chapter twenty-one
READER, I MARRIED HIM.
Just kidding. I can practically hear Larry groaning, “That’s such a cliché!”
As much as we both wanted to, we couldn’t just run off to the courthouse—not this time. Larry would never forgive me. Neither would Adam’s mother. Adam needed to notify the board of trustees and let them know there’d be a new resident moving into the president’s mansion. An official engagement announcement would have to go out in the fall. And besides, Larry scolded me, who got married after a quick engagement anymore? This wasn’t a shotgun wedding. There were venues to book and vendors to hire and dresses to buy—at least a year of preparation before the big day. I let myself imagine having the kind of wedding that ended all my favorite novels, with flowers and cake and a wedding breakfast for all my friends.
Adam and I spent the summer in Fairfax, taking long walks around the campus, supervising the campus library renovation, and sitting together quietly in Adam’s private library, reading and writing. With the campus once again deserted for the summer, we enjoyed a degree of privacy that would never have been possible during the school year. We took advantage of it to the fullest, knowing that once classes began again in the fall, we’d be the objects of increased curiosity and scrutiny. Even Pam didn’t yet know about us, having left for a family cruise the minute the semester was over. I could only imagine her shock when she finally heard the news. She would probably scream—and then pick up the phone.
In July, Larry forwarded me an article he’d come across about Rick. It turned out Rick had also fabricated parts of his biography, from his time in Iraq to his undercover research missions. The closest he’d been to Fallujah was Dubai, where he’d filed his stories from poolside at a luxury resort. His stories of harrowing undercover missions and near-beheadings were taken from episodes of Homeland.
“Wow,” I said. “And I thought I suffered from imposter syndrome.”
“He brings new meaning to the phrase ‘Fake it ’til you make it,’ ” Larry said drily. “I bet he’s not even British.”
Rick had eventually resurfaced in Brooklyn and was shopping around a new book, a memoir of redemption called All for Love. A reporter had located the original proposal and uncovered more instances of plagiarism—including, I realized with a shock of recognition, a passage taken from my own book. I’d written, “Charlotte Brontë took solace in the written word, channeling her unrequited affections into her literary masterwork, Jane Eyre.” In his proposal, Rick had written, “I took solace in the written word, channeling my unrequited affections into this literary memoir of love, loss, and second chances.” I tried not to gag out loud. A little while later, I heard Rick had sold his proposed memoir for a reported six-figure advance.
My own book was already in press when I remembered, with horror, that I’d thanked Rick in the acknowledgments. In a panic, I called up my editor, Ursula Burton. We’d never met and only corresponded by e-mail, so when I first heard her clipped English accent on the line, I quailed. She told me it was “far too late” to edit the acknowledgments and that “any change at this point would cost the press a pretty penny.”
“Listen,” I blurted out. “I know you’re friends with Rick Chasen, but we had a really messy breakup and it’s a long story, but I’ll pay for any changes—”
“What are you talking about?” Ursula said. “Who is Rick Chasen?”
“Richard Forbes Chasen? The novelist? He told me you were good friends from university.”
“The plagiarist? I’ve never met the man before in my life.”
“I thought— He told me— Didn’t he tell you to publish my book?”
“My goodness, no. How absurd! I make my own editorial decisions.” She paused for a moment and said, “Richard Forbes Chasen, you say? Well, we can’t have someone like that receive more undeserved credit, can we?”
She immediately cut his name from the book. Snip-snip. I felt a flood of relief that I owed Rick nothing—that this accomplishment was mine alone.
Months later, I was letting myself into the President’s House when Adam called down from upstairs. “A box came for you,” he said. “I brought it into the library.”
I found a heavy cardboard box sitting on one of the tables, “OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS” printed on both sides.
“Adam!” I called. “Come down!”
I began to slice through the tape with anticipation. Adam came in and stood a little behind me, resting a hand lightly on my hip. “I think it’s from my editor,” I said, pulling the box open. “They’re my author copies.”
There was a handwritten note inside.
Welcome to the ranks of women writers. —Ursula.
I pulled a hardcover volume from the box. The book jacket showed a nineteenth-century woman’s profile in silhouette, set like a cameo into an oval frame. The title Ivory Tower: Nineteenth-Century Women Writers and the Literary Imagination ran along the top of the frame, and below was my name, Anne Corey.
I touched the cover silently, running my fingers over my name and blinking back tears.
“You did it,” Adam said, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
“Open it,” I said, handing the book to him. Adam looked at me quizzically, then took the book from me. He studied the cover for a moment, then let the book fall open to its dedication page.
“To Adam Martinez,” it read. “Besos.”
“How did you—?” he said, looking incredulously at his name on the page.
“Ursula let me add a dedication at the last minute,” I said.
Adam looked overcome. He let the book close and pulled me in for a kiss. Then he placed my book on a shelf in our dream library.