Page 58 of The Writer
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
DENISE MORROW’S AGENT, Kirby Neilson, raises her cosmo and beams. “To QuimbyCam!”
“To QuimbyCam!” the guests at the crowded table echo, then sip their cocktails. Gordon Brennon, Denise’s film-rights manager, lets out one of his infectious laughs, and it’s heard in all corners of the quaint Italian restaurant.
Denise’s editor, Jennifer Henke, is there too. She brought Jada Reed, Denise’s publicist, the latest in a long line of them. It’s the first time Denise has met her.
They seem to get younger with each book , Denise thinks when she sees her. This one barely looks old enough to drive, let alone drink.
Jennifer once told her that the publishers would pluck them right out of high school if they could. Who better to run a social media campaign than someone who regularly posts TikTok videos detailing every aspect of her existence? Most adults couldn’t name four social media platforms. It’s a young person’s world.
An overflowing box of Denise Morrow’s books pokes up from the only empty chair. Promotional copies she promised to sign for Kirby.
“Okay, so you gotta tell us,” Gordon says, then pauses to wipe some lint from his shirt. “You’re updating the new book with everything that’s happened, right?”
Denise tilts her head and starts to drop the bombshell she’s held back all night. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure I’ll release this book.”
The entire table goes quiet. She knows this isn’t what they expected. Tonight was meant to be a celebration. All of them—herself included—stand to make a lot of money if she publishes the Maggie Marshall book, particularly with everything that’s happened, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right call. If she releases the book, all this nonsense will be in the public eye for years. Gordon will surely sell the film rights, which means a movie or maybe a television show or a docuseries. There’s no telling what direction it will go. The only thing that’s certain is that it won’t go away, and Denise wants it to go away.
“That’s a joke, right?” Jennifer says, giving Kirby a harsh glance. “You said we had a deal. I went to bat with my boss for you. It’s the most lucrative offer I’ve ever put out there.”
Kirby sends Jennifer a comforting smile. “I’m sure Denise is kidding.” She looks back to Denise. “You are kidding, right?”
Denise Morrow studies the faces around the table. They’re all turned to her.
She wipes her finger through beads of condensation on a water glass. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now. Before I came down here, I was getting ready in the bathroom, and I saw David’s toothbrush and razor over on his vanity. I… I haven’t moved any of his things. There’s a water glass on his nightstand. His laundry in the dryer. He loves… loved to eat pickles. There’s a big jar in the refrigerator. I hate pickles…”
“Geller Hoffman was a fucking animal,” Kirby says in a quiet, flat tone. “He had no right to take David from you.”
Denise swallows. “He had no right to hurt anybody.”
“That’s what I meant.”
This wasn’t the first time the two women had talked about this. Denise called Kirby yesterday and they were on the phone for nearly an hour. She told her she would have forgiven David for all of it, every single indiscretion. If there was a void in their marriage, a door left open wide enough for another woman to step through, Denise felt that was as much her fault as it was David’s. Kirby told Denise she might be experiencing survivor’s guilt. Suggested that she should talk to someone. A professional someone. And Denise said she would, and she sounded serious.
Page Six snapping a photo of her walking into a therapist’s office? Yes, please.
And Kirby Neilson hanging up, quickly calling a dozen of her closest friends, and telling them that Denise Morrow was grief-stricken over the loss of her husband, coming apart at the seams, how sad that this once strong woman was broken now? Yes to that too, please.
Denise makes no mention of her affair with the detective. Of course not. Instead, she paints a picture, she spins a story, she lays out the narrative she wants others to follow. As any good writer would do.
Oh, how she hoped the young and gullible publicist Jada Reed would excuse herself to the bathroom so she could fire off the series of messages no doubt brewing in her thoughts. Maybe she’ll even snap a couple of clandestine photographs.
“Look,” Denise says with a forced smile. “I just need a little time.”
Kirby pounces on that. She reaches over and gently pats Denise’s hand. “Of course you do. You’re not going to get any pressure from anyone sitting at this table. You decide what’s best for you when you’re ready to decide it, and know that we’re all here for you regardless. If you want to take a match to that book, that is fine by me.”
“Yeah. Take your time,” Gordon mutters. He picks up his glass, realizes it’s empty, and holds it in the air until their waiter spots him.
A few moments later, the waiter sets Gordon’s scotch down on the table and places a drink in front of Denise.
When she speaks, she has trouble getting the words out. “I… I didn’t order that.”
The drink was bright green.
In a martini glass.
A grasshopper.
The waiter says, “It’s from the gentleman at the bar.”
Denise turns, but there is no gentleman at the bar, only two older couples deep in conversation. “What did he look like?”
The waiter follows her gaze, then looks back at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see him. He placed the order through the bartender and I was told to bring it here, since this is my table.”
Denise is about to go talk to the bartender when her phone rings.
The caller ID reads Declan Shaw .