Page 21 of Beautiful Ugly
“...delicious,” I tell her.
All of the rooms have open fireplaces and they all appear to be lit. I suspect it must be difficult to keep a big old house like this warm, but they’ve done a grand job of making it feel cozy. I can feel myself start to unwind for the first time in a long time.
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you or your books,” Midge says as I stare at my plate.
The relaxed feeling disappears. It’s a comment that never fails to sober me up and dampen my mood. Being a bestseller doesn’t mean people will know who you are. Being an author, even a moderately successful one, is an invisible sort of life. It used to be one of the reasons why I loved my job—I’ve always been shy, happy to stay out of the spotlight—but these days I just feel unseen. Past my prime. Forgotten.
“She doesn’t mean to be rude,” Sandy says before I can answer.
“I’m not beingrude, just honest. I run the island library so—”
“When she saysisland library, what she means is the old red phone box next to Saint Lucy’s. It’s not been used for making calls for months—it got struck by lightning, hasn’t worked since, and we’re still waiting for someone to come from the mainland to repair it—these days the old phone box is filled with secondhand books.”
I thought Cora said a fishing trawler took out the cable on the ocean floor.
“Are you okay, Grady?” Midge asks, a look of concern on her face.
“Yes. Sorry. I have a bad habit of daydreaming, one of the drawbacks of my job. I stumbled across the phone box earlier today. Thought I heard it ringing actually.” They both stare at me as though I might be crazy. “But it was just my imagination.”
“I imagine that must be another downside of being an author,” Sandy says, pushing some more food around her plate. “Constantly living inside an imaginary world must make it difficult to tell truth and fiction apart sometimes.”
“Sometimes.” I take a large gulp of wine from my glass, which is on a tweed coaster.
“Have you written many books?” Midge asks, and I retreat inside myself a little bit more.
“A few,” I say, desperately trying to think of some way to change the subject. A deep reservoir of sadness supplies my moods these days and it never runs empty. Sandy seems to pick up on my discomfort, and I am grateful when she moves the conversation along. Something about the church roof leaking and costing too much to repair. I tune out for a while and wallow in the depths of my own self-pity; it can be hard to drag myself up when I feel this down.
Is a writer still a writer if they can no longer write?
I havetriedsince Abby disappeared. I just can’t.
Something got broken, and until I know what happened to her I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write again.
That’s why stealing someone else’s book and pretending it’s my own is such a good idea.
It’s also the only one I’ve got.
ALMOST EXACTLY
Please help yourself to more if you’d like some?” Midge offers.
“Thank you. It wasdelicious, but I’m full,” I say as I put down my knife and fork.
She smiles then stares at the ring on my finger.
“What does your wife think about your novels?” she asks. “I imagine being married to a writer must be quite something.”
That’s one way to describe it, I suppose.
“My wife was my biggest supporter from the start. She believed in me even when nobody else did,” I say, not wanting to share anything further. It isn’t a lie. Abby did always believe in me and I am still married. Albeit to a ghost. My missing wife has defined me these past twelve months—it’s all anyone who knows me thinks about when they see me—but maybe she doesn’t need to here. Perhaps, while I am on the island, I could just be me again.
If I can remember who that is.
“She must be very understanding to let you go off gallivanting by yourself, leaving her behind at home. Especially a handsome man like you,” Midge says, pouring me another glass of wine.
It’s been a long time since anyone called me handsome and I feel myself blush.
Good wine makes up for the not great food—Sandy wasn’t exaggerating about the horror show that is her sister’s cooking—and the company is... interesting.