Melanie Hale has the perfect life. Her husband, Collin, is a loving and supportive partner and she loves their small-town home just outside of New Orleans. She doesn't mind (too much) that she's given up her career dreams to care for her two beautiful children. It's all worth it.
So why, when she joins a writers' group for fledgling novelists, does she embark on a steamy affair with Luke, a local bestselling author who gives a talk during the group? Why does she go back to Luke again and again, when she knows it's wrong?
And then Luke is found dead, and Mel knows she was the last person to see him alive. Now, she not only has to keep the affair a secret, but somehow avoid being implicated in Luke's death. But who would want to kill him? And if Mel finds the truth, will she be next? What follows is a sinister cat-and-mouse game that will leave readers guessing until the very last page.
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I can pinpoint the day that set everything in motion. Gillian Baker, one block over holds a book club at her house once a week. Reluctantly, and at her insistence, I finally decided to join. I squeezed a cylinder of cookie dough out of its plastic tube, cut it into disks and put a tray of the artificial-tasting dough in the oven so I had something to bring and pass off as my own. Collin thought the book club idea was great and might inspire me. I told him it’s just a kid-free night for the neighborhood wives so they can drink wine and make vapid, uninformed comments on great literature, but he still thought I would be in my element and should give it a try.
I was going to be a
scholar once upon a time, but I dropped out of my master’s program when we
learned about Bennett’s condition. I wasn’t forced to stay home, but we decided
it made sense. It was for the best, and even better than a degree, because I
could write books from home and still pursue that dream. What a gift! All the
time in the world to write the great American novel. Except I haven’t written
any books, have I? What the hell do I really have to say anyway? Life has gone
out of its way to ignore me in many regards. Shelby Fitch two doors down was in
the peace corps in freaking Guatemala for two years before she married into
this neighborhood. She should write the book.
What will my topics
be? “Mom cleans up kid’s barf during carpool.”
“Mom waits half a
day for dishwasher repair guy, and guess what? He never shows.”
“Mom tries a Peppa
Pig cake recipe from Pinterest, but it looks like deranged farm swine with a
phallic nose and makes son cry.” I have nothing to say. The other day I thought
I’d get serious again and try to really sit and brainstorm some ideas. I ended
up watching videos of people getting hurt on backyard trampolines and a solid
hour of baby goats jumping around in onesies. So, I guess maybe at least
getting my mind back into the literary world can’t hurt.
At my dressing
table, I pulled my hair back and slipped on some dangly earrings. It was my
first time out of yoga pants that week, and it felt nice. I applied lip gloss
and pressed my lips together; I could hear the chaos begin in the background.
The oven was beeping nonstop, beckoning Collin to take out the premade dinner
he’d been heating up for the kids, but he was arguing with Ben about a video
game he refused to turn off. He still had to make a plate for Claire and help
the kids with homework after dinner, and Ralph, our elderly basset hound, was barking
excessively at something outside, raising the tension in the room. I felt
guilty leaving, but when I appeared in the front hall in a sundress, Collin
lit up and gave me a kiss, telling me he had it under control. I knew he
ultimately did. It’s not rocket science, it’s just exhausting and emotionally
bloodsucking, and he’d already had a twelve-hour day of anxiety at work.
I kissed the top of
Ben’s head and said goodbye to Rachel, who was paying no attention, and then I
walked out the front door. I carried the plate of cookies and a copy of The
Catcher in the Rye as I walked across the street. They were trying too
hard, trying to be literary. Why not just choose Fifty Shades or a cozy
mystery? When Rachel had to read this book for English, she called it a turd
with covers. I, on the other hand, spent hours making meticulous notes so I
could be sure to make comments that were sharp and poignant. I rehearse them
in my head as I walk.
I was the last to
arrive; there were a few other moms from the block already there. We all did
the obligatory cheek kisses. Gillian’s living room looked like she was hosting
a dinner party rather than a book club. Chardonnay was chilling in ice on the
kitchen island next to a spread of food that could have come from a Vegas
buffet. I wished I could hide my pathetic tube cookies.
“Wow, Gill. Did you
do all this?” I asked, impressed.
“Oh, hell no. Are
you kidding? It’s catered, silly.”
I can’t believe
she’s had her book club catered. Everyone has wine and something fancy on a
toothpick in their hands. She put my sad cookies next to the beautiful chiffon
cake on the island, and I was mortified. There was cling wrap over them for
God’s sake—on a Spider-Man paper plate left over from Ben’s last birthday. Kill
me.
