In a gesture I preferred to think of as hope, I did not let the house eat Patricia - or Laurie, for that matter. In the end, Laurie burned it to the ground, destroying her past, banishing the bloody specter of her former husband. But because this was a horror novel and I wanted the ending to be somewhat ominous, I wrote a little scene in which Laurie is moving into her new apartment. Her handsome male neighbor comes over to introduce himself while she’s moving in, and romantic sparks fly. Behind her, where neither of them could see, the stairs rippled just the tiniest bit
“The end,” I muttered as I typed out the last line.
And now, according to Monroe, the real work began. Editing, writing query letters to agents, surviving the rejections. As intimidating as it was, I wanted to see if I was good enough, if my work was good enough to actually get published.
“And now, the editing,” I muttered, returning to page one. When the overwhelming smell of, well, me, wafted up from my T-shirt, I shuddered. “But first, a shower. Blech.”
When I’d read the manuscript, once and then again, taking most of Monroe’s advice into account, I printed it out and sneaked it over to his cabin in the dead of night. Well, I thought it was the dead of night. By the time I came out of the cabin, it was 4:30 p.m. on Monday. And I was still in my pajamas. Well, let’s face it, Monroe had seen worse from me.
I padded across the lawn, my paper baby cradled in my arms. I laid it on Monroe’s steps and almost made a clean getaway when I heard the door open behind me.
“Crap,” I muttered without looking back.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he said in a tone far more pleasant than I’d expected. “So we’re just leaving manifestos on each others’ doorsteps now?”
“It’s not a manifesto,” I protested. “When I stalk you, you’ll be aware of it.”
“Good to know,” he said.
There was a long awkward pause. “I’m sorry.” I said. “I’m sorry for the things I said and for taking the easy way out again. You said some pretty horrible things, but they were accurate, which was probably why they hurt so much.”
“Lacey -”
“I’m not saying this because I’m looking for an apology. I just wanted to say I miss you and not just because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a functional sexual relationship. I miss my friend. And I’m hoping that we’ll eventually find our way back to being friends again.”
“Lacey, don’t -”
“Let me finish,” I told him. “But for now, I’m moving out. I’m sorry we left things the way we did. Thank you being my friend and the voice of reason I so desperately needed. If you ever base a crazy-woman, scorned character on me, please be kind. My brother’s right; I’ve hidden out up here too long. And if you ever tell him I said that, I will deny it to my dying breath.
“But I did want to leave this for you,” I said, handing him the manuscript. “It’s an extremely rough draft. But I’d like to know what you think.”
“You finished it?” he asked, flipping through the pages.
“Well, what did you think I was doing when I was avoiding you?”
He pursed his lips. “I pictured something involving ice cream.”
“Well, you weren’t wrong there.”
“So did you do this just to spite me for saying you wouldn’t?” he asked.
“What? No!” I scoffed. He stared at me. “Okay, yes. That had a little bit to do with it.”
“I’m sorry I said that,” he told me. “And all of the other mean, horrible -”
“Incredibly hurtful, yet accurate?” I added.
“Yeah, those things I said. I didn’t mean them,” he promised. “Well, I meant it when I said I love you. But the rest was just my being an ass. Could we go back to the way things were before? I don’t care if we don’t put a label on it. We were happy and that’s all that -”
“Let’s just take things slow, okay?” I asked. “We’ll start with you reading that.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “So does Laurie find love with a brooding, far more handsome man in the end?” He blanched. “Wait, did you make the house eat him, too?”
“You’re just going to have to read and find out for yourself.”
I’d like to say that my newsletter ruined Mike’s life, that his clients were so disgusted with his extracurricular activities that they abandoned him. But if anything, the newsletter and the ensuing drama gave the firm more cachet, like having your taxes done by the cast of Melrose Place.
The employees in the lobby of Terwilliger and Associates froze when I walked in. A couple of clients were sitting on the couch, their jaws unhinged and a gleeful anticipation shining in their eyes. Libby Hackett, Beebee’s younger, blonder replacement, widened her eyes to an even more doe-like state when I approached the desk. Dexter and Dave, the junior associates, snapped out of their stupor first, dropping their coffee mugs on the floor with a clatter and scrambling for the video function on their cell phones. I smiled sweetly, which seemed to frighten the receptionist even more.
“I need to see Mr. Terwilliger, please,” I said.
“I’m supposed to call the cops if you show up,” Libby whispered.
“Would you mind giving me a five-minute head start?” I whispered back.
She let loose a nervous laugh. “Okay.”
“You know I’m kidding, right?” I told her.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Libby, honey, if you feel you need to call the cops, you go right ahead. I won’t hold it against you.”
“Really?” She sighed in relief. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll just pop into Mr. Terwilliger’s office before the sirens get close, okay?”
Libby nodded. Behind me, I heard Dexter and Dave follow me into the hallway. Over my shoulder, I saw them holding up their phones.
“Mike,” I said, knocking on the frame of his door, something I’d never bothered with before.
Beebee was in his office, demanding his opinion on fabric swatches. The bitchy part of me wanted to tell her that they were all hideous, but the whole point of this visit was emotional growth and that wasn’t a good start. (But seriously, they were all butt ugly. We’re talking a lot of pink. Mike was going to be living inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.)
Somehow, that made it easier when Beebee sprang up off the couch and yelled for Libby. Mike looked up and, for a moment, it looked like he forgot we weren’t married. His first instinct was to smile. Then I’m sure he remembered, just as soon as he saw the thunderous look on Beebee’s face. I could tell by the flinching.
“Don’t make me call my lawyer,” he said, sounding tired.
“Oh, I’m not going to do anything; sit down,” I commanded. Mike looked unsure. “Sit down.”
I turned to Beebee, who was sending a poisonous glare Mike’s way. “I just want to tell you that I hope you’re everything he deserves and more.”
“What do you mean by that?” Beebee demanded.
“If you think about it for a while, you’ll figure it out,” I told her, winking. “Would you mind if I spoke to Mike alone, please?”
“Like hell!” she cried.
“Beebee, please.” Mike said.
“No, Mike.” She glowered at him. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Beebee,” he pleaded.
“Fine,” she huffed. “But I’m waiting right outside. This door stays open and I’ll be listening to every word!”
“She’s a … lovely girl,” I told him, sitting across from him. “You caught me off guard the other day. There are things I need to say to you, without lawyers… or witnesses present.”
Mike looked so hopeful for a moment, but his face fell when I said, “You’re a jerk, Mike Terwilliger. What you
