Never Look Back. Robert Ross

boxes and sighed. She’d managed to get through most of them, and she hoped there weren’t any other boxes of books. She got up and walked over to the box of books she’d just opened.

      Might as well move this to the attic, she figured, since it isn’t going to move itself.

      She sighed and knelt down, using her knees to lift it. It was still heavy, and she staggered a little as she carried it through the door to the hallway. The attic staircase was at the other end of the hall. As she walked down the hallway she passed her stepdaughter’s room. She glanced in, thought about saying something, and decided not to. There didn’t seem to be much point. Jessie was sitting at her desk, headphones on, writing away in her journal. Karen wondered what music she was listening to. If Jessie was anything like Karen’s younger sister, she was listening to Justin Timberlake.

      Somehow, Karen didn’t think so.

      It doesn’t help that Jessie is only eight years younger than I am, she thought again as the stairs groaned and creaked beneath her weight. If my dad had brought home a stepmother just eight years older than I was, I sure as heck wouldn’t have wanted much to do with her either. I should have waited to come here until Philip was back.

      But Philip hadn’t wanted her to wait. “It’s your home now,” he’d said after the brief ceremony at City Hall, “and I won’t be able to get back home for about another month.”

      Against her better judgment, Karen finally gave in—especially after Philip bought her the new white Lexus SUV for the drive up. The platinum American Express card was also a nice touch.

      She put the box down to turn on the attic light before heading up the stairs, cursing herself for not thinking to have the boxes of books moved to the attic while the two local teenaged boys she’d hired to unload the rental truck were still there.

      Philip was wrong, she thought again. I should have waited to come until he was back.

      Her parents had agreed with her.

      “Philip, you just can’t spring a new mother on the girl,” Mrs. Donovan had said, shaking her head over their wedding dinner at the Napoleon House. Her parents hadn’t exactly been thrilled about the wedding either. “Karen doesn’t know anything about being a parent—especially to a teenager.” Mrs. Donovan was by that time on her third glass of wine, and her words were getting a little slurred.

      But Philip wouldn’t budge. “You’re wrong, Mrs. Donovan,” he’d said. “Besides, Karen has a younger sister—so she knows how to deal with teenagers.”

      “But, Philip—I don’t know. I mean, she’s never even met me,” Karen protested, waving off the hovering waiter who was trying to refill her mother’s wineglass, giving him a frown.

      Philip wasn’t hearing any of their arguments. “She’ll love you. Besides, Mrs. Winn will be there.” Mrs. Winn was the private tutor who was schooling Jessie at home. “Jessie loves Mrs. Winn, and Mrs. Winn won’t let her pull any nonsense.” Mrs. Winn had come to work for Philip when his first wife had died, and Jessie’s grades started falling. She pretty much had run the household. But now that was going to be Karen’s job.

      Karen remembered her mother’s embrace standing beside the Lexus just before she left New Orleans. “I still think this is a mistake, Karen,” she said, “but you know you can always come home.”

      “Mom, please.”

      “That man,” her mother said darkly, “likes to get his own way.”

      Karen couldn’t help but smile. She still couldn’t believe she was Mrs. Philip Kaye.

      Philip Kaye was her favorite writer, bar none. One day she’d gone to the Garden District Bookshop to pick up the latest Julie Smith and Sue Grafton mysteries. After the horrendous experience with the agents—she’d never heard anything from the fifth—she had tossed the Vicky Knight book aside once and for all and started from scratch. She still wanted to write mysteries—but she’d been casting about for a new topic, a new character, anything, to write about. She’d started a horror novel about a haunted beach resort in Florida, but it didn’t seem to work. “Who’s the best horror writer?” she’d asked Deb, the woman working at the cash register.

      Deb had come out from behind the counter and picked up a paperback called Out of the Darkness by Philip Kaye. Karen bought it with the others, and when she got home from the store, she’d lain down on her bed with her new books. On the back cover of Philip’s book was a photo of the author, and she found herself staring at it. He was drop-dead handsome—probably in his late thirties with a thick shock of black hair starting to gray a bit at the temples, piercing green eyes, a strong jaw, and a slightly crooked nose. She started reading the book, and only put it down to use the bathroom or to get a Diet Pepsi. It was around two in the afternoon when she started, and when she finally finished, it was three in the morning.

      The next morning, she’d gone back to the store and bought all the rest of his books. All sixteen of them.

      Three months later, she saw in the paper that Philip Kaye would be giving a reading at the Garden District Bookstore to promote his newest hardcover, The Whisperer. Not knowing what to expect, she’d put on her most flattering outfit, styled her red hair, and changed her makeup three times before heading to the store.

      He’d been sitting at a table when she arrived; there were four people ahead of her in line. In her purse she’d crammed several of his paperbacks—she was going to get everything signed. When it was finally her turn, she approached the table hesitantly.

      “Well, aren’t you pretty?” he said in his deep voice, smiling at her, his eyes flashing.

      “Th—thank you,” she stammered, hating herself for sounding stupid, and knowing she was blushing like a starstruck teenager. He was even handsomer in person than in his jacket photos, and those green eyes—“I’m a big fan,” she managed to say.

      He took a copy of the new book off a stack and opened it to the title page. “What’s your name?”

      “Karen Donovan.”

      He wrote something with a flourish, signed and dated his name, and handed the book over to her. “There you go.”

      There was no one in line behind her, so she opened her purse and started removing the tattered paperbacks. “Would you, um, mind—”

      He grinned. “You are a fan,” he said as she started stacking the books in front of him. As he started signing, he asked without looking up, “Which one is your favorite?”

      “Out of the Darkness. I loved the character of Barbara.”

      His pen stopped moving and he looked up at her. “Why is that?”

      “Um, well—” She became aware of the passing seconds as she tried to come up with an intelligent answer. It was Philip Kaye, for God’s sake! Finally, she just smiled at him. “I just couldn’t believe that a man could create such a convincing female character. I could identify with her, want her to succeed. You really captured—oh, this is going to sound stupid, but you really captured what it’s like to be a woman who wants something she can never have.”

      His eyes danced. “And is there something you want that you can’t have?”

      She tilted her chin up. What the hell? she thought. “Yes,” she said. “I want to be a writer.”

      “And who says you can’t have that?”

      “At least five agents.”

      He patted the chair next to him. “Have a seat, and let’s talk.”

      She stayed there with him through the whole signing, having an in-depth conversation about writing, books, and the publishing business—occasionally interrupted whenever another fan showed up. She told him about the painful rejection letter, and he snorted. “I know that man—he’s a complete asshole who wouldn’t have represented Mark Twain.” He asked her about her current book, and she started explaining the plot to