Whelk Harbor was a small town with a high number of writers per capita. Ian was the third of three (formerly four) members of the writing group, and Whit had more than once fantasized about going head to head with him on the National Book Award shortlist, beating him, and then stabbing him with the pointy end of that exhaust pipe–shaped trophy. Never would Whit speak this fantasy out loud, not only because of the daydream’s violent nature, but also because he and Ian both knew who would actually win in such a showdown. If one of them was the critical darling, it was not the mystery writer but the author of heavily researched novels in which famous and friendless figures did ambiguous and/or ruthless things for three hundred pages.
Once upon a time, the writing group had consisted of Whit, Willa, Helen, and Ian. For a while, it felt like the four of them were struggling side by side, and even when they got agents andbook deals, they had been in it together. Ian was unassumingly smart, as if he was used to being overlooked, and it had given him a kind of lovable snarkiness. But then his second novel, a literary historical volume calledAnd Now We Must Say Farewell, had won the PEN/Faulkner, and there had been a big book tour and the obligation to “do press,” as Ian had told them over and over, each time as if he regretted it. As a consequence, Ian had started missing their weekly meetings, and though the other three had feigned disappointment, in fact they were relieved. Success had not agreed with the man.
Ian reached their table now and shrugged with his whole body, because his life had become one of faux apology. He had started dressing as if he’d read the definition ofunkemptand taken it as a costuming guideline for day-to-day living. His linen shirt looked as though he’d been practicing sailing knots with it; his brown jeans were stained in two places, and his shoes were horrible closed-toe Birkenstocks. His brown beaded bracelet and longish hair, dark and wild, were so at odds with his ever-increasing vanity that the man radiated pretense.
“Here you are,” Ian said in his lazy way, “my fellow writers in arms. The life of the mind.”
After this non sequitur, he did a painful show of solidarity with two raised fists.
“How are the ‘lyrical marvels’ going?”
He quoted these words at Willa often, hardly masking his jealousy. They were taken from a review of one of her early novels, and he somehow made them sound like ironic curse words.
Willa gave him a bland smile. “Oh, you know.”
“Ah. And Whit, how are the wizards?”
Helen’s book was not about wizards, and Whit was never quite sure whether this was an inexpert attempt at teasing or a real display of Ian’s ignorance.
“They’re just fine.”
Ian raised his cheeks in something smile-adjacent and waited, completely comfortable with the silence. Finally, after an excruciating fifteen seconds:
“And what about Detective Fraulein Maria? I hope she hasn’t returned to the convent indefinitely. She doesn’t seem the type to be satisfied with a cloistered existence.”
Ian laughed so loudly at his own joke that people from other tables looked their way.
Whit gripped the leg of the table. His “Sister Marguerite” books riffed on that strange phenomenon in detective fiction, where members of the clergy, usually British, stumble into solving crimes in tiny hamlets with as many murders a year as there are beads in the rosary. Whit’s books were cozy mysteries with diminished coziness. They were serious (he hoped) and compelling (he hoped) and surprising (please, God), and they turned the genre on its head in welcome, unexpected ways (surely they at least did that).
Whit clinched his teeth and smiled. “Not indefinitely, no. She’s just on hiatus while I finish the book for Helen.”
Something about the direct answer—the acknowledgment of Helen and her absence—seemed to disarm or confuse Ian, who looked away. But still he stood, waiting, and finally Willa let her compulsion to be polite win out.
“What about you, Ian? What are you working on?”
“Oh, well, there’s the new book, of course, if I can ever get to it. I’m calling itStandard Deviations, it’s about mathematicians. I’m trying to trace a line from Ada Lovelace to Sofya Kovalevskaya to Benoit Mandelbrot.”
He had delighted in perfectly pronouncingKovalevskayaand now waved a hand like this was all probably too complicated for Whit and Willa to follow.
“ButThe Atlanticwants me to write something about the class I’m teaching at Plymouth College this semester, and it’s taking up all my time.”
He seemed to pause for a show of praise or awe, but this time even Willa refused to take the bait.
“Right now,” he said, entirely unfazed, “I’m grabbing a cuppa on my way out to visit a creative writing class at the high school. I wish I’d said no, but the teacher’s an old friend of my mother’s, and well, duty calls.”
“Oh, how fun,” Willa said, presumably in an effort to move things along. “Well, enjoy. And good luck with all that.”
“Yes, thank you. Well.” Another long, oblivious pause, and then, at long last: “Happy writing, friends.”
“You too,” Willa said, before sighing in relief as the man walked away.
Whit laughed, but mostly he was thinking of how Helen would have said just the right thing to put Ian in his place. She had always been better with words.
Chapter Four
When the library phone rang at the end of the school day, Merritt Pryor knew it would be her mother, Kathleen, checking in to see how substituting had gone. The day before, Kathleen had texted her daughter regularly, because she was bored at home and hated being away from school. So Merritt had sent back occasional updates about particular class visits, a few questions about the online catalog, and some small bits of juicy schoolroom gossip.(Mr.Llewellyn tried to print out invitations for a Halloween party to which no faculty or staff were invited and had been found out when the copier jammed; a fourth grader got stuck in a bathroom stall with his shoes two stalls over.)But today her mother’s texts went ignored. She had been busy. Very busy.
“You didn’t text me back,” Kathleen said, her voice full of feigned offense.