She poured me a
glass, pretending not to think anything of my trashy offering, and I walked
carefully over her white rug as we made our way into the sitting room. Of
course she has a “sitting room.” It’s a bright space in the front of the house
with vaulted ceilings and a blingy chandelier. We all perched on the edges of
pale furniture. I never did quite know how to feel about these women. They’ve
welcomed me so warmly, but they sometimes seem like a foreign species to me.
Yes, I live in this neighborhood too, but it’s because of Collin’s success,
not anything I’ve done. I guess they can probably say the same. I still feel
sort of like an imposter. I don’t lean into it the way they seem to.
I didn’t intend to
stay home, of course, but I still feel like I was destined for a career, never
dependent on anyone else. It’s not that I feel dependent on Collin.
That’s not the right word. What we have is ours. The way I contribute is
something he could never handle, but I guess I don’t take it for granted the
way they seem to. Gillian was constantly remodeling her house and upgrading
things that you’d think it impossible to upgrade. She had a stunning outdoor
kitchen next to a pool that appears damn near Olympic-sized. It was even
highlighted in the local home tour magazine. One day she gutted the whole thing
because she wanted the pool to be teardrop-shaped instead. And here I am using
Groupons for my facials.
Even that sounds
indulgent. Facials. I grew up in a doublewide trailer in Lafayette with a
mother who worked the night shift at the hospital and an alcoholic father who
spent his days quiet and glassy-eyed on the front porch, staring at some
invisible thing, lost in another time. It will never feel right to buy
five-hundred-dollar shoes or drive a luxury car, although I’d never want to
lose the safety of it and I’m grateful my children will never have to struggle
the way I did. This comfort is for them. This safety is for them. That’s the
bottom line, so I brushed away the negative thoughts.
Tammy commented on
Gillian’s bracelet. She held Gillian’s wrist, examining it. Everyone oohed and
aahed as Gillian explained that it was an early birthday gift from Robert and
she had to get it insured. I have never understood charm bracelets. An ugly
soccer ball hangs off of her silver chain, but I made my face look delighted
along with the others. After we settled in, I assumed the small talk was over
and we’d dig into a great piece of literature. Kid-free, wine-lubricated, I
was ready.
“Oh my God, you
guys, did you see Bethany Burena at Leah’s wedding?” Karen asked. There was
mocking laughter. I’d been at that wedding, but I didn’t know what they were
referring to, so I stayed quiet. Liz chimed in.
“God, it looked
like someone stuffed a couple honey-baked hams into the back of her dress.”
“And the worst part
is she did that on purpose,” Tammy said, placing her glass of wine on an end
table so she could use her hands to talk. “That ain’t too much buttercream,
y’all!” Then she held her hands to her mouth and pretended to whisper sideways.
“Although did you see her shoveling it in at the cake table?”
“She had those
babies implanted,” Karen agreed.
“No!” Gillian
gasped.
“Yep. Ass implants.
Ass-plants.” Everyone roared with laughter. I forced a chuckle so I didn’t
stand out. I hated these people, I realized right in that moment. I longed to
leave. I could fake a headache, or check in at home and say there’s a problem
with Ben, I thought. Why didn’t I? Why do I need their approval? Karen kept the
gossip going.
“That’s not as bad
as Alice. She brought the guy who cleans her pool to the wedding!
“What do you mean?”
Liz asked.
“As a date.”
“No!”
“Scandal much?”
Tammy was delighted she had everyone in hysterics.
“Alice Berg?” I
asked, not understanding the social sin she’d committed. “Isn’t she
single—like, divorced, I thought.”
“Yeah, but she
brought The. Pool. Guy. Sad.”
“So sad,” Karen
echoed.
“Desperate,” Liz
added. She noticed the book in my hands. “What’s that?”
“What do you mean?
It’s the book,” I said with a lighthearted scoff.
“Oh, Mel. I’m so
sorry I didn’t mention it, I guess I thought everyone just sort of got
it—especially since the book was something so random,” Gillian said.
“Got what?”
“We don’t, like,
read it. We just need an excuse to get rid of the kids and hubbies for one
night. I think we deserve at least that?” she said, glancing around for
allies.
“Damn right we do.”
Liz held her wine up and gulped it down, a sort of toast to herself. “You
didn’t read it, did you?” I didn’t answer. I felt like an idiot. I was joking
when I said it was an excuse to drink and have a night away. I was at least
half joking. I thought that I may have found a few kindred spirits,
perhaps—that they were at least making a half-assed attempt at self-betterment.
