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In any case, the Carruthers family strategy, recently uncovered by intrepid reporter Lola Grace, was to shed poor Whitney like a bad habit by divorcing her, and then faking their own deaths. They hid away in the wild mountains of the Sierra Nevada until recently rejoining society with the help of the healing attentions of the aforementioned journalist, Ms. Grace.
And what now, you may ask, dear reader? What does the future have in store for Whitney, who so ignominiously enriched herself at the cost of the handsome Carruthers brothers?
Enter one Fernando Rosario y Garcia y Villanueva. Swarthy and mind-numbingly handsome, Fernando swept Whitney right off her Jimmy Choo shoes, plying her with sweet nothings until she lost her mind and fell madly in love with him. After a quick trip around the Riviera, Fernando’s attentions were almost diverted to the starlet Joanna Kinkel, whereupon Whitney demanded that they wed posthaste.
Three short weeks later, Joanna is living in Whitney’s Manhattan penthouse, the divorce papers have been signed, and Fernando is a newly minted billionaire.
Poor Whitney, we can confirm, no longer is.
My mouth drops open as I gasp.
“Is this all true? Did this really happen?”
Nance nods excitedly. “Every word of it! Confirmed by three sources. Whitney is penniless!”
I just take deep breaths, enjoying the heavily scented air in my office where Nance has hidden an assortment of Yankee candles. The joke is on her—I like the scent.
“It’s like a Christmas miracle!” I sigh.
“Sometimes fate really works!” she observes sagely.
“You know, it felt really small of me,” I confess, confiding in Nance for the first time since I’ve been back in Sacramento, “but Whitney really bothered me. It really bothered me that she hit the jackpot. And that they just let her, you know? They just let her take all their money!”
“Well, not all their money,” Nance rolls her eyes. “But I know what you mean. It just sucks when the bad guys win, doesn’t it?”
“This is way better!” I grin. I reach for my cell phone, then remember I have no one else to call. I want to talk to Carty, to congratulate him or console him, whatever he needs. But I never even got so much as a phone number.
It’s impossible. It’s over. I keep forgetting, then remembering, then forgetting. Then remembering again.
“You okay?” Nance asks carefully.
I look at her, my eyes stinging with tears that want to come out. But then I remember, I can’t tell her. Not after everything that has happened. I’m not ready to trust her yet. Maybe one day, but not yet.
“Totally okay!” I answer brightly.
I see the disappointment on her face, but it passes almost immediately.
“Okay, well,” she says as she pushes herself out of the chair, “I’ll see you in just a little bit for the lunch thing.”
“Thai food,” I remark.
“Yeah, Thai food,” she says distractedly as she leaves my office.
Cautiously I open my laptop again and stare at the blurry words in front of me. Since I have been back, writing this book has been my only real project. I no longer have to write three hundred words of filler Netflix series synopsis or try to interview anybody locally. I have one job, and that is writing this book.
Though the contract came from the publisher directly to me, my company stands to gain a lot as well. There will be lots of attention on our articles from now on, plus there’s always the chance something will get viral and be picked up by Buzzfeed or something.
That’s the dream.
To be honest, I’m having trouble finishing. I have recounted the entire Carruthers family history, starting with Eli in Boston… Actually, starting with Eli in Scotland.
Eli and Liam were scoundrels long before they ever boarded a boat to Boston. In my research, I found so many interesting stories about their lives. They were also very fond of dogs, I found out. When they traveled west, they took a pack of thirty mongrels and hunting dogs with them. In a day when dogs were more for work than for play, people thought it was very strange. But Eli and Liam were apparently tenderhearted, just like the Carrutherses I know.
But again, I have no one to tell that story to. Vaguely, I suppose that I hope they will read the book. I know that some of the stories will touch their hearts, and that gives me a little bit of peace.
But how to finish it? That remains the mystery. Once my story intersects with theirs, I’m not entirely sure what to say. I recounted the ski trip, and the storm that followed. I even changed Chad’s name to Tad so that he wouldn’t be embarrassed. That’s the kind of nice person I am.
Several times I tried to write about the cabin, but then stopped. Part of me was afraid that too many details would make readers curious enough to try to find it. It seemed like too much of an invasion.
