Finding Fran (eBook)

Chapter 1

“John? John?”

I rolled over in bed and saw that John’s pillow was uncreased and still neatly positioned atop the sheet.

“John?” I continued calling as I headed down the stairs. The click of the coffee cup and muted sound of the morning news led me to the kitchen where I found him checking emails as he ate breakfast.

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” stating the obvious.

“It was late and I didn’t want to wake you, so I slept in the guest room,” he said, not bothering to look at me.

I wanted to ask why he had been so late or where he had been but held my tongue. Instead, I poured what was left of the coffee into my cup and brought it over to the table.

“What time will you be home tonight? I thought we could go out to dinner. There’s a new restaurant in town and—”

But before I could finish, he was already shaking his head. “I have clients to meet. I don’t know what time I’ll be done.”

It was the same answer I’d received so many times before. John always had clients to meet. And while initially I accepted that as a facet of his career—he was a sought-after photographer after all—lately it seemed to be more the rule than the exception. Worse, it didn’t seem to bother him.

Getting up from the table, he gave me a perfunctory smile. “I’ve got to go if I’m going to beat the traffic. I’ll call you later.”

Right, I thought with an inward sigh. We’ll see.

He shrugged into his jacket, picked up his equipment bag, and went out to the garage, leaving behind the remnants of his breakfast: the half-filled coffee cup and plate with a few crusts of bread. I waited to see if he would come back, give me a kiss goodbye or at least a hug, but when I heard the garage door go back down, I knew it was just wishful thinking.

“You could have at least put your dirty dishes in the sink,” I muttered as I cleaned up after him. I polished off the bread crusts, thinking it a perfect metaphor for our life together: my settling for whatever “crusts” in terms of affection or attention John left me.

But instead of exploring that more deeply—and did I really want to?—I made a note on a scrap of paper: Have character see the bread crusts as an example of what little she had been receiving from Lover #1. And as the irony of my using a real-life experience as fodder for my book struck me, I just shook my head.

That’s what writers do, I told myself. We add reality to the plot until we come up with a workable story. There’s nothing wrong with that, conveniently overlooking the fact that while it added a potential element to Book Four, my current novel-in-progress, it did nothing to resolve the lack of interaction in my relationship with John.

Knowing that with the work I had ahead of me this would be a multi-cup day, I set a fresh pot to brew before going upstairs to change. Then, armed with a fifteen-ounce mug of caffeine, I headed into my office. There was mail to open, voice mail messages to listen to, emails to read, and a manuscript to work on—none of which I wanted to do but all of which I had to deal with.

And it was the last item on the list that was the most troubling. Usually, I like the writing process: making up characters, developing plotlines, figuring out the motives that drove the choices made by the heroine. But this book was going nowhere fast. I had run smack into writer’s block and couldn’t see my way around, over, or through it. So instead, I focused on the administrative side of being an author, which included a hefty outgo of money to pay for all the marketing and promotional activities.

I had just finished writing my quarterly check to Uncle Sam, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the steadily dwindling balance in my bank account, when my office phone rang.

“Now who’s calling?” I asked aloud, as I eyed the telephone with distaste. I was unwilling to hear from yet another telemarketer how XYZ insurance would save me big money or from another political supporter explaining why Candidate A was better than Candidate B for California’s economy.

Not now. Not when my publisher was waiting for a synopsis, the first three chapters, or at the very least, a working title for my next book—none of which I had.

Sighing, I picked up the receiver and offered an unenthusiastic, “Hello?”

“Is this Fran Carter?”

“Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

I held the phone with my chin and started riffling through the stack of envelopes on my desk.

“My name is Ben. Ben McCallister. You don’t know me, but we need to talk. It’s about John Robbins—your John Robbins,” followed by a pause that stopped my hands from moving, “and my wife.”

Variations of that kind of sentence often surface in romance novels when the woman (wife or lover, it really doesn’t matter) first learns of her partner’s infidelity. I should know, having published a few of them myself. And when that happens, her world reels and nothing is ever the same again.

But the reality was I didn’t initially understand the import of the caller’s words. Along with his professional clients, which included Wilson-Morrow, my publisher, John had quite a few private ones: women who wanted to present their husbands or lovers with sexy photos of them wearing little more than revealing lingerie or skimpy swimsuits. Aside from taking the publicity photos of me that my publisher required, his business had nothing to do with me.

“If you want to discuss something about his work, you’ll have to call Mr. Robbins at his office.”

I took a fast gulp of coffee from my half-full cup before returning to hunt through the mail, hoping my answer would satisfy the caller and allow me to get back to what I was doing. But no such luck.

“I did, but he hasn’t returned my messages,” he said impatiently. “You don’t understand. It’s not about work. It’s about what’s been going on between the two of them. They’re having an affair.”

“An affair?” I repeated. “Are you sure? How do you know?” wondering why I was more likely to believe what this stranger said rather than whatever John would claim when I questioned him.

If I questioned him. Because that’s the thing with asking questions—sometimes, you get answers you’d rather not receive. Sometimes, ignorance, if not bliss, is at least a coping strategy. Sometimes, silence may not be golden, only cheap gold plating, yet it was still better than the clear crystal of truthful words.

“I’ve read the emails and text messages. I’ve overheard the phone calls. I even have hotel receipts. What else do I need?”

“Nothing else,” I said. “I have to go.” And with that I ended the call—and my life as I knew it.

I sat at the desk, my fingers playing aimlessly with treasured objects that were mementos of my writing life—the engraved pen from my very first book signing, the stack of bookmarks for my current book, Love in Unexpected Places, the crystal paperweight shaped like a heart.

Uncomfortable recollections flashed through my mind, like the time I found a jeweler’s box in John’s dresser drawer. He took it away from me before I could open it, mumbling something about its being a surprise for later—a “later” that never came.

The fact that lately John had been spending more nights at his San Francisco studio instead of coming home. And all those weekend trips he’d been taking, ostensibly to meet with prospective clients—trips that never seemed to result in signed contracts.

“It’s the economy, you know,” John explained when I asked about it last month. “People want to talk, but they don’t want to commit.”

Commit. An odd choice of words from a man who, if this caller could be trusted, paid the verb only lip service when it came to a more than half-decade-long relationship.

In my novels, there is always that scene when the heroine gets the worst news she can imagine, and she wonders how she missed all those little hints that should have alerted her to what had been going on. First, she cries and blames herself for what happened. Then she gets angry and considers some form of revenge. Finally, she moves on to a better, happier, more fulfilling life, shedding a few pounds and gaining a few lovers along the way.

But this wasn’t a scene in one of my books. This was reality. My reality. Unlike my heroines though, I couldn’t cry. At least, not right now.

Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I was in denial. Whatever it was, I did what I always did when confronted with a situation that I wanted to avoid: I shifted into my author mode. Not that it was a more comforting place to be, given that Alix, my project editor at Wilson-Morrow (aka W-M), wasn’t happy with me. I was close to a month behind schedule and had to come up with something acceptable to turn in soon if only to avoid another “How is the new book coming, Fran?” call.

To make matters worse, my semi-annual statement and royalty check from my publisher still hadn’t arrived, and I needed that money to pay for my planned two-week book tour. Not that I wanted to head back out on the road—those promotion trips could be grueling affairs—but I had to do what I could to boost the sales figures for my latest book, which weren’t anywhere near what my first two books had achieved....