He tried to listen to see if he could gauge what was going on. There was silence and then, “Oh, honey! Kiss me again!”
Wolfe squeezed his eyes shut. He was going to have to come out of the closet and now. This was by far the worst thing that could happen. Besides being morally wrong, it quite possibly could cause his death by sheer embarrassment. He could slide out, hopefully unnoticed, and pretend he was in another room and had been there all along. This could work. But he had to act fast.
His hand wrapped around the doorknob, but then he heard, “I wish I could stay all day, sweetheart, but I have to get back to work. I’ll be home this evening, though.” He could just see Oliver’s eyebrows popping up and down. His hand froze on the doorknob. Now what? Should he go? Stay? Pray that Melb would leave too, for some shopping time?
“When you come back home, this house will be sparkling like it was brand new.”
“Now don’t exert yourself. You’re carrying a mighty precious package in there.”
Guilt swept Wolfe like a swarm of locusts. What if Melb came upon the snake? While with child? He was just going to have to go out there and come clean. It was the right thing to do.
He was about to turn the doorknob when the door flew open, and he was staring right at Oliver’s pale, shocked face, mouth opening wide in preparation for what could only be a man-scream. Wolfe did the only thing he could think of. He slapped his hand over Oliver’s mouth and whispered, “Don’t scream!”
Oliver’s breathing quickened to a rapid pace. Wolfe bent forward and looked to see if Melb was anywhere nearby. Apparently she was still in the kitchen. He could hear her humming.
“Wh-wh-wh …”
“Sshhhh,” Wolfe said. “I’ll explain everything later. Right now you have to get me out of here, without Melb seeing me.”
“Why?”
“Trust me. She doesn’t need to know the information I have.” Oliver looked over his shoulder and stuffed Wolfe back into the closet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll get you out. But she’s coming.” Oliver slammed the door in his face and said, “I don’t think I’m going to take a jacket today. It’s starting to warm up.”
“But it’ll get cool when the sun goes down, honey. You better take one.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a long-sleeved shirt on.”
“It’s supposed to drop into the forties tonight.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to come home early.”
There was a pause, and then a giggle. “I can see what kind of grief a little Oliver is going to give me, can’t I? No jacket, Mommy!”
Wolfe smiled a little. That was cute. Then he waited. And waited. And waited. Then the door flew open and Oliver grabbed his arm, whisking him out into the light. “Hurry,” he urged. “To the garage door and into the garage. Climb into the backseat and get down!”
Wolfe rushed through the hallway, praying that wherever Melb was, she wasn’t going to jump out and see him. When he safely reached the garage, he ducked into the car and quietly closed the door. Oliver was making gestures and whispering, none of which Wolfe could understand. But he figured Oliver was telling him to stay down and keep quiet.
As he lay on the floorboard of Oliver’s immaculate car, Wolfe wondered if he’d hit an all-time low. Is this what his life had come to? Sneaking around in his friends’ houses, hiding in dark cars, lying to his wife? Of course his intentions were good, but wasn’t this entire thing about control? Trying to control his life, to set it back to some kind of normalcy? Maybe he was fighting against something that was supposed to be. Maybe God wanted Melb and Oliver to stay with them, if only for Wolfe and Ainsley to learn to be selfless. Why couldn’t he have just let things go? Let Ainsley find her own course, instead of lecturing her about how insane she’d become? Why couldn’t he just be happy he had a home to offer two people in need?
Cramped and on his side, staring at the back of the driver’s side leather seat, Wolfe couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for himself. He’d turned his life over to God, decided to stop writing in a controversial genre, and in general had become a better person. He’d of course won the woman of his dreams, and that was nothing to snub his nose at. But could he really accept the fact that his life was to change so drastically that writing would be gone forever? He couldn’t imagine it, yet for months he’d found little to no inspiration to write anything that mattered. His attempt to immortalize Skary, Indiana, had been a hit with the sparsely populated town but nowhere else. His agent had all but abandoned him for fresh, hot Christian talent, if you could use the terms fresh and hot with the word Christian. His days were long and boring, watching his wife skip around town with complete direction and motivation that he envied.
Perhaps the only person he could really relate to was Butch Parker. Weren’t they really pretty much one and the same? Whatever Butch used to be, which was still in question, he wasn’t any longer, so he relied on embellished operative stories to feed his sense of self-worth. Maybe that’s why it grated on Wolfe’s nerves so much … because he was in exactly the same boat.
Resting his head against the back door, Wolfe stared out the dark window of the car, waiting for Oliver to come back. He’d created a real mess. He was going to have to clean it up. The idea that they’d come so far and risked so much to get that snake, only to lose it again in the very place that could cause him the most grief, baffled his grasp of irony.
He closed his eyes and realized it had been a while since he’d prayed for help. He could spend quite a lot of time praying, but he was beginning to realize that it wasn’t often he prayed for help. Maybe he’d been used to going alone for so long, it was hard to remember Someone was there to go along with him.
Wolfe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Father, forgive me for not relying on Your strength and trying to accomplish everything on my own. Also, forgive me for breaking into Gordon’s farmhouse. I feel so weak. I feel like my life is one chaotic, out of control—
The driver’s side car door flew open, and Oliver fell in. “Keep your head down. Melb is starting to suspect something. Stay down!”
