Page 82 of The Villa

It’s raining as I make my way into the café where Chess and I are supposed to meet for lunch. I had a phone interview that ran long, and by the time it was over I realized I was supposed to be at the restaurant ten minutes earlier.

But I’m here now, and Chess is already seated, a bottle of white wine sweating in a bucket of ice, a basket of bread untouched on the table.

“Sorry!” I call, making my way to her. People turn and look as I go by, and I don’t know if that’s because they actually recognize me, or if it’s just my newly reddened hair. My stylist swore it worked on me, and from the look on Chess’s face, I can tell she was right.

“Em!” she says, standing up and plastering on a smile to replace the grimace I just caught.

“Chess,” I say warmly, wrapping my arms around her. She smells the same, that Jo Malone perfume she likes so much, but she’s traded in all her beige and white for black today,a sleeveless turtleneck sweater setting off her tanned, toned arms.

“Love the hair,” she tells me as soon as I sit down, and I tuck it behind my ears, shrugging.

“I wanted something new before all the TV promo stuff starts.”

Her smile goes a little rigid, but she nods. “That’s smart.”

The Villawill be out next month on HBO, a ten-part miniseries with an award-winning cast, all shot on location in Orvieto. Chess and I got to visit the set last fall. A picture of us posing with canvas chairs, our names emblazoned on the backs, is currently my most liked photo on Instagram—634,932 likes, to be exact—and my Twitter replies are full of exclamation points any time I so much as hint at the show.

But I know it’s not the show Chess wants to talk about today.

The Villahas been out for over two years and is still dominating theNew York Timeslist. We don’t even have plans for a paperback yet since the hardcover is doing so well, but already, there’s that question.

What’s next?

No one has asked about another Petal Bloom book, of course. Petal and Dex will forever be frozen in amber at the end ofA Deadly Dig, and I’m happy to leave them there.

The follow-up toThe Villa, though… that’s another story. Not a day goes by that I’m not inundated with questions about it. On social media, on my website, in interviews, on phone calls with my new agent, Jonathan.

And now it’s the question I see in Chess’s eyes, a knowledge confirmed when she fluffs out her napkin and says, “So I was thinking it’s time to start planning the next one. That way, we can have a big splashy announcement about the newbook just as the show is really heating up. Buzz upon buzz, you know?”

She grins, putting her elbows on the table, her fingers folded as she waits for my answer, and I take a little satisfaction in making her wait. I unfold my own napkin, I take a sip of water. I contemplate the light fixtures for a moment, and then I finally say, “Are you sure we should even try?”

Her hands drop to the table. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, fidgeting with my napkin. “It’s just… yes,The Villawas a big hit, and honestly, I’m so grateful for it, but maybe it should just be a one-off. What are we going to do, cowrite for the rest of our lives? I mean, it’s not like mysteries are really your thing, you know?”

Her smile goes brittle. “Well, it’s not like nonfiction was yours, but here we are.” She gives a little laugh at that, waving one hand in the air. “We both brought our respective strengths toThe Villa. That’s what readers responded to.”

What they responded to was Chess’s name, my writing, and the story we could tell them, but I don’t say that.

“We did,” I agree instead, “but lightning isn’t going to strike twice, let’s be real. And what are we supposed to do, stay at another famous murder house, hope another terrible thing happens that we can write about?”

Chess leans forward, her eyes bright. “Okay, you say that like it’s crazy, but what if wediddo something kind of like that? Not with the tragedy aspect, but finding other places where famous murders happened, writing about them, what they meant, why people are still interested…”

What she means is that she’ll find a spot, and I’ll end up doing all the work. That’s how it was onThe Villa. Seventy percent of that book is the book I started, me, alone, by myself in Orvieto. Why should I have to share with Chess again?

“That might make us seem a little one-trick pony,” I tell her now, opening my menu. Two years ago, the prices would’ve made my eyes water, but now, I can order two of everything and hardly blink.

At times like this, I feel such a weird mix of emotions. There’s guilt, sometimes. I’d be a monster if it didn’t raise its head occasionally. But mostly there’s satisfaction.

Cut yourself free,Noel had told Mari, and she had.

So had I.

But, as I look across the table now, I wonder how free I actually am.

“Well, maybe it’s something to think about,” she says with a shrug that is clearly meant to be read as lighthearted, but actually looks like she’s having some kind of muscle spasm. “I mean, we’re a package deal these days, right?”

What can I say to that?

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