Chapter 13

Without Ivan and a job to distract her, Alex plunged into her work. She wrote constantly, as many hours a day as she was able, and it was a relief to lose herself in the book. She thought of him sometimes late at night when she finished, and compared it to the relationship she’d had with Scott. He had been jealous of her writing and tried to belittle her by tearing her down, in order to aggrandize himself. But with Ivan, it wasn’t her writing, since he had never read anything she’d written. It was everything, her dedication, her perseverance, her single-mindedness about life, her refusal to be swayed from the path toward what she wanted to achieve.

She kept her eye on the goal, which infuriated him, because he had none. He only said he did, like the book he claimed he wanted to write but never would. He was too lazy to do it. He was sloppy about everything he did, and angry at those who weren’t. And even though he knew nothing of her secret career and association with the Alexander Green books, he sensed that she would go far one day, and hated her for it. He wanted all the prizes and praise for himself, but not to work for them. She wondered how many people like him there were in the world, jealous of others for what they had and couldn’t be bothered to do themselves. He was never happy for her, just angry. She felt as though a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from her when she told him to leave. He was always angry at her about something, it was exhausting to deal with, and have to constantly try to make it up to him for what he didn’t have, wouldn’t work for, and thought he deserved.

And with her many hours of hard labor, Alex had finished the first draft of the book when Bert arrived in London in May. She had taken a room for him at a small hotel near her, and he was planning to stay for a week of intense collaboration. He was going to read and correct one section at a time. She would then make the changes he suggested, if she agreed with him—and she almost always did—and then they would move on to the next section. And while she was writing, he would have time to walk around and enjoy the city. He said he hadn’t been to London in years. And when he rang her doorbell, it was like a family reunion for her. She threw her arms around him and he hugged her and spoke to her gruffly as he walked in. He was wearing jeans and an old tweed jacket and hiking boots, and his beard and hair were as big a mess as ever. It was wonderful to see him. She had left Boston eleven months before and missed him.

He sat down in a big, well-worn leather chair and she handed him a glass of red wine, which he accepted with pleasure, and told her she had gotten prettier in the last year, and thinner.

“Are you eating?” he asked after the first sip of wine. “You don’t look it.”

“I’ve been working really hard for the past month, so I’d be ready for you when you got here.”

“Am I going to meet the boyfriend?” He was curious about him, and didn’t like what she had told him, but he didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t think it would come to a good end, for her. The boy she described had everything to gain from the relationship, and he couldn’t see what she’d get out of it, except a headache, and maybe great sex, which he didn’t ask. He had known she was a virgin when she left, but suspected she wasn’t now, not after seven months of dating a twenty-seven-year-old man. Even Alex wasn’t that saintly, and she was human and twenty-three years old, after all.

She shook her head in answer to Bert’s question. “We broke up,” she said simply. “It wasn’t right.”

“What does that mean?” Bert asked as he studied her intently. He didn’t think she seemed unhappy, just tired, and he knew she’d been writing diligently. “Did he dump you, or did you dump him?” He hoped the latter, from what he’d heard before. “Should I kick his ass? I will if he broke your heart. It’s fine with me, if you broke his. He probably deserved it.” She laughed at her mentor’s loyalty.

“I ended it. He was angry all the time and jealous of everything I did, and he didn’t even know about the books. I never told him.”

“I hope not.” Bert was relieved. “I told you to stay away from writers.”

“He wasn’t. He claimed he wants to write a book one day, but he’s too lazy to even try. He just wants the glory and the money. He’s an editor, theoretically, but he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Basically, he’s just a low-level assistant.”

“Jesus, he would have really hated you if he knew about the Green books.”

“I told him I did ghostwriting on the side. He saw a check once on my desk, and I had to tell him something to explain the money. I’m not sure he believed me. It didn’t help that I was lying to him and he sensed it. But anyway, he cheated on me, so that did it. I should have ended it sooner, or not started with him at all.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Bert said with feeling. That was two relationships that had gone awry, and this one had obviously been more serious, more involved, and lasted longer. “Are you heartbroken?” He hoped not, she didn’t look it.

