“He’s going to be on location most of the summer, but we’re rescheduling for right when he gets back, in early September,” Laura said, and I tried to sound pleased.
“Great.” Great that he was rescheduling. Not great that my potential payday was pushed another three months. My marriage was already strained. Our credit card debt was massive and compounding. I honestly didn’t know if we would survive the whole summer. Visions of making doll furniture and selling it out of my garage flashed through my mind. Though my marriage probably wouldn’t survive that either.
As I clicked off the phone, I felt simultaneously relieved—He’s still interested!—and ashamed, like an addict chasing one last fix. I was a junkie, and the business was my drug. I chased it to the detriment of my health, my home, my relationships. I got a knot in my stomach every time the mail came. As stressful as it was facing those envelopes rimmed with red with “past due” stamped across their contents, I was not ready to live my life as a raisin in the sun. I wanted to be a screenwriter. The desire was existential. Even my articles read like movies. I set the scene （“Misery wafted through the office like acrid smoke”）， described my subjects like characters in a Greek tragedy （“Mr. X had a winning smile that belied his recent failures”）。 I never judged my subjects, but rather let their behaviors—a “nervous knee,” a “too-loud laugh,” a “pinched smile”—speak for themselves. When Clooney optioned my Sunday Times article on the WikiLeaks whistleblower, he said the piece already read like a movie script. When he paid me to adapt it, I was sure I’d stepped into my destiny. I worked on that script for five glorious years. It never occurred to me that they wouldn’t make the movie. Or that my career would grind to a halt.
I rationalized the heartbreaking setback as a test of my resolve. I couldn’t quit. I had built a home, moved a wife out from back East. Libby had given up everything—a promising career, a vast community of friends, weekend rituals she’d enjoyed her whole life—her generosity was boundless. I owed it to her to succeed, and succeed big.
I had to sell a script. After three bone-dry years, I finally had a meeting with someone who could pay big and get my movie made. I’d simply have to write something so compelling, so absolutely perfect for him, that he couldn’t say no.
I vowed not to let anything distract me. I would prepare for this meeting like my life depended on it.
Because at this fragile point in my career and my marriage, it did.
CHAPTER 9
I just wanted to know how he died. I wasn’t planning to go down some deep rabbit hole or anything. The word “suddenly” intrigued me, simple as that.
When people die “suddenly,” it can mean any number of things: a heart attack, an aneurism, a plane crash, a car crash, a boating accident. He could have committed suicide （often the case） or been murdered （very rare）。 Or maybe he was just really old? Holly was good-looking enough to be a trophy wife. A million possibilities ran through my head, I just wanted to know.
First, I had to find out his name. That should be easy enough. Just google the wife. I knew her last name was Kendrick because I saw it on a moving box. Perhaps that was a strange thing to notice, but after ten years working as an investigative reporter, my mind just took in details like that.
I entered “Holly Kendrick” in the search bar and surveyed the results. She didn’t have a social media presence, but her name came up in an obituary in the Bakersfield Californian. Kevin Michael McCallum is survived by his parents, Elaine and Martin McCallum, and sister, Holly McCallum Kendrick. She had a brother who died. On any other day, I would have been curious about that, but I was on a mission. I skimmed the obit. No mention of the husband, but at least now I had a maiden name.
I did another Google search, using the maiden name this time, and got a hit. A wedding announcement from sixteen years ago. Holly McCallum wed her high school sweetheart, Gabriel Kendrick, in a simple ceremony. Blah blah blah . . .
I typed the dead husband’s name in the search bar. Too many Gabriel Kendricks to count. I added the name of their high school, Bakersfield High, but they didn’t keep up on him. I typed their names as a couple. They never owned property, together or separately （strange?） or did anything notable together （not so strange）。 He wasn’t on LinkedIn or Facebook or any social media. I smiled to myself, because I knew who would be on social media: Savannah.
I found her account almost immediately, and started scrolling backward—one month, two months, three months . . . then there it was—a picture of a young man in military blues, with a heartbreaking caption: Daddy, you may be gone but you’ll always be in my heart. The comments section was a treasure trove of sorrow—hearts and flowers and sad-face emojis. I don’t know why I was surprised. Did I not believe Savannah’s dad was really dead? My background had taught me to question everything, even uncontrollable sobs, I guess.