“I just skimmed it,”
I said.
I was probably
visibly blushing, so I picked a strawberry carved into a rose shape from the
table and picked at it.
“Mel has a master’s
in literature. Did y’all know that?” Gillian said, maybe in an attempt to
redeem herself from indirectly embarrassing me.
“Oh my gosh,
smarty-smart pants. Look at you.” Karen swatted my leg and smiled,
supportively. I wanted the attention off me as soon as possible, so I didn’t
correct her and say that it was creative writing…and that I never finished the
degree.
“You should give me
the name of your caterer,” I said, picking up a skewer of chicken and taking a
bite. “I was gonna do a thing for Collin’s birthday. Maybe a trip, but if we
stay in town we’ll have people to the house.” The subject is officially changed.
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my gosh, I have
their card. I told them they should pay me for how many referrals I’m getting
for them. Their almond torte is totally to die for. Seriously. If you don’t do
a cake, maybe mini tortes.”
“Oh, cute!” Liz
said.
We talked about
mini tortes, whose phone carrier is the worst, Karen’s daughter’s (nonexistent)
modeling career and Botox for the next two hours until I walked home unsteadily
with my plate of cookies that Gillian gracefully sent home with me. I had to
laugh a little at the idea that they met weekly, like they’d read that much.
Made sense now. I tossed The Catcher in the Rye in Brianna Cunningham’s
garbage can, which she’d failed to pull back into the garage (Tammy actually
made mention of that particular oversight earlier in the evening), and I didn’t
know if the crushing disappointment of the evening was worse than going back
home to Claire’s bedpan and the mounting stress of teen angst and Ben’s moods.
I wished I could just sit in the Cunninghams’ yard, drunk for a little while,
but someone would see, and it would be discussed at some other neighbor’s book
club.
The temperate dusk
air was dense with mosquitoes and the chatter of crickets. I took my time
walking back. When I approached our house, I saw Collin in an orange rectangle
of warm kitchen light. He was washing dishes, sort of, but mostly looking past
the kitchen island at the TV in the living room. I concentrated on appearing
more sober than I was as I entered the kitchen. I sat at the table, pulling off
my shoes, and he offered me a glass of wine.
“No, thanks.” I got
up and filled a plastic Bob the Builder cup under the tap, then sat on a
counter stool. He pulled one up next to me.
“Was it fun?” he
asked, hopefully, wanting me to find an outlet—some joy in my life while things
are so tough. I didn’t know if I should tell him the truth or make him happy,
so I went down the middle.
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Eh. Not exactly
the literary minds I was hoping to connect with.”
“I’m sorry.” He
squeezed my hand. “I took Ben to pick out a new chapter book at Classics
tonight.”
“Oh fun. What did
he pick out?” I asked, thinking Collin was changing the subject.
He handed me a
little postcard advert. “There’s a writers’ group starting next week.”
I looked over the
glossy square and it had details welcoming any local writers to join the
weekly Thursday group to workshop their writing. Before I could dismiss the
assertion that I’m a “writer,” he pointed to the bullet point that stated “all
levels welcome.” It was so incredibly sweet that he brought this for me, not
only to encourage me in pursuing something I care about, but was also willing
to hold down the fort every Thursday. I kissed him.
“That’s very
thoughtful of you.”
“But?” he asked,
anticipating a “no,” but I didn’t have a reason to say no. I mean, except that
I had no writing to present to the group. I could write a critical essay on The
Catcher in the Rye. That was about it. It sounded thrilling though. Maybe
some accountability and pressure would be just what I needed. I glanced past
Collin into the living room and saw Bennett asleep in front of WWE
SmackDown! on the TV. I gave Collin a look.
“Well, he’s asleep,
isn’t he?” he defended himself. I smiled and shook my head, pressing my thumb
into the crumbs on his plate and tasting the remnants of the cookies I left
behind for the kids to eat.
“I guess I can try
it,” I said, standing and rinsing the plate. Words I’d give anything to take
back.
About the Author
Seraphina
Nova Glass is a
professor and playwright-in-residence at the University of Texas, Arlington,
where she teaches film studies and playwriting. She holds an MFA in playwriting
from Smith College, and she's also a screenwriter and award-winning playwright.
Seraphina has traveled the world using theatre and film as a teaching tool,
living in South Africa, Guam and Kenya as a volunteer teacher, AIDS relief
worker, and documentary filmmaker.
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