“It’s kind of a relief,” she said sheepishly. “He was interfering with my work, and I hate that. I need a boyfriend who doesn’t want all my time and isn’t jealous of everything I do or accomplish.”

“That would be nice.” He smiled at her, happy to see her again. He had missed her fiercely, even though they spoke on the phone a lot and had continued working together for the past eleven months, but it was different than being in the same room, face-to-face, and talking out a change or a problem. It would be much easier working now in London for the next week. “So where’s our book?”

She picked the manuscript up from the desk and handed it to him. He set down his glass of wine, put on his glasses, and started glancing through the pages. He glanced up at her a couple of times and smiled, then alternately nodded and frowned while he was reading, and looked up at her once in surprise.

“A sex scene?” She blushed as he nodded. “My, my.” But he didn’t object to it, and then he looked up and told her to go play while he got down to work and read it carefully. He’d liked the glimpses he’d had so far in the pages she’d sent him, and she had tightened it a lot since. Her style was stronger than ever, her voice clear, the language beautifully handled with skillful turns of phrase, and he already knew the plot and liked it.

She cleaned up the kitchen, put some clothes away, and read some papers on her desk while Bert read, and she put the bottle of red wine next to him. But he was totally sober when he put the first few chapters down after three and a half hours. He made a few notations in pencil on the manuscript, but very few so far. She was nervous when she sat down across from him after he called her back into the living room.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s your best book so far. And the sex is nicely handled. It’s just masculine enough not to blow your cover, but actually quite elegantly done. And the plot development is dynamite. You already have me confused and I know the story.” She looked at where he was and nodded.

“The murder is in the next chapter. But there are two of them, there’s another one later on. I added it. It makes the book more exciting.”

“Same murderer?” he inquired.

“Of course not. That would be boring.” He laughed at her comment, and went on reading after a short break. He had been reading for seven hours when he stopped and said his eyes were tired and he needed more wine. He had finished the bottle, but showed no sign of being drunk.

She had bought dinner for them while he was reading, shepherd’s pie, and she warmed it in the microwave while they talked about the changes he thought she should make, but there weren’t many. It sounded like an easy fix for now.

They went over the plot again during dinner, and two new characters he thought she should add, and one he felt served no purpose and preferred that she eliminate, or make bigger and more important to give him a raison d’être in the story. His suggestions always improved the books, and she knew they would this time too.

He went back to his hotel after dinner, and she got to work, executing the changes he had outlined to her, and she stopped work at two A.M., pleased with the results.

She fell into bed, and he was back at nine the next morning, with a bag of scones and croissants, and she set out jam on the table and clotted cream for the scones, which was very British but she’d grown used to it. And she made coffee for both of them, and showed him what she’d done the night before.

“I like it,” he said, nodding approval, with croissant crumbs in his beard. He looked more like Einstein than ever, with his wild, unruly mane of white hair.

They worked diligently for the entire week, and by the end of it, Bert had come up with more changes, which sparked more ideas for Alex and inspired her, and they were both delighted with the end result.

“I stand by what I said when I got here. It’s your best book yet.”

“I hope the publisher thinks so,” she said, always nervous about it. She drove herself hard, and never assumed anything. She was afraid each time that they wouldn’t like it, which kept her on her toes, and it was one of those things that Bert loved about her, and that she was willing to work hard.

They went to the Rib Room for dinner to celebrate on the last night. The editing had gone well, the changes had been made. She had scanned and emailed the manuscript to Rose Porter to hand in to the publisher. Alex was as regular as clockwork, and her most recent published work was currently climbing bestseller lists at a rapid rate. She had become a regular feature on it by then, but was never blasé about it. It thrilled her every time when she got emails from Amanda congratulating her and telling her that one of her books was on the list week after week. This was another big bestseller. She was hitting one out of the park every time, and the Alexander Green books had developed a cult following among the elite cognoscenti of crime thrillers.