Wolfe tried to lower his knees as best he could. He could feel the car roll backward and hear the sound of the garage door lifting up. Bright afternoon light flooded the car, and Wolfe felt vulnerable and exposed. But he kept down.
“Bye, honey!” Oliver said, waving at Melb, who’d stepped out the front door for some reason. Oliver accelerated backward like he had dreams of NASCAR. And before long, they were out of sight of the house. Wolfe sat up.
“That was close,” Wolfe said.
Oliver was frowning at him in the rearview mirror.
“What in the world would cause you to do such a stupid, idiotic, ridiculous thing as to hide in a closet at my house?” Oliver’s eyes bulged at him in the mirror and hardly regarded the road in front of him.
Wolfe was about to offer an apology when Oliver said with a sigh, “Look, I shouldn’t be mad. I guess I should even be grateful. After all, you captured that stupid snake and sold me a car today.”
Wolfe woke up from where Melb had been a permanent fixture in his home. It was a nice, comfortable couch, perfect for a midday nap. Wolfe wasn’t really a napper. And in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually taken a nap. But there was no better way to deal with one’s problems than going unconscious. He awoke to what sounded like bags rattling in the entryway. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Goose and Bunny, full of worry about why their owner had suddenly taken to their pastime, had sat on the floor beside him and watched him slumber.
Blinking twice, he realized it wasn’t a nightmare. His life had gotten complicated, beginning with the fact that Oliver was now not speaking to him.
Oliver had driven Wolfe to his house, ranting about how in the world he was going to tell the new and improved Melb that there was indeed a snake in their house. Wolfe didn’t have any good ideas. Telling her now would only bring on hysteri
cs. But the risk of not telling her and letting her “stumble upon it” might create a circumstance beyond hysteria, and as Oliver continued to remind Wolfe, She’s with child.
Which Wolfe took to mean, She’s in a fragile emotional state, let’s not wreck this.
No matter how Wolfe tried to explain the situation or apologize, his effort seemed incomplete and insincere. The friendship was in jeopardy. From the kitchen, he heard voices. He rose from the couch and stumbled into the kitchen.
“Alfred?”
“Good morning. Oh, wait. It’s not morning. I was suddenly confused by the bathrobe, slippers, and unshaven face.” Alfred’s way of implying he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Wolfe looked at the packages on the table, then at Ainsley. “You’ve been shopping? Don’t you have that big thing at the church tomorrow? Normally wouldn’t you be spending your afternoon baking up a storm?”
Wolfe’s head pounded, and then the realization hit him that he was also going to have to find a clever way to tell Ainsley he’d misplaced her brother. Maybe he should go back to sleep.
“Every career woman needs an outfit to accent her talents,” Ainsley smiled. “To inspire her.”
“Speaking of inspiration,” said Alfred, “have you—”
“I don’t have anything. Not even a small piece of a story. Not even an idea. I may get to do some research in jail, which might spark a few ideas, but I have nothing. Okay? Off you go.”
“Wait,” Alfred said, yanking his arm away from Wolfe. “First of all, you look terrible.”
“‘Wait,’ Alfred, usually indicates that what you’re about to say has enough worth to keep the door from slamming in your face.”
“I’m worried about you. Seriously.”
“I’m fine. But in no mood to talk.”
“Good. Then I’ll do all the talking.”
Ainsley pulled a pink suit from the bag.
“Darling! Fabulous!” Alfred exclaimed.
Ainsley twirled around, holding one of the outfits in front of her. “What do you think? What does it say, Alfred?”
Alfred studied it like a fine oil painting. “It says you’re a sophisticated modern woman who chooses to deliberately keep her small-town roots because she doesn’t feel the need to oversell her beauty.”
Wolfe cocked his head to the side. How’d he come to that conclusion? It looked more like a cupcake to him.
“Yes! Yes! That’s it!” Ainsley gushed. She hugged Alfred. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
“With perfection,” Alfred said, winking. “Now, Wolfe, shall we go into your office?”
“Why?” Wolfe asked.
“I have some important news.”
“Well if it’s not about me, I don’t want to hear it.”
Ainsley and Alfred exchanged worried glances.
Alfred tried again. “I think I’ve had a religious experience.”
“Oh, great. That’s just great. Now what am I supposed to do? If I say no, I don’t want to talk, I’ve made myself look like a complete you-know-what!”
“Because of my religious experience, I can’t fill in the blank for you, Wolfe.”
“Oh, all right. Let’s get this over with. Come on,” Wolfe said, stomping to his office. He could hear Alfred and Ainsley whispering behind him.
Wolfe fell into his office chair.
“In all seriousness,” Alfred said, his hand over his heart, “I want to know if you’re okay.” He quietly shut the door behind him.
“Do I look okay?” Wolfe said, throwing his hands in the air. “Look at me, Alfred. Do I look like the all-time best-selling horror novelist that you once knew? Do I look like a brilliant writer? Do I look like a man who has complete control of his life?”
Alfred looked like he might answer him.
