Merritt’s and Whit’s eyes found each other, both knowing that the other was asking permission or forgiveness or something similar, all of which was granted instantly.
“Oh,” was all Merritt seemed able to say.
“We’d never want to impose,” Kathleen was saying, but Whit was looking only at Merritt.
“You wouldn’t be,” he explained eagerly. “Of course you wouldn’t, we’d love to have you. And anyone else—the more the merrier.”
Kathleen laughed at that. “I don’t have anyone I’d like to invite, although Merritt might. Someone from the bookstore, perhaps?”
Merritt’s eyes widened. “No.Definitely not.”
Now Whit laughed, imagining what it would be like if Diana showed up in her nosiest state.
“Well?” Evie said, looking from Kathleen to Merritt to Whit. “What do you say?”
“Pleasecome,” Annie begged, yanking at Kathleen’s sleeve.
Again, Merritt looked to him. He gave what he hoped was a small, serious, meaningful nod, holding her eyes with his.
“Please come,” he said.
Merritt shrugged, a small smile clearly constraining a much bigger grin beneath it.
“Sure,” she said. “We’d love to.”
Onthe walk home, Merritt and her mother talked about what a cute kid Annie Longacre was, and Evie Longacre’s gorgeous hair, and the crispness of the weather, and the crisp they planned to make with their apples and quinces.
They did not discuss Thanksgiving or the now-forgotten B&B.
They did not discuss how handsome and alive Whit Longacre was looking these days, with his well-trimmed beard and his strong posture and those shining white teeth. With his eyes that held your gaze like hands gently cupping a fresh egg. With his broad shoulders and warm cheeky grin.
They did not—thank God—discuss the way Merritt herself was grinning, nor the fact that she didn’t stop grinning for one second all the way back to her mother’s house.
Chapter Twenty-One
With Thanksgiving three days away, Merritt and Whit were on a roll. They had recently passed the halfway point of the novel—they were deep within the murky middle, the part every writer hated, and they were stomping through it like fearless, well-seasoned explorers intuiting the proper paths to take. They had crafted a comfortable, habitual world for themselves, communicating often through looks andhmms and glances at the clock. Merritt started bringing new teas for them to try, and she had left one of her sweatshirts hanging on the coatrack for days when the house felt drafty. She had a favorite mug and a favorite blanket; the chair nearest the fire was hers in the early hours of their work, and the spot on the rug in the patch of sun was where she moved as dinnertime approached. Annie, now on break from school, would swan in and out of the living room, “bothering” Merritt, who loved it. She would talk with the eight-year-old about books and TV shows and what she wanted for Christmas.
Merritt was really happy. Scrolling on her phone from the cracked red leather chair during a break at the bookstore, she was thinking about just how happy she was: the kind of state, she would later think, virtually guaranteed to result in bad news. Thus, the text from Bebe shouldn’t have come as a shock, though of course it did. Things like this were impossible to take in stride.
Forwarded you an email you need to see, Bebe wrote.I didn’t respond, and as far as I know, no one else did either. The faculty have asked us not to. Call me if you want to talk.
Merritt’s stomach looped itself into a Möbius strip as she navigated to her email and opened the top forwarded message.
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Ian Hoult. You may have read some of my books—at least I hope you have! (If not, they are available for purchase at thislink.)
I’m currently writing a story forThe Atlanticabout Graydon Lyons and his latest book,Serious Games. For this piece, an investigation of the rumors that the work is aroman à clefor something similar, I’m trawling the depths for any true-to-life details that might grant me theclefto thisroman.
I write this with an e-wink and an e-nudge, but I’m sure you’ll understand the obstacles I face. People are often reticent to speak up about a beloved mentor or to speculate about themeaningof a work of literature. As such, I am reaching out to ask that question burning in each of our minds:What’s the true story of Graydon Lyons? What is he really like? What’s fiction? What’s fact?
Perhaps you know, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you know someone who knows someone. Perhaps you’ve heard something, however frivolous, you think would be worth sharing. I can promise you a listening ear and a discreet pen, not to mention my immense gratitude. Please feel free to email or give me a call at your earliest convenience.
Cheers,
Ian Hoult
“Fuck,” Merritt hissed. The tangle in her stomach seemed to have doubled in weight as cold tingles crisscrossed her skin. She scrolled up, frantic, and skimmed the email addresses in the forwarded email. Ian had done the mental math necessary to send this missive to all the third years and, she thought, to the last three or four graduating classes.
