He tossed the paper on the kitchen table, didn't bother to open it. She put his coffee in front of him, and he sipped delicately. Steam crawled upward out of the cup, slim shadow matches to the curls in his hair.
'Heart attack, the doctor said. That's what Mrs. Samuels told me she was told. It doesn't seem fair. He wasn't much older than I am. '
'Isn't that kind of unusual, for him to have a heart attack? Not being forty yet and all.' She stirred sugar into her own cup.
Shrugging, he opened the paper, laid it flat on the table. 'Depends, I guess. If the men in his family had a history of heart trouble, then I suppose it's perfectly natural. Big fire up the coast near Eureka.' He tapped the page. 'If we don't get some honest rain soon here . . .'
He stopped, looked-up at nothing. Marjorie knew that faraway gaze. Until he decided to return, she might as well talk to the coffee.
'You know,' he finally told her, as though he hadn't been silent for several minutes, 'it may seem a little sick, but this has given me a great idea for a story.'
From behind the stove, she grimaced at him as she started the eggs. They made a sound like a desert sandstorm when they landed in the hot skillet. 'You're right, that is sick.'
'But it's a terrific idea.' He pushed back from the table, stood. ' 'Scuse me, hon, be right back.' Marjorie sighed, watched him almost run toward the study. She'd have to call him to breakfast half a dozen times now, and his eggs would still get cold. Not that he would mind. In the fever grip of a new idea, he couldn't taste anything, anyway.
That breakfast was the beginning. From then on it seemed creation was only a matter of typing fast enough to keep up with the flood of inspiration. Everything Dylan wrote in the succeeding months sold, and the two books he managed to complete sold big. Not quite bestsellerdom, but considering the lack of advertising the publishers put behind them, the books did very well, indeed. That was enough to wake up the editors. If and when Dylan finished the third book, there'd be some spirited bidding waiting for it.
All of which, while gratifying, took a heavy toll on Dylan. It got so he rose explosively and raced for the typewriter. A hysterical day of writing left him barely enough strength to munch in slow motion through supper and stagger exhaustedly into bed.
Dylan used to be creative elsewhere besides behind the typewriter. Which is one way of saying his incredible surge of creativity was also taking a heavy toll on Marjorie.
'Hey.'
'Hmmm?' Dylan didn't look up from the typewriter. She'd never cared much for the sound the electric made. Lately she'd felt as though each tap, each character printed, was a tiny bullet aimed squarely at her heart.
'I said, the housekeeper would like a word with the master.' She stood leaning against the frame of the study door. Her insides had wound tighter and tighter the past week until her stomach felt as tiny and hard as a golf ball. Grayness obscured the view outside the study window, the inescapable coast fog of the north California coast.
'Damn it, sugar, I'm working.'
'You're working, and I'm dying.' She tried to sound furious. It came out in a sob.
'Don't be ri-' Something went click in his head, and he turned, stared at her curiously. 'Hon, is something the matter?'
She didn't have to volunteer it now. He'd asked the question. 'The matter? What could possibly be the matter?' She straightened, walked into the study.
'C'mon now, hon what is it?'
'Don't 'c'mon now, hon' me!' Her control vanished. 'I haven't seen you, talked to you, done anything with you in months!'
'I've been working.' His voice was soft but not gentle. 'Working my ass off, for us. You know how well we've done lately. Our bank account . . .'
Usually his mock little-boy manner of arguing was ingratiating. Now it was simply irritating. 'To hell with our bank account. I'd like my husband back. You've been so obsessed with your work here lately, ever since we got back from LA, that . . .' She stopped, stared at him open-mouthed.
'Obsessed, yes. Ever since you bought that god-awful chair. '
'It's not god-awful. It's beautiful. You said so yourself.'
'I never said it was beautiful, never! Well made, maybe, but I'd never've said it was beautiful. I'd remember.'
'You're being silly, Marj. If anything, I'd have to say this chair's been good for me, considering how much and how well I've been selling recently.'
'Maybe it's been good for you, but not for me. I-I want you to get rid of it.'
'Get rid of it?' He looked at her as though she'd suggested some night swimming, now, in November. 'This chair's one of my favorite things.' He smiled patronizingly. 'Don't tell me, Marj, that you're jealous of a chair. '
'Will you get rid of it?' Her voice was low, edgy.
He sat quietly for a moment, then spoke calmly and with a chill in his voice that made her tremble. 'You're a little hysterical, Marjorie. I can't talk sensibly to you when you're hysterical. We'll talk some more about it later. I've got ten more pages to do yet tonight.' He turned back to the typewriter.
She stared at his back. Tatta-ta-tat-tatta-tatta . . . the letters fired at her, each one a little pinprick deep inside her guts. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then whirled and ran from the room.
He did not look up.
The doorbell rang, demanding. Sweating despite the coolness of the room, Dylan looked up from the machine on the third ring. Dazedly, he surveyed the evening's work. Nearly nine thousand words.
As the bell rang and he rose to answer the door, he vaguely recalled something disquieting about the evening. Oh, yes, he and Marjorie had had an argument of some kind.
That was probably she at the door. When she got mad or frustrated, she liked to take the car out and drive. Silly fool had probably forgotten her house keys and locked herself out. Try as he could, the cause of their argument escaped him. Well, he'd apologize for whatever it was, take the blame, promise never to do it again, and they'd kiss and make up.
He was composing excuses as he opened the door. Marjorie wasn't there.
Instead, he found himself staring blankly up at a tall stranger in a blue uniform. The man wore a white plastic helmet and sported insignia and buckles like a cubist's cactus. He favored Dylan with a solemn stare entirely out of keeping with his quasi-military appearance.
Dylan felt himself drowning in a sudden thick surge of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He heard a voice, distant and suspiciously like his own, saying, 'Yes, Officer?'
'Mr. McCarey? Dylan McCarey? This is 1649 Oakhurst Place?'
'Marjorie . .' Dylan leaned out into the steely dampness, tried to see into the garage. The door was up, open. 'Has she been in an accident?'
'I'm sorry, Mr. McCarey. She died at the scene.'
'Died?' He shook his head. That didn't clear it. He smiled crookedly. 'Marjorie?'
'Apparently, in the fog, she missed a turn. About halfway between here and Goleta.'
'Goleta? What was she doing way up near . . .' He stopped, remembered. They'd argued, and he'd turned away. Marjorie.
'Marjorie.' He started out the door. A firm hand caught him, an arm barred his way.
'I'm very sorry, Mr. McCarey, very sorry. It was quick. Her car went over a three-hundred-foot cliff. I'm told she died instantly.'
Dylan stared past the man, into the smothered night. Nothing was visible through the fog save a faint squarish outline in the driveway topped by a leering red light winking. Blood, fog, night . . . Marjorie.
'I'm Sergeant Brooks. I'm with the San Simeon station. If you'd like to come down there for a while . . .'
'Later, maybe. Not now,' he replied numbly. 'Later. '
'You sure you'll be okay?'
'I'll be okay.' He looked up. 'Thank you, Sergeant. I have to make some phone calls, get in touch with people.'
