The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

the light above my register, officially closing my lane to anyone else.

“It’s decent,” I say, which is close enough to the truth to count. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” he says, digging his hands into his pockets. “How is your son enjoying school? Max, right?”

“Yes, Max.” I think about how to answer this, and a part of me has an urge to tell him everything. Actually, Max is pretty damn miserable. He got sent home on his first day for threatening another kid, and since then, he barely talks to anyone. The only other student he even remotely knows is his Wednesday-Addams cousin, who’s two years older and doesn’t want anything to do with Max unless she’s questioning him about his dead dad. And speaking of, I still can’t figure out how he’s dealing with his father’s death since he never wants to talk about it. But he does go into these weird states where he seems catatonic for a few seconds here and there…

“Fine,” I say, packing all my thoughts into that meaningless word. “I mean, it’s an adjustment. We’re both…adjusting.” I ring up his avocado, and Alec swipes his credit card to pay.

“I imagine you are,” he says. “Not easy making friends in a new place, for either a kid or adult.”

“Very true,” I say. “Though I have a book club tonight, so that might be fun. My sister’s club.”

“What book are you discussing?”

I hand him his receipt and avocado. “Mine.”

He takes a second to process this.

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of books?”

“Mysteries.”

He flashes a smile. “I love mysteries. Do you write under your name? I’ll have to check your books out.”

“I write under the name J. L. Sharp. You might find them in the library. You can get them online for sure.”

“J. L. Sharp. That’s a good name. I’ll keep an eye out.” The moment lingers.

I untie the back of my olive-green Tuli’s apron and remove it. “Okay, off to school.”

“Me too,” Alec says. “Have fun at your book club tonight.”

“Thanks.” I turn to walk away.

“Hey, wait just a sec.” Alec reaches over the counter and grabs a pen, then starts writing on the back of his receipt. “Here’s my number. If you ever want to talk. And…I mean it. I’m not asking you out or anything. I just imagine it’s tough being in a new place.”

I take the receipt from him. “A new place would be easier,” I tell him. “But Bury isn’t new to me at all.” It’s all the old ghosts that make coming back a challenge. “Thanks for this.”

As I leave, I take a glance at the number and slide the receipt into my back pocket.

It would be nice to have someone to talk to.

The problem is, the closer you get to someone, the heavier all your secrets weigh.

Eighteen

I’ve done book clubs before, which are really just wine clubs in disguise. I imagine this one will be no different.

My sister’s house is nestled in a newer neighborhood called Dairy Farm Hills. Perhaps a dairy farm once stood here, but now it’s just a collection of boxy estates that are all colored similar variants of brown. Cora’s house is too big for just the three of them, but the Yates kids were raised to consume more than we needed, and she’s carrying on the tradition proudly.

Peter works for my father, and last I heard, he was vice president of something or other. Judging by their house, Peter is very well paid.

“Pour you a glass?” Cora asks me. I’m the last to arrive, and the others are chatting away in the living room as my sister guides me into the kitchen. I can almost see my reflection in the gleam of the tiled floor.

“Sure, thanks.”

“No, thank you,” she says. “The girls were so excited to have an author here to discuss the book in person.”

This is typical of my sister. Gone are any signs of her rage from the other day. She’s hidden away her demons, where they lurk behind a glossy veneer of civility.

“Happy to be here,” I say.

She hands me the glass. “Usually we read heavier stuff. You know, more of the literature kind of books. It was a nice break for us to read an easy little mystery.”

I sip rather than respond, which might be how this evening goes. Chances are good I’ll have to get a ride home.

She takes me into the living room where about ten other women are spread across two couches and a number of chairs. They all have drinks, two of which appear to be water and the rest wine. Cora introduces me and they tell me their names, which I try to make note of though I’m likely to forget. I recognize two from Max’s school.

“You work at Tuli’s,” one says. “I’ve seen you there.”

“That’s right,” I say.

“Well, good for you,” she says, as if I just learned to tie my shoes.

“The employee discount is great,” I say. “I can almost afford to shop there now.”

No one laughs.

I take a seat and another swig of wine. Most of them have a copy of my last novel in their laps, and I’m still amazed to see my book in the hands of strangers.

Cora asks me to tell the group a little about how I got into writing before we discuss the book. I give them my standard spiel about my journalism degree, my work at the Chicago Tribune, and my first stab at a novel. I describe the long search for an agent and then the subsequent rejections from a multitude of publishers and how I have several novels that never sold and likely never will.

They ask questions, mostly ones I’ve answered at other book clubs.

Where do you get your ideas?

How long does it take you to write a book?

What kind of research do you do?

Do you know how the book will end when you start writing it?

How did you come up with the name J. L. Sharp?

Cora is mostly silent, nodding and smiling. But I see her