Her publishers were still astounded that they were written by a young woman, and her identity was the best-kept secret in the business. The publicity department occasionally planted an item about the author, that he was hunting in Scotland, or researching a new book somewhere, or had just returned to his ranch in Montana to start work on a new thriller. It had taken on a life of its own, and at times Alex almost believed he was real, like some form of alter ego. She always thought it was funny when they sent her a clipping about the elusive Alexander Green, or an alleged sighting of him somewhere unlikely, like Berlin.

After Bert left, at the end of a very satisfying visit, Alex had to look for a new apartment, since the second lease on hers was expiring in June, and the owner was returning from a lengthy stay in Australia and wanted it back.

This time it took her two weeks to find one, in Kensington. It was slightly smaller than the one she’d had, another furnished rental, which suited her, and she hoped to stay in London until later in the year, and then go back to Boston. She wasn’t ready to yet. An eighteen-month stay abroad still seemed reasonable. She hadn’t become an expatriate, it felt more like an extended student year abroad. She liked having her own place to live, although she missed the nuns and the warmth of being among them. She was happy too to move to an apartment where she hadn’t been with Ivan. She wanted to put the memories of him behind her. She had heard nothing from him for two months, and didn’t expect to ever hear from him again, and hoped she wouldn’t.

The new apartment was bright and sunny, when there was sun in London. It belonged to a young woman, and Alex felt at home there, in the well-decorated one-bedroom flat, which had a feminine touch. It made her wonder if she should get her own place when she went back to the States, although she hated to move out of St. Dominic’s, which was home to her now.

And Bill Buchanan had presented her with a big decision a few weeks before. She still owned the home that she had lived in with her father, which had been left to her as part of his estate. It wasn’t fancy, or overly large, but it represented a solid investment for her, along with his savings and the insurance policy, much of which she’d used to pay for her education. Their old house had been rented for nine years, since her father’s death, and their belongings were still in storage for a small monthly fee, which Bill paid automatically for her. There had been two tenants in the house for the last nine years. The most recent one had been there for five, and wanted to make an offer on the house if she was willing to sell it, and she didn’t know if she was. She hated to give it up, out of sentiment, and the rent was a steady income for her, which was nice to have, but she couldn’t see herself living there again, even years from now when she was married and had children. It would make her too sad. But giving it up forever was painful too, and severing a tie with her father and her past. She had told Bill she would think about it and hadn’t made a decision yet. He contacted her again in July, and said that her tenants wanted to know, because if she didn’t want to sell, they had an opportunity to buy another house, so she had to make up her mind.

The decision was harder than she thought it would be, and after many sleepless nights, remembering her time there with her father, she decided to sell it, and called Bill to tell him. He said he thought it was the right decision, and would contact the tenants and get back to her with their offer, which he did a week later. It was a decent offer that took into account the new roof it needed, and some updates and repairs, and they wanted to put in air conditioning, which she and her father didn’t have. She accepted the offer without negotiating, and they were delighted. She agreed to a thirty-day closing, and in September, the house would no longer be hers. The thought of it was bittersweet, but it seemed right.

The day after she accepted the offer, she got a letter from Brigid with startling news. She was getting married at the end of August to the math teacher she had been dating for six months. His name was Patrick Dylan, and Brigid said she had never been happier in her life. Alex was thrilled for her, and Brigid said that Mother MaryMeg and the sisters were coming to the wedding. The archdiocese had released her from her vows.

She invited Alex to the wedding, which was going to be very small and intimate, at their parish church, with the reception afterward at the home of Patrick’s parents in a suburb of Boston, and his sisters were cooking the wedding lunch. But she said she understood if Alex couldn’t be there. It was short notice and a long way to come for a wedding, from London, and Alex had no plans to go home for now. She thought about it all day. She didn’t want to go back to Boston yet, but there was no way she could miss Brigid’s wedding. It was four weeks away, and she could go home for a week and catch up with everyone there, and then come back to Europe for a while.