“The answer is no, Alfred. Look at me! I’m a loser. I’ve written one meaningful thing since leaving the world of horror. And though I’m glad I wrote it, it seems to be the only thing I’m capable of. I can’t find a single thing to write about. Nothing!”
“You know the best stories are in the places you least expect them to be.”
“I’ve recently been in three of the most least-expected places you can imagine, so you can take your unexpected places theory and try it on your other client.”
Alfred was looking at him the way one might observe a dying dog on the side of the road. But Wolfe didn’t have anything more to say.
“Okay, just sit and listen for a moment, will you? Now, first of all, I want to confess some things. I know that I wasn’t exactly the model of confidence when I introduced you to this religious publishing thing. I wasn’t sure what to expect from it, and to tell you the truth, there have been a lot of surprises along the way, not the least of which was how well you fit in with those people.”
“Christians, Alfred.”
“Right. I was recently at one of their publishing houses, pitching a very agreeable story, which they became interested in, but they wanted to know more about you,”
“Like how washed up I am?”
“No. They wanted to know what kind of person you are. They were curious about why you left the writing world as you did, and what has become of you now.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“I told them what a wonderful man you are, Wolfe. How you’ve changed my life, and the lives of others around you. How you stood up for what you knew to be right, and no matter what temptations came your way, you were determined to stay the course. I told them what a good person you are, that’s what I told them.”
Wolfe rocked back and forth in his chair. “This morning I broke into an old farmer’s house and stole something that didn’t belong to me. Then I lied to my friend’s wife, snuck back into my friend’s house, attempted to find the stolen item that was inadvertently misplaced. After that, I botched an important deal that has probably ended the friendship, but since that wasn’t enough, I broke back into his house, hid in his coat closet and listened to him and his wife kiss.”
Alfred’s face was frozen with shock.
“But I am a good person.” Wolfe was enjoying Alfred’s inability to find words. “So tell me more about the religious publishers.”
“Okay … for one, they don’t particularly like the term religious. After all, as they pointed out, every book has an agenda, so there’s no reason to treat them differently. And apparently they’re what’re called evangelicals. Here’s an interesting fact for you … They don’t actually put halos around Mary’s head. That’s a Catholic thing.”
“How’d you know that?”
“I was describing what I thought would be a lovely cover for Doris Buford’s book.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, Wolfe, the reason I came by is simple: to tell you that I think this is your niche. You’re going to fit right in, and you’re going to find something that works. I really believe that. The more I talk to these people, the more I’m convinced that you’re one of them.”
“What about you, Al? Where are you in all of this?”
Alfred paused in a thoughtful way. “A few weeks ago I would’ve called myself a casual observer. But I’m being drawn in. I won’t lie. And it was all because of one experience.”
“What experience was that?”
“Do you realize that there are several dead men whose books remain bestsellers even to this day? You don’t find that in any other market, my friend. And these people have been dead for decades, some even centuries. I was shocked. I learned this after failing to attempt to acquire them as clients. Because they’re dead. Dead! Can you imagine? You just don’t find a lot of dead authors on a regular bestsellers list.”
“So what are you saying? You’re going to kill me off so I’ll hit the bestsellers list?”
“Funny. And a good idea. But actually what I’m saying is that it has given me an understanding. What these people are writing, it’s timeless. Fads come and go, as you know, and some of them thankfully fast
er than others. But truth … now that stands firm.”
For the first time in his life, Alfred Tennison looked genuinely passionate about something that didn’t affect his salary. Alfred opened up his hands like a book. “You, my friend, have talent. You have a gift. And I think you’re going to find that when that story comes, whatever it is, it’s going to fit perfectly with everything else in your life. Including your religion. That’s all I had to say.” Alfred stood and offered his hand.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere. But it sounds like you need to go to confession.”
CHAPTER 24
LOIS HAD TAKEN A BUBBLE BATH to try to relax before rehearsal. She knew she had to be focused, no matter what her love life looked like. After all, the show must go on. She’d tried not to let herself become irritated by how distracted all her actors seemed to be.
Wolfe, usually the one who seemed most able to concentrate, was running around asking about Butch Parker, of all people. She did not need to be reminded of Butch or their earlier conversation. Mariée had apparently gone three shades too light and was now wondering if her head was creating a glare in the spotlight. Of course, Lois didn’t care what Sheriff Parker was doing at the moment, which didn’t look like much, except staring into space. Then there was Martin, eagerly trying to please her while letting her know he might have to leave early because of a suburban crisis at the mayor’s office. He implied that the crisis at the mayor’s office might be the mayor himself, but he didn’t elaborate.
She clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right. I want you all to know how much I appreciate how hard you’ve worked on my play. Without actors, this would never come to life. The success of this play is on your shoulders. One little dropped line, and it could all come crashing down like an unsecured backdrop on a fly rail. I want everyone to just relax, enjoy the process. Before we do a complete run-through, we’re going to do Act 2, Scene 8. This is such a critical scene, and nobody seems to be getting it. I want you to feel your characters. Get in touch with them. Understand what it is they want, why they are motivated to do what they do. Places everyone. And remember, have fun. Mariée, get to stage right!”