The Last Word

Rawlings arched a brow. “Oh? Is that something you’ve personally experienced?”

“No!” Laurel cried in horror and then realized the chief was joking. “I know I just dropped this on all of you with no warning, but I wanted this chapter to be read without any preconceptions. So I’m ready now. Fire away!”

Millay volunteered to go first. “I totally thought this woman was going to be some whiny Stepford wife, and I guess, on the surface, she is. She’s got the tan and the toned bod and the French manicure, but I felt sorry for her when I read about all the things she did to make herself more attractive to her husband. I was, to my own surprise, rooting for her.”

“You did an incredible job describing the scene where she gets Botox.” Harris gave a little shiver. “I hate needles. And the way she just sits there—thinking about how good she’ll look without those lines on her forehead and around her mouth while the doc sticks her again and again—I kind of wanted to shake her and tell her she didn’t have to go through that.”

The group of writers began to argue vociferously over whether The Wife had been wasting time and money trying to improve her physical appearance, since her husband didn’t seem to notice anything she did.

“You’re forgetting that she also attempts to become a better person on the inside,” Olivia said. “She begins volunteering at the hospital. She bakes meals for the employees at her husband’s company that have had babies or fallen ill. She reads dozens of biographies about strong and powerful women. That’s what saved her as a character in my eyes. She wants to be the whole package. She is deeper than she appears.”

Rawlings threw up his hands. “But she wants to be Wonder Woman and that’s ridiculous. Impossible.”

Everyone began talking at once. This was unusual, as the writers were careful never to interrupt one another. Olivia wondered if the afternoon’s physical labor coupled with several beers had produced this chaotic atmosphere. She glanced over at Laurel and saw her friend smiling with happiness.

Eventually, the rest of the group noticed her expression and fell silent, gazing at her inquisitively.

“It doesn’t bother you that we want to push this woman off a bridge half the time?” Millay asked.

“Not at all,” Laurel replied. “She’s evoked emotion in you in a way the duchess never did. I’m thrilled.”

Rawlings reviewed the notes on his paper. “An excellent point, but I think you need to revamp your title. Lessons for Ever After doesn’t seem to reflect the complexity of The Wife’s character.”

Olivia agreed. She’d made a note about the title as well. “You may need to wait until your story develops further before deciding what to call this book. We already know from reading one chapter that The Wife must figure out what makes her fulfilled, with or without the husband, and that she needs to redefine her definition of happily ever after.” She scanned over the pages in her hand. “Don’t get too caught up in the fairy- tale theme,” Olivia cautioned. “I sense this romance is going to have more depth than your previous project. It might turn into more of a Chick-lit romance if you use too many Cinderella elements.”

Laurel nodded in agreement and then Harris pointed out bits of unclear dialogue. Millay finished the critique by voicing reservations about Laurel’s word choice in the final paragraph, but overall, it was clear that the Bayside Book Writers were impressed by her new project.

“You’re on the chopping block next week,” Millay informed Olivia after examining her day planner. “It’ll be nice to be back in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. I like your choice of booze better.”

Olivia gestured at the pair of empty bottles at Millay’s feet. “You didn’t seem to suffer. Besides, you’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

“And what about you, Chief?” Millay’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You going to wash down that Coors with a chocolate milk chaser?”

Rawlings, who was known to have a penchant for chocolate milk, gave Millay a wink. “You should get in at least three servings of dairy per day. It’s never too late to protect yourself against bone loss.”

Millay threw one of the sofa cushions at him.

Harris rose, banged his pen on the neck of his beer bottle, and cleared his throat. “I have a strange and wonderful announcement.”

“Estelle is knocked up and you’re eloping to Vegas?” Millay interrupted. Rawlings returned fire with the pillow and gestured for Harris to continue.

“Thanks, Sawyer.” Even after months of having the chief as a critique partner, Harris always looked pleased to be able to address the policeman by his first name. “You’ll never believe it, but I met Nick Plumley yesterday. The Nick Plumley. Right in front of my house.” He beamed. “Man, that feels so good to say. My house.”

Olivia frowned. The bestselling author had failed to buy the bungalow, but he was clearly still interested in it. “What was he doing here?”

“Said he’d been doing research for the sequel to The Barbed Wire Flower and came across a newspaper article describing how all the houses on Oleander Drive had been relocated. I told you guys about that earlier, but what I didn’t know was that one of the trucks broke down in the middle of Main Street on a Sunday. A local minister with initiative blessed the house and held an impromptu service inside.” Harris smiled. “It wasn’t my house though. Plumley came inside and looked around but said the floor plan didn’t match the description in the newspaper. He’s lucky he caught me. I was only here because I’d come over to meet the cable guys.”

Nick Plumley’s motive to see the inside of Harris’s house sounded plausible, but something in Olivia’s gut told her that there was more to it than research. For some reason she could not fathom, the writer had a connection to this house. It was important to him. Because it could enable him to pen another excellent novel? Perhaps. But would he decide to purchase the property just to be able to study the interior? Olivia didn’t think so. Nick might be wealthy, but he didn’t seem like a compulsive spender. When she’d met him at the diner, he’d been dressed in khaki trousers and a white button-down. His shoes and watch were of good quality, but neither was especially costly.

Even his soft briefcase was modest and similar to the one Rawlings carried. It had the worn suppleness of those toted around by professors, not millionaires. Yet Nick had wanted to buy this house instead of continuing the lease on the spectacular beachfront property near Olivia’s place. She wondered if he was still a mile down the road or if he’d bought another home. Dixie hadn’t seen him at the diner for the last two weeks, and Olivia’s feisty friend had pretended to be extremely offended that Oyster Bay’s newest celebrity had eschewed Grumpy’s in favor of other eateries.

“Are you certain he’s defected?” Olivia had asked, amused.

Dixie didn’t even crack a smile. “He’s been at Bagels’n’ Beans every single day. Even if he doesn’t like eggs or pancakes, there’s still Grumpy’s lunch menu! I can’t stand the thought that he didn’t like our club sandwich. Who makes a better one, I’d like to know!”

Olivia had tried to assure her flustered friend that there wasn’t a restaurant within two hundred miles that could top Grumpy’s “mile-high club sandwich,” but Dixie was not to be consoled.

Except for the fact that Flynn McNulty had created an entire window display at Through the Wardrobe featuring signed copies of Nick’s book, no one in Oyster Bay had called attention to the writer’s presence. This in itself was an oddity. Normally, a rich, handsome, and unattached celebrity would have had the gossip chain on red alert, but even though he’d been in town for several weeks already, Nick had kept such a low profile that Olivia had nearly forgotten about him.

After all, she was a busy woman. Between preparing for the grand opening of The Bayside Crab House, outlining the next chapter in her novel, and adjusting to the existence of her new family, Olivia hadn’t had time to dwell on Nick Plumley.

“Wait, there’s more to this story!” Harris declared exuberantly. “When Plumley heard I was an aspiring writer, he actually offered to read my work in progress. He said that he loves science fiction and has always admired authors of the genre. He’s going to swing by on Tuesday to pick up my manuscript.” Glancing around at the scores of unpacked boxes, Harris’s eyes took on a frantic look. “I totally have to get my computer and printer hooked up.”

Laurel’s mouth had formed a perfect O of surprise. “Harris, this is wonderful! I’d heard that Mr. Plumley was in town, but I still haven’t laid eyes on him. Do you think he’ll give you feedback?”

Harris tried to look modest. “Yeah, I do. In fact, he said he’d love to attend one of our meetings if we were willing to have him.”