The Ghostwriter | Excerpt

 CHAPTER 1: ISABEL

 

I ran my fingers along the rustic dining table and admired the décor of Zetta Castellan. Her mix of portraits, dried flowers, candles, books, and trinkets felt like a veil of romantic nostalgia. The cabin smelled of a mixture of dark, buttery rum cider and fresh cloves with a hint of apple cinnamon; a very luxurious, passionate, and heartwarming fragrance. Even though I didn’t know her, I felt an immediate connection. It’s no wonder her words alone gripped and entranced the hearts and souls of readers around the world. 

“Do you have any questions, Ms. Isabel?”

I turned to smile at the lady who had given me a tour of the tiny one-bedroom cabin and shared some of what she knew about Zetta, the late prolific and prestigious writer.

Iris Doherbleek was a thin, older woman who stood about five-feet-two-inches. I guess this height, because I only stand five-feet-four-inches. Her silver hair was perfected in a tight bun that predominately displayed her dark ends and tinsel-gray roots, which appeared to sparkle when she turned her head towards the light. Aside from her captivating hair color, her makeup was flawlessly modest and elegant, with a noble contrast of red lipstick. Dressed in business attire, she held tight to her chest a worn, leather-cased journal filled with Zetta’s end-of-life notes, some of which she was instructed to share with me. 

“No, Iris, I think you’ve explained everything.” I smiled at her. “It’s a lot. I have to admit that. A little overwhelming, but I’ll be fine. I’m sure after a few days of staying here, I’ll be feeling right at home.” 

“Well, that’s exactly what Zetta would want—for you to feel at home.” 

She smiled, and stared at me as if waiting for a response. After a long awkward silence, I inhaled the luxuriant aroma and glanced around the cabin. It felt like I’d walked into a time capsule. Shadow boxes of best-selling books, quotes, awards, photos, and canvas prints lined the walls. In the main living area adjacent to the fireplace, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lined the entire wall. Hardcovers, paperbacks, and journals dressed these shelves. According to Iris, this bookshelf was exclusively the work of Zetta. It was her clandestine collection of words. Every book she had crafted pridefully aligned the shelves, alongside awards. In place of bookends, stacks of her handwritten, intimate journals veined the shelves. Each stack was topped with a devil’s ivy plant with leaves that trailed down the shelf edges. Iris noted it was one of Zetta’s favorite plants, as it not only symbolized wealth, good fortune, perseverance and eternity, but remained green forever, even when kept in the dark, and was impossible to kill.

In the four-season porch, bookshelves lined the bottom half walls, while sheer white curtains enhanced the towered windows—giving an open, airy, and elegant feeling. On top of the bookshelves sprawled framed portraits, block quotes, candles, trinkets, and more devil’s ivy plants.

Zetta was adamant about getting only signed editions by authors she loved and adored. Well-known for traveling to other authors’ book signings, she wasn’t timorous with her love for indie authors. She expressed significant views on how many of their stories should have been on the big screen and, at minimal, scaling the best-seller lists.

I glanced at the stack of paperbacks displayed on the nearby glass coffee table. Our Daily Moments by Nancy Kuykendall was the top paperback. After a brief second glance at the other paperbacks, I noticed they were all written by that same author. How cool to have an entire table dedicated to you in another author’s home! I would have plenty of time to peek further into this stack of coffee table books. And maybe it would give me more insight into who Zetta was, and not just through online interviews, vlogs, blogs, and film reels.

“You know, I do have one question.” I repositioned the strap on my shoulder and gazed at Iris. “I guess I’m still wondering why she chose me to write her biography or memoir. I’m a little confused about that one.”

Iris smiled and shrugged her shoulders. She took a breath, and I thought she was going to speak but she hesitated. Her smile faded as she glanced around the room then back to me. 

“There are some questions we don’t have answers to, and that would be one of them. I know a lot about her, but there’s also a lot I don’t know. She was a very private person. Especially later in life. So, unfortunately, I don’t have that answer. I was just designated to contact you and give you her instructions upon her death. But maybe you’ll find your answer to that question in some of her journals.” She forced a short smile and glanced over at Zetta’s personal bookshelf.

I nodded at her response, wondering what part of my question seemed to bother her.

“Yeah. Aside from myself, I’ve never known anyone who was a daily journal writer. And based on her bookshelves filled with them, I can only assume she never missed a day. I hope one day my journals will look as nice as hers on my shelves.” 

“Any other questions, Ms. Isabel?”

“No. I think I’ll get myself acquainted here. I just hope I make her proud. Writing a memoir is a huge project to undertake, especially when you don’t know the person you’re writing about.”

“Like I said earlier, Ms. Isabel, this cabin is just as she left it. All her belongings and writings are here. The binder she left for you should help you ease into the role she wanted you to fill. Regardless, I know she’ll be proud of your work.” She winked. “From talking with you, you and Zetta would’ve gotten along very well. She chose the right person.”

I waved to Iris as she drove down the driveway. The click of the gate closing sent a mini jolt of panic through my body. I was alone in a cabin in the middle of the Northwoods. Although an iron fence and security cameras surrounded the property, being in the home of a woman who had passed less than two months earlier made me a little uncomfortable. 

There was a house on the other side of the fence. According to Iris the owners rarely visited the house, as they used it as a vacation home. There wasn’t much mentioned in Zetta’s final notes about the neighbors, so Iris assumed they also kept to themselves. 

Zetta was a homebody. Iris had