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That was cruel. What could I have done that day to deserve such a terrible thing wished upon me?
P.S. I’m jealous of the people who haven’t met you.
P.S. I’d rather give birth a hundred times than be in your presence.
My laughter died down, and I wondered if she still felt the same now.
My hands twitched with the urge to pick up my phone and call her to discuss this. Calling her wasn’t something I’d ever done, but I needed to hear her try to explain these postscripts away. Email wouldn’t cut it. It would give her too much time to come up with an answer.
I stopped myself, however, and called Weston instead.
“I’ve gotten to the bottom of it.”
He chuckled. “Hello. How are you?”
I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself. “Brilliant, actually.”
There was a pause before he spoke. “You sound…chipper. It’s alarming.”
“Chipper is a bridge too far. I’ve never been chipper a day in my life.”
“Fine. You sound pleased with yourself.”
I picked up a strip, running it between my fingers. “That I am. I’ve gotten to the bottom of the notebook mystery.”
“Why does this sound like aNancy Drewbook?”
“Nancy Drew? I recall you were always aHardy Boysdevotee.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “ButThe Secret Notebooksounds more like a case for Nancy. If the Hardy boys were solving it, it would be more likeThe Curse of the Haunted Notebook.”
I laughed as I scrubbed my face. This was the kind of conversation I could only have with Weston since we’d been friends for nearly twenty years.
“All right. Nancy solved the notebook mystery.”
“Are you Nancy in this case?” Weston deadpanned.
“Yes. Now, do you want to hear what I discovered, or would you rather name everyHardy Boysbook you’ve ever read?”
“Hit me with it,” he said.
“Here goes: since I hired Catherine, she’s been handwriting my schedules, just like all my other assistants.”
“I still don’t know why you do that,” he interjected.
“Because it works for me—and that’s not the point.”
“By all means, get to the point.”
“I discovered her stash of one-inch strips of paper.”
Another pause. Longer than before. Then, “What?”
“Yes. She’s been cutting the bottom of the paper off and stashing it.”
“Okay…why? Is it an OCD thing?”
“Not that I know of.” I found myself grinning again. “She writes scathing postscripts.”
