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“Why?”
“Because it’s not the same without Jerry.”
“You wrote the books with your husband?”
She nodded.
Scott didn’t say anything for some time. It wasn’t wise to make such dramatic life changes when you were grieving. But the books had to be a continual reminder to her of what she had lost. “You’ve been writing the series for years. Are you sure, Jennifer?” he finally asked.
“I’m sure. I’ve known for months it’s something I needed to do.”
“What are you going to do once the series is finished?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He frowned, not liking one possibility that had come to mind. “You are still going to write, aren’t you?”
“It is the only profession I know.”
He leaned back in his chair, thinking, studying her. He had never known a writer before, and it was hard to make any sort of intelligent judgment about the decision she had to make. The sadness he saw in her expression made him frown. She needed some help. She needed to recover. She needed someone to ensure she ate. He forced himself not to follow that line of thinking any further.
“Do you know when you start how the book is going to end?” He had always wondered that. He assumed that knowing in advance would be helpful as far as clues and situations were concerned, but on the other hand, knowing the ending would make writing the book less interesting. Like seeing a movie for the second time.
Jennifer couldn’t stop the memory from returning—
“Jerry, you can’t kill the gardener. He’s the man who stole the will to protect Nicole’s inheritance. Kill the gardener and the will disappears forever.” Jennifer didn’t like the twist Jerry had added to the well constructed story. They had spent two months hammering out the details of a tight story plot and Jerry was changing the game plan a hundred pages into the book. They were out in the backyard, Jerry reclining in his hammock watching the 49ers and Rams game on his portable TV, Jennifer having come outside to find him. She dropped into the lawn chair beside him, retrieving the two pillows on the ground to use as a headrest. She was distracted momentarily as she realized she had missed the start of the game.
“Who said the gardener was dead?” Jerry asked, handing her a diet soda from the cooler beside him.
“Thanks,” Jennifer said, accepting the cold drink. She flipped open the dog-eared manuscript. “Page ninety-six, and I quote, ‘The bullet entered the man’s chest and did not exit. He fell forward into the cold waters of the lake without anyone seeing his departure from among the living.’” She dropped the script on his chest. “That sounds like dead to me.”
The 49ers threw a deep pass which was caught inside the twenty. The discussion paused while they both watched the replay.
“Did I ever say the man in the boat was the gardener?”
Jennifer thought about it carefully. “No. The killer assumed the man in the boat was the gardener.”
Jerry grinned. “Exactly.”
“Okay Jerry, what are you planning?”
“I don’t know,” he replied seriously.
Jennifer tossed one of the pillows at him. “Why do you always insist on adding wrinkles to our nicely planned books?” she demanded, amused.
Jerry smiled. “I have to keep you guessing somehow, don’t I?”
Scott watched as Jennifer struggled to come back from somewhere in the past and answer the question he had asked. It was not the first time he had seen memories cross her eyes, and he wondered what memory had just made her smile. “Every book we wrote had at least one major change in the plot by the time we finished writing the story. We would construct an outline for the book, then take turns writing chapters. Invariably Jerry would create a few extra twists in the story.”
Jennifer rested her hands loosely around the coffee mug and was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Scott about the past. Normally sharing about her life with Jerry brought back the pain, but not today. They were memories of good times, and she had thought they were gone forever.
She had been so embarrassed by her panicked flight, her reluctance to explain exactly how she had gotten the black eye. It had taken over a week to put the incident into the back of her mind, get past the embarrassment, and thankfully accept the fact she would never have to see Scott Williams again. The next morning her agent had called. Jennifer had wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Her one consolation had been the mistaken belief that Scott would have at least let the incident go. It had taken her forty-eight hours to work up the nerve to come back to this beach. She was glad now she had. Glad that now he knew the truth.
“You know what I do for a living, what about you, Scott?”
“I’m CEO of an electronics firm called Johnson Electronics.”
“Really?” She had expected him to be high up in some corporate setting, but she had not expected this answer. “How long have you been CEO?”
“Three years. They’ve been good years for the industry, so I haven’t had to weather my first downturn in the business. How well we do then will determine how good I am at this job.”
Interesting answer. A man who considered his performance under adversity to be the true measure of this worth. “You’ve been at Johnson Electronics a long time?” He was young to be a CEO.
“Eighteen years. I started out as a draftsman during my junior college days. I worked as an electrical engineer, got an MBA and moved into management.”
Jennifer asked him about every facet of the business she could think of—products, competitors, partners, financial numbers. She found the picture he presented of his company fascinating. He shared the smallest details, and she found his grasp of the business remarkable. It was obvious he loved his job. They talked for another thirty minutes before Jennifer rose to her feet and said it was time for her to be leaving.
“Jennifer, I’ve got tickets for the musical Chess next Saturday night. It’s an old play, kind of dated, but it’s a benefit performance and will be well attended. Would you like to join me?”
His offer caught her by surprise. She had to think about it for a few moments. She had not been on a date since Jerry died. She’d had no desire to. “Thank you, Scott, I would like that,” she finally replied. She was lonely. She knew it. And he was good no-pressure company. A night out would be a welcome diversion.
“The play starts at eight-thirty. I’ll pick you up at seven and we can have dinner first?”
She smiled and wondered how far he would extend the invitation if she let him. Dinner before and coffee afterward? “Sure, we can do dinner first,” she agreed.
He grinned and she liked the grin. “Good. I want an address and a phone number.”
She laughed. “I like my privacy, hence the unlisted phone number.” She wrote down the information on a piece of paper he pulled from a notepad beside the phone.
As he walked with her across the back patio and down to the beach, she slipped on her jacket and freed her long hair from the collar. “Thank you for breakfast, Scott.”
“It was my pleasure, Jennifer. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock Saturday.”
Chapter Two
She was late. Jennifer rushed up the front walk of her home, fumbling with her keys. Scott was going to arrive in less than an hour. Her detour to Rachel and Peter’s to drop off a book had been a mistake. Her brother had wanted to debate the wisdom of her ending the Thomas Bradford mystery series and she hadn’t been able to invent an adequate excuse to leave. She knew better