Alex sent Brigid an email to tell her she was coming, and then called Mother MaryMeg. She had been sure Alex would come home for the wedding since Brigid was her closest friend. Alex told her she would be in Boston for a week and all the nuns were thrilled when they heard. They were all going to Brigid’s wedding.

Alex flew into Boston five days before the wedding so she’d have time to visit with everyone. The nuns were almost as excited to see her as they were about the wedding, and they had a big celebratory dinner for Alex the night she came home. She was ecstatic to see them and it made her realize how much she’d missed them and how long she’d been gone. But she liked her life in London too, and she wasn’t ready to move back. She had her apartment in Kensington till December if she wanted it, and Sister Xavier and Sister Tommy were disappointed to hear that she was going back so soon.

She managed to have lunch with Bert before she got busy helping Brigid with the wedding. And she dressed her friend on the big day. Brigid had found a beautiful vintage gown in a secondhand shop and it fit her perfectly. She looked at Alex with such peace and joy, she was glowing, and she was exquisite as Alex helped her put her veil on, and all the nuns and Alex cried as they watched her walk down the aisle in the small church. It had been a long, arduous journey for her, and Alex was happy she’d come to be there with her. Brigid had no family of her own, except the nuns and Patrick’s big boisterous family. And Alex suspected they would be having babies soon. At thirty-six and thirty-eight, they didn’t have time to waste.

The reception was noisy and fun. One of Patrick’s brothers played in a band and they came. Everyone danced, the food was plentiful and good, the nuns were thrilled for her, and Patrick and Brigid looked like the two happiest people on earth, and Alex was ecstatic for them. She went back to the convent with the nuns after the bridal couple left for a two-day honeymoon at an inn on Long Island owned by someone they knew.

Alex stayed for three days after the wedding and then, sad to leave the nuns again, she flew back to London. She was thinking of returning to Boston for good in time for Christmas, but Mother MaryMeg told her not to come home sooner than she wanted to. She was young and free and this time would never come again. As the plane touched down at Heathrow, she was glad she had gone to Brigid’s wedding. It gave one hope to see two people so much in love.

The weather was terrible in London when Alex went back. It was gray, rainy, and gloomy, and Alex decided to go to Italy for a week, to Portofino, Sorrento, and all the way south to Capri. She had the money and the time. She asked Fiona to join her, but she couldn’t get the time off work, so Alex went alone. She was away for ten days, and had a good time. It felt odd to be in romantic places on her own, and lonely at times. But she visited all the touristic places, had brought a stack of books to read, and swam and slept a lot. And then she went back to London, to start working on an outline for a new book.

She spent the fall holed up in her apartment working on it, and had dinner with Fiona from time to time, but otherwise she saw no one and never went out. Fiona told her Ivan was dating two girls at work, and lying to both of them, and there would be a major explosion soon, since one of them had a fiery temper and was a bitch, according to Fiona.

“Am I glad I got out of that,” Alex said with a grin.

“No regrets? He was hot. He still is.”

“None,” Alex answered without hesitating for an instant.

“Anyone else?”

“I haven’t been out of the house, except to see you,” Alex said honestly.

“That’s not healthy,” Fiona scolded her. “What do you do here all the time?”

“I read…write letters…” She didn’t know how to explain why she stayed home for weeks on end, and couldn’t tell Fiona her secret either.

“You’re too young to be a recluse.” She wasn’t. She was a writer, which was different. But no one knew. She had a whole hidden life, which filled her nights and days, to the exclusion of all else. “You’ll never meet a man if you stay home all the time,” Fiona said. But she had a suggestion. She and half a dozen other women she knew were going on a ski trip to France over Christmas. It was organized by a social club for singles that they belonged to, the fees were low, and outsiders were welcome. “Do you want to come?”

