad you found it here.”

“I did.”And I’ve found a great deal more.

—

That night I lie awake, acutely aware of my houseguest sleeping just down the hall. I have not mentioned a word to Simon about my resident ghost because I know what he’d think. I saw his watchful glances at dinner as I kept refilling my wineglass with the elegant Chardonnay he’d brought from Boston. I know he thinks my drinking is the real reason I’ve been unable to finish my book. Booze and writers may be a cliché, but in my case, as in Hemingway’s, it’s true.

No wonder I see ghosts.