Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(99)

“Maybe. But her sister didn’t know she was coming.” My shoulders dropped. “She said she would always be just a phone call or a letter away. I don’t understand.”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Dan said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be in touch soon to let you know where she is.”

I looked up at him and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“What now?”

I sighed. “I guess it’s time to say goodbye.”

We walked to the jetty at 8th Street, and I climbed up onto it, then Dan handed me the urn. He climbed up as well, but I put a hand on his chest. “I need to do this alone,” I said.

He nodded and kissed my cheek before climbing down. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

I picked my way along the rocks carefully, holding the urn under my arm, until I reached the end.

“I guess this is it,” I said to the urn. “I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there, Ada. I am. But thank you. For everything.”

I unscrewed the lid and peered inside.

But instead of ashes, there were papers.

I blinked heavily. The crematorium had messed up. Of all the mistakes to make. I shook my head angrily and fished out the papers.

Then I dropped the urn.

They weren’t papers. One was a photograph of Ada and Lillian, holding hands in front of a house I had never seen, lined with palm trees. They were facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were a couple. There was an address on the back.

The second was a postcard from Key West. The tiny hairs on my neck stood on end as I turned it over.

There, in Ada’s unmistakable scrawl, was a note.

My darling Marilyn,

Live the life you want. Love whom you want. And don’t forget to write.

XOX,

Ada

For a moment, the world spun. Love whom you want. The picture. The secret door to Lillian’s room. The album. The refusal to tell me who her second great love was. Saying I wouldn’t find it with the other photographs. The world loves to destroy what it doesn’t understand. Lillian’s hand on hers when she said that.

My mouth fell open.

But—

Don’t forget to write. My book. She meant my book.

Except—

The Key West house wasn’t among the assets Mr. Cohen had outlined.

She already gave me what I was getting, Lillian had said.

I’ve got tricks up my sleeve yet, Ada had told me as I was leaving Avalon.

She’s not really gone, Lillian had said as we walked into the synagogue.

The woman at the back of the funeral.

Don’t forget to write.

The address on the back of the picture.

Don’t forget to write.

My eyes widened, realizing that like so many things Ada said and did, there was a double meaning there.





Dan was waiting for me at the base of the jetty, just like he said he would be. “Where to now?” he asked.

I smiled broadly. “Have you ever been to Key West?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“Up for the drive?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said.

“Good. Let’s go. Tonight.”

“What’s in Key West?”

“Everything,” I said.

Ada was right. I did know how this ended all along.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book was born on the beach in Avalon, New Jersey, just a couple of days after She’s Up to No Good came out. Marilyn’s character came to me as my husband pulled our umbrella out of its sheath, and by the time he had put it up (something that I, like Marilyn, couldn’t have done easily), I had a general plot. I wrote half of the outline on my phone under that umbrella and the rest after the kids went to bed that night. And then the story just poured out of me.

Thank you to my editor, Alicia Clancy, and the entire team at Lake Union for taking a chance on this story before I had even written it. And thank you for gently rejecting the two ideas before this one—they weren’t right, and when it’s the right story, it just flows. And, boy, did this one flow!

Thank you to my agent extraordinaire, Rachel Beck. Even though I didn’t join you in a third pregnancy, we’re bonded for life, and I love both that and you.

Thank you to Liza Dawson and the whole team at Liza Dawson and Associates for taking over seamlessly when Rachel was out. I was nervous, but you were amazing!

Thank you to my husband, Nick, for picking up the slack so I could write this on such a tight deadline. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you with zero context and letting me talk my story out so it would work, and the million other ways you support me.

Thank you to my children, Jacob and Max. I know it’s a lot right now (not that you can read this yet) when Mommy has to work two jobs, but please know that I’m doing this for you, my loves. (And Sandy and Gracie.)

Thank you to my mother, Carole Goodman. I’ve never let anyone see unfinished work before. But because I was on such a tight deadline, I sent her this, a chapter a night, and she read it as I wrote—frequently sending me angry messages, telling me to write faster because she wanted more. Thank you, Mom. For everything.