Writing this without Merritt felt like taking the band on tour after the lead singer had died. And—and!—every part of him ached without her. It wasn’t the same grief of losing Helen. That had felt heavy and cold and final. Losing Merritt, when Merritt was still out there... losing Merritt when he could clearly trace the cause of her departure back to himself, to his hang-ups, to a duty he felt he’d never be relieved of... that filled every cell of him with unmet, unmeetable yearning.
“Hi, Joan,” he said, leaning back in Helen’s desk chair.
How was your Christmas. Oh, the Cayman Islands, how fun. Does Annie still believe in Santa Claus? Yes, they are so sweet at that age.
“Joan,” Whit said at last, cutting through the chitchat and preempting the coming question. “Joan, I can’t do it.”
“You what?”
“I can’t finish the book. I’ve tried it, and I failed.”
“Oh, goodness.”
The conversation was brief, and Joan masked her irritation well. It felt to him as if she already suspected what he would be telling her, but still her sympathy was strained. He told her,finally, about Merritt, and about the journals. She told him about another children’s fantasy author the publisher already had in mind. This author was known for their unceasing productivity and, most appealingly, for their speed. She asked if she could make arrangements to get the journals to the publisher for their benefit, and Whit agreed. Finally, she explained how the royalties would work, though Whit could not have cared less.
At that point, it seemed she was ready to get off the phone.
Okay, Whit told her. He understood.
When they hung up, Whit reached behind the chair to grab Helen’s old blanket and then sat very still, watching the wet snow drop into piles in his backyard and slowly melt away.
And then on January17, someone knocked on his door.
Only after he’d answered it and found her there did he realize what he looked like: matted hair, wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants under a maroon-striped robe that looked like it had come from a high school theater program’s costume closet. His beard was scragglier than ever; his eyes, he thought, were probably a little bloodshot from drinking too much and sleeping too poorly.
But here was Merritt, standing tall in her indigo coat, full of confidence and warmth. Her hair was down, looking extra shiny in the presence of Whit’s greasiness, and she had brought the sun with her after days of rain and gloom.
“Merritt,” he said, surprised and embarrassed and, in some small pocket of himself, thrilled.Merritt!
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was soft, as though she might scare him off. Her face was polite, and maybe a little concerned. She kept one hand on the straps of the tote bag she had slung over her shoulder. He wanted—oh, how he wanted—to pull her into his arms.
No, he wantedherto pull him into her arms. He needed her.
“Can we talk?”
Talk?Whit thought.No, he thought,let’s skip all that!
“Yes, of course. Come in. Take your coat? Cup of tea?”
“That’s all right,” she said, standing in the entryway. “I don’t need to stay long.”
“Oh.” The warmth that had begun to rise in his chest tumbled downward like fog rolling over a mountain peak.
“It’s just...” she said, trailing off as she reached into her tote bag.
When her hand came up, it was holding a sheaf of papers bound by a large black binder clip.
“I finished it,” she said, “and I wanted to know what you think.”
She handed the manuscript over, and as Whit looked at it in his hand, he registered, first, that she had come up with a title for her previously unfinished work. Then his eyes processed the words at the center of the front page.
THE FAIRY IN THE HIGH TOWER
The Final Installment of the Greenwood Castle Saga
by
Whit Longacre and Merritt Pryor
