Page 47 of The Last Book Party

“How could you possibly have told him?”

He looked at the house, as if expecting to see Henry outside the kitchen, having gotten the news from me on my way back outside. I could hear music, the plaintive sounds of a Linda Ronstadt ballad, and the high peal of a woman’s laugter.

“I didn’tknowI was telling him. We were at the flea market together in Wellfleet, and I came across a copy ofWinesburg, Ohio, which reminded me of you and so I told him about your book deal and your novel. I described the entire plot.”

Suddenly, Henry’s behavior at the flea market made sense. He hadn’t been jealous of Jeremy’s success or upset about my being so much younger. He had been disturbed to learn that Jeremy had not simply written a novel about “a forbidden love affair in the Himalayas,” as he had thought, but had plagiarized his own story. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset that Henry hadn’t shared his shock with me. He must have gone home and found the novella, which would explain why it was out in his bedroom. He must have discussed it with Tillie, which was probably why both she and Henry had been cold to Jeremy and hadn’t invited him to stay at their house.

I looked up and saw Jeremy staring at me. He looked confused. And angry. In a slow whisper, as if he wanted to delay the inevitable answer to his question, he asked, “Why were you at the flea market with Henry?”

I felt a flush of warmth on my face. I looked down at my lap. I could feel Jeremy watching me, waiting for me to speak. Afraid to meet his eyes, I looked away, which apparently confirmed what Jeremy suspected.

“Jesus, tell me you didn’t. First Franny and then his father?”He stood up, towering over me. “That is seriously twisted. That’s like some weird form of incest.”

My stomach heaved.

“It is not,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I stood up to face Jeremy. “And it has nothing to do with your stealing Henry’s novel. You’re the one who crossed a line here, not me.”

“I crossed a line? That’s something coming from someone who’s been having an affair with a married man twice her age.”

“Stop making this about me. You’ve been lying to everyone since the day you sent your manuscript to Malcolm. If you did nothing wrong, why the secrecy?”

I hated the way he was looking at me.

“Jeremy Grand, JeremyGreenberg—whoever the hell you are, you’re full of shit. A phony.”

I started to turn away, but Jeremy grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “I’m full of shit?” he said, holding my arm tightly, his voice rising. “I wrote every word of that novel. Unlike you, I actuallywrite. Day after day, night after night. All you do is talk about it and whine about how itdoesn’t flow.” His voice was so cold. “I work at writing. You just make yourself feel like a writer by fucking one.”

I was stunned. My chin trembled. Jeremy dropped my arm and glared at me, waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t stand the thought that he’d see me cry. I looked down the hill and, to my horror, saw Franny and Lil, hand in hand, skipping toward us. “Shit.”

“What ho, fair friends!” said Franny, stopping in front of us. “What gives? Is this a lover’s quarrel?”

44

“Are you guys a couple?” Lil said sweetly. “That’s so romantic.”

“Oh, there’s a romance, but it doesn’t involve me,” Jeremy said.

“Don’t,” I said.

“Who’s the lucky fellow?” Lil asked me.

Jeremy and I locked eyes, as if we were daring each other to be the first to speak. To stop him from exposing the truth about Henry and me, I tossed the novella to Franny.

“What’s this?” he said, catching the booklet.

I explained what it was and what Jeremy had done with it. As I talked, I could sense Jeremy watching me.

Franny seemed surprised that his father had written fiction. “I had no idea,” he said, flipping through the pages. He looked up at Jeremy. “But what the hell? You stole his story? You lied to me?”

“Don’t listen to Eve,” Jeremy said. “It’s nothing like mine.”

“Which, again, begs the question—why the secrecy?” I said.

“Yeah,” Franny said. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Or at least ask Henry if you could adapt his story? You started your novel years ago.”

“I was going to tell him. And I will,” Jeremy said. “C’mon, Franny, you know how I feel about Henry. Of course I’ll tell him.” I was surprised by his eagerness to convince Franny of his sincerity, as if Franny’s opinion of him was more important than anyone else’s. “I tried calling him last week. He’s hard to reach.”

“Seriously?” I said. “You can do better than that. Henry is here every single day.”

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