It’s at that point that I burst out laughing. This man is a joke. I will be blocking him on my phone. I never want to hear from him again. “Patrick, don’t call me again. We’re not friends.”
“Wait, Gina, I’m sorry. Let me—” I hang up as he’s talking and power my phone off. I’m seething with anger. I cannot believe that he had the gall to call me and ask for a favor after everything he's done. He’s a jackass. I can’t believe that I hadn’t seen it as clearly as I do now. He’s a user. He was probably never even interested in me and only wanted to date me for the access that I could give him to the who’s who of Whisper Cove. But I see him for who he is now, and I am moving on in my life. As far as I’m concerned, he is the garbage bag in the trash can, never to be thought of again. In fact, he’s the sticky gunk at the bottom of the barrel that leaves a stench so disgusting that you have to throw the barrel away.
I get into bed and turn off the lights. The thought hits me as I lie there for a couple of seconds, and I realize that maybe I’m not that much better than him. Didn’t I take this job because it was at the Waverly Estate, and I need the Waverlys to help me keep my job? I need the Waverlys to give up information that would help me write an article that the world would want to read. Am I just as much of a user?
“I’m no better than him,” I say as I close my eyes, and guilt fills me. But I’m not going to let it take over me. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m not going to lie to anyone. I’m still here to write the Waverlys’ love story, and I’ll do the best job that I can. I have no ill intentions. I’m not going to harm them. I want to believe I am better than Patrick. I think of his smarmy voice and face, and somehow, my mind flickers to Hunter. I know it shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself from thinking about him, from thinking about the bag of nuts in his hands, from thinking about the other nuts I’d thought about squeezing.
“Gina,” I say, annoyed at myself. I count to ten, and I’m grateful when I feel myself drifting to sleep. I need to focus on the prize. I’m here for one reason and one reason alone.
“Good morning, Mr. Waverly,” I say to Preston as I walk into his study, with my shoulders back and head held high. I have decided that I’m going to be the best ghostwriter the world has ever seen. That will make up for the eventual exposé article that I hope to publish.
“Good morning. How did you sleep, Gina?” He stands up and ushers me into the room.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’m sorry that I left early yesterday. I just?—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, dear. Do not worry about it at all. Enid will be with us in just a moment, and we can get started.”
“Oh, awesome,” I say, surprised at how nice he’s being. “I can get my notepad and pen so?—”
“Notepad and pen? Quaint,” he says, laughing. I watch as he picks up something from his desk and hands it to me. “This is a digital recording device. You can just record the conversation that we have and listen back to it to help you start writing the book.”
“Sure. That sounds like a good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.” I give him an apologetic stare.
“Don’t worry. I know you’ve never been a ghostwriter before, but I’m sure you’re going to do a great job.”
“Hello there, Gina.” Enid walks into the room with an enthusiastic wave, and I offer her a wide smile. I’m surprised at how excited she is to see me, seeing as the day before, she hadn’t seemed this ecstatic.
“I’m so thrilled for us to start the story and to have another writer in the group. You will come with me to the writing group meeting after we finish our session this morning, won’t you?”
“I guess. I mean, I should be working on this, but?—”
“How else will you get inspiration?” she says and takes a seat. “Darling Preston, have I told you how much I love you today? How grateful I am for you?”
“Yesterday, you told me twice, and today you’ve told me once, so I will say yes. Please, have a seat, Gina.”
“Sure.” I take a seat in one of the leather chairs and try to make myself comfortable. Preston sits behind the table, and I pick up the Sony recorder that he’s left in front of me on the desk.
“So, exactly how did you want us to start this?” I ask.
“I thought the book should start with how we met.” Enid leans forward, and I mentally note that she seems to be the boss in the relationship.
“Okay, that sounds like a really good idea and, I guess, a really important part of the story,” I joke, but neither of them laughs or smiles. I blink for a couple of seconds. “Though I think it would be really interesting to see where you were in your lives before you met, as well.” I pause. “Would you like to start there?”
“No.” Preston shakes his head. “Let’s start with how we met. That’s what Enid wants.”
“Sounds like a plan.So, I’m going to start the recorder now, and then maybe you can both speak and tell me exactly how this love story began.” I stare at the recording device and realize I’m not exactly sure how to use it. I can feel myself start to panic as I press buttons, but none of them seem to be doing what I want them to. “If you could just give me a second, while I figure this out.”
“Of course,” Enid says, and she leans toward me. “There are many things in life that I ponder as I wander down the streets of?—”
“Not now, Enid,” Preston says. “Can’t you see she’s trying to figure out how to use that darnn device?” I look up to see an affronted look on her face. I’m not really sure what Enid had been about to say, but I can tell that Preston wasn’t that excited about it. There’s an odd dynamic between the two of them. They’re obviously an old married couple, and they know each other well, but they don’t act like a couple desperately in love or the sort of people I would expect to want a book written about their love story. But then again, what do I know? I’m not even in a relationship. I finally find the record button and release a sigh of relief. “Okay,” I say, pressing the button. “Day one interview with Enid and Preston Waverly.” I smile at them, and they smile back. Finally.
“Enid, let’s start with you. Can you tell me about how you and Preston met?”
“Well, I can clearly remember the day my life changed. It was one of those days where you wake up and think to yourself, what is the purpose of life?—”
“Enid, this isn’t a philosophy book,” Preston interrupts and sits back in his chair. “This is a work of—” He pauses as Enid gives him a dirty look. He holds his hand up. “You know what? I’m not going to say anything.”
“Would you rather start, then, Preston?” she asks pointedly, and I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I should pause the recording.