“I’m not much of a skier.” She had gone twice in college, but hadn’t had spare time then either, to pursue sports, hobbies, or men. She was always writing. She had given up a lot, to write five books, three of them bestsellers, by the age of twenty-three. But the trip sounded like fun to her, and she liked Fiona. She had broken up with another boyfriend recently, and was looking to meet someone new. Men never lasted long with her, but the supply appeared to be plentiful, she always managed to come up with new dates.

“None of us are good skiers either,” Fiona reassured her. “The trip is about more than snow and slopes. There are hot guys in that club and they bring friends. Maybe you’ll meet someone. And not a loser like Ivan.” His reputation at work had gotten worse with his recent escapades. He hadn’t seemed as bad a year before, and had had a certain mystique. Now he was just an obvious cheater. “He’s a sleaze,” Fiona dismissed him with a sour expression, and Alex didn’t disagree. She felt stupid for having dated him, and even more so for having lost her virginity to him. Their relationship had been all about sex and not love, despite her illusions at the time about what it might turn into. It never did. He didn’t have it in him.

“So will you come?” Fiona pressed her about the ski trip. “They fill up pretty fast.” It was ten days in the French Alps, over Christmas and New Year, at bargain rates. It was hard to beat, except that she had said she might be back in Boston by Christmas and didn’t want to disappoint the nuns.

“Okay,” Alex said with a grin, and a pang of guilt.

“Thank God. If you don’t get out soon, your only date will be Father Christmas when he comes down your chimney, and he’s too old for you.” Alex laughed at her, and was excited about the trip.

She hated to tell the nuns that she wasn’t going home for the holidays again, but she called and explained why, and they were sad but said they understood. The ski trip sounded great to them too.

She renewed her apartment lease for another six months when it was offered to her, and extended her visa. She was hoping to stay in London until June. By then it would be two years since she left Boston. The time just seemed to slip by, and she had peace and quiet to write here.

She shipped all her presents to the nuns in early December, and rented ski equipment for her trip.

The new book she had started was going well, but she had promised herself she would put it aside and leave it for ten days when she went skiing. She had a hard time doing that. Sometimes she even got up in the middle of the night to go back to work. There was no one to object and tell her not to, which was the best part of being single and not dating. She could do whatever she wanted. She couldn’t imagine how she would give that up one day, if she met a man she cared about. Her freedom was so important to her now, to pursue her writing however and whenever she wanted to. She had total control over her own time, and she loved it. And writing was still the love of her life, more than any man.

Alex left with Fiona and her friends on the trip to the Trois Vallées region in the French Alps, near Courchevel, on the twenty-second of December, and the group was as lively and fun-loving as Fiona had promised. There was a lot of drinking involved, flirting, and random sex, but it was all easygoing and no one felt compelled to do what they didn’t want. A number of the men were attracted to Alex at first, but picked up on a vibe that said she wasn’t interested, and Fiona was disappointed. She wanted Alex to meet a great guy, as much as she wanted one for herself, but Alex didn’t cooperate. She went to bed early almost every night, except New Year’s Eve, and she scribbled for hours in a notebook in her room. She was incorrigible, and she knew it.

But on the bus on the way back, she told Fiona she had had a great time, and meant it. And Fiona had met a man she really liked on the trip. Clive was an accountant and worked for a solicitor’s firm. He had a good job, he was great looking and a good skier, and he appeared to be crazy about her. She had slept with him on New Year’s Eve, and he wanted to take her out as soon as they got back to London. He seemed promising, and Alex was happy for her.

When she got home, she had had a letter from Brigid that was so excited it was almost incoherent. She was three months pregnant and the baby was due in June. It had happened even faster than they’d hoped, not even a month after their wedding, without even trying. She had been married for four months by then. Fast work. She would be thirty-seven when the baby was born. And she said they were hoping for a boy, or Patrick’s father would be bitterly disappointed. Alex was thrilled for her friends. Brigid was married and having a baby. All her dreams had come true. Fiona had met a new man. And she had her books. Alex didn’t feel cheated at all not to have a man in her life. She had what she wanted, the writing career she had dreamed of, beyond her wildest dreams. It seemed like a perfect way to start the new year.