Page 25 of His Loving Wife

“Sounds dark,” I say.

Aster’s eyes light up. She looks from David to me.

“I do have some news, though. I’ve been waiting for the right time to share it.”

“Oh?”

“As I said, I’ve been working on this research for a while. One of my colleagues put me in touch with a literary agent. They think the material has some commercial potential. We’ve worked together over the past few months, and a publisher finally signed me up. I got a book deal!”

I’d been chewing my food until she made it to the last part. The food stalls in my throat and I cough, half choking.

“Are you all right?” asks Andrew.

“I’m fine.” I wipe my mouth with my napkin, then look at Aster. “You’re writing a book?”

“Yes! Isn’t it fabulous?”

I can feel the heat climbing through my chest, to my neck, to my cheeks, and I’m not convinced it’s just because I nearly choked.

“Since when have you wanted to write a book?” I ask dryly. “For years you’ve said that’s nonsense. What sellouts do. You’ve said your work is strictly academic.”

“Well, it is, but my agent says people are fascinated by true crime, especially adolescent offenders. It’s basically like I’m bringing my lectures from the classroom and putting it all in a book.”

This sounds like a sales pitch coming straight from her agent.

“And you’re actually writing it?”

“Well, I have a ghostwriter helping me. You know how busy I am. Don’t have the time to write an entire book, but it will be my words, so to speak. And it will be my name in big fat letters on the cover.”

I get up, carrying my plate into the kitchen. I stand in front of the sink, steadying myself and trying to take deep breaths.

“We’re very proud of her,” David says. “The university wants to host a little launch party closer to the release date. The two of you should try to make it.”

My back still to the table, I let out a dry laugh. There’s a pause, and then Andrew speaks.

“We’ll have to check our schedules.”

“Kate, I hope you’re okay with this. I mean, I know you used to talk about writing a book one day. Ages ago, it seems.”

“I don’t talk about it. It’s something I still want to do. I still write, when I can.”

She should know this, but then again, she spent so long telling me what I was doing was a waste of time, a childish dream, I eventually quit telling her about it. After all those digs, now she’s releasing her own book. Rather, having someone write it for her. And she’s just now telling me?

“I know it’s an incredibly hard industry to crack,” she says. “That’s why I thought you’d be the happiest for me.”

I turn quickly, just in time to see that thin smile on her face. The one I memorized as a child, the one I still see every time she makes a quip about Mom. Leading with my anger, I start marching toward the table. I stop when I see Andrew is standing.

“What’s your aim here, Aster?”

“Excuse me?” she says.

“You don’t know your sister any better than this? You didn’t think this news might have upset her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought she’d be happy for me. She’s the one who knows how hard it is to get a project like this off the ground.”

“You’re not even writing the book!” Andrew shouts. “And yet you couldn’t wait to rub it in her face.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

---