A Secret Life

“But why sell them at all? You don’t need the money.”

Not a bad question. Joan supposed she could have kept the manuscripts to herself. But it wouldn’t have been the same. As much as she protected her privacy and solitude, she loved reading the reviews, and she got a big kick out of the reader comments that were sent to the unofficial Jules Burrell Web site. There was something satisfying in knowing a story she’d created spoke to people in so many different corners of the world.

“Joan?”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” said Joan, capping the lid on the shaker.

“You bet it wouldn’t have been the same.” Heather gave a hollow laugh. “Hundreds of Daddy’s friends and associates wouldn’t have read your sweaty little saga and second-guessed his parenting skills.”

Joan flinched. She hadn’t meant to hurt her family. She knew the Batemans ranked popular fiction writing right up there with mud wrestling.

“Do you think he read it?” she asked, shaking the martinis.

Heather shook her head. “No.”

“Did you read it?”

“When would I have read it? I called the jet right after reading the article this morning.”

Joan poured the cosmopolitans into long-stemmed glasses, wondering if her family might be pleasantly surprised if they read her work. She realized that a big part of her was proud of her stories. “I could give you a copy. Are you curious at all?”

Heather stared contemplatively at her drink. “Quite frankly, I’m scared to death.”

“Of what?”

“Of finding out that it’s even worse than I thought.”

Ouch.

“I’m at the Heidelberg Strings Friday night,” Heather continued, oblivious to the fact that her insult had hit home. “With Jeffrey Plant. I don’t want to have to explain your book to him and his mother.”

Okay. Now that one definitely hurt. Joan contemplated her own drink for a long moment. “Yeah? Well, there’s a bondage scene on page two-twenty-one. You might want to point that out to them.”

Heather froze, glass halfway to her lips. “That’s not even funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Joan took a healthy swig. “Say hi to Monica Plant for me, will you?”

Heather’s face blanched. A violinist herself, Heather considered her connections in the music community to be vitally important. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Joan shrugged. She probably had. Her parents were going to kill her. And it wasn’t as though she couldn’t see their point.

Bayou Betrayal was a heart-pounding, action-packed, titillating read, aimed squarely at the mass market. It had little redeeming social value. It was simply a fun write and, hopefully, a fun read.

As Heather downed half of her own martini, there was a knock on the door.

Heather grabbed Joan’s hand across the countertop. “You think we should hide?” she stage-whispered.

“It’s probably Anthony,” Joan whispered back.

“Would he knock?”

Joan put down her glass. “Of course he would knock. I told you, we meet maybe once or twice a year.” She headed for the door.

“I think you should be careful.” Heather pattered behind her. “You’ve got enough problems without a news crew sticking a camera in your face.”

Joan flashed her sister a look of disbelief. “News crew? You’re starting to sound like Anthony.” Still, she peeked through the beveled window before opening the door.

Not Anthony.

And not a news crew.

It was Samuel Kane, and Joan’s stomach did a slow-motion slide to her toes. Samuel should have been the first person she thought of when her name went public.

In the past, she’d always been careful not to base her stories on real people or on real events. They all took place in Cajun country. And yes, the small town was similar to Indigo. But the stories themselves were pure fiction.

Until this one.

The murder-suicide of Samuel Kane’s parents had formed the germ of her idea for Bayou Betrayal.

“Who is it?” Heather hissed from behind her.

Joan took a bracing breath and opened the door.

“Ms. Bateman?” Samuel Kane nodded, his tone low and melodious. He was a big, burly man with cropped black hair, deep-set eyes and a wide nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. His skin was the color of burnished copper both from his hours in the sun as a carpenter and from his mixed heritage.

Joan sometimes saw him at church, and they’d certainly met around town, but they’d never engaged one another in conversation. There was only one reason for him to show up at her door today-he’d already read Bayou Betrayal, and she hadn’t been nearly as vague as she’d hoped.

“Mr. Kane,” she acknowledged, swallowing against a tight, dry throat.

“Who is it?” Heather demanded.

“I think you know why I’m here,” he said.

Heather shouldered her way between Joan and the doorjamb. “Well, I don’t know why you’re here.”

“Heather,” Joan warned, stepping back, opening the door wider. “Please come in.”

“You’re letting him in?” Heather squeaked, glancing from one to the other.

“She’s letting me in,” said Samuel.

Heather looked him up and down. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Samuel perused Heather from head to toe. “You afraid I’ll steal the silver?”

Heather crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin. “I’m afraid you’re a stringer for a tabloid.”

Samuel’s lip curled, and he gave Heather an insolent look few men would have dared. When she didn’t flinch, he turned his attention to Joan. “I need to know if it’s true.”

“Please come in,” Joan repeated.

“Joanie.”

“Back off, Heather.”

Heather’s delicate nostrils flared for a second, but she stepped out of the way.

Samuel ambled through the doorway, ducking reflexively to accommodate his height.

Joan closed the door behind him.

“It’s true,” she admitted, bracing herself for his anger.

For a split second, his expression went blank. Then he blinked and drew back. “You have proof?”

“Proof?” What an odd question.

“Of my father’s innocence.”

Joan instantly understood, and her mouth formed a silent oh.

In her novel, Samuel’s father didn’t murder his wife and then commit suicide. In her novel, his father was framed by criminals who were after hundreds of thousands of dollars concealed in the walls of his house.

Samuel thought the entire book was true. And she’d unthinkingly given him false hope.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I’m afraid the story is fictional.”

Samuel’s meaty hands slowly curled into fists.

“I made it up,” she clarified, taking a step backward. Maybe Heather had been right about letting Samuel in.

Just then the front door opened, and Anthony strode into the hall. He stopped short, his eyes darting from one person to another. “What’s going on here?”

Samuel ignored his arrival, pointing a finger in Joan’s direction. “That book is about my parents.”

“Whoa.” Anthony stepped between Joan and Samuel. “We are not commenting on an accusation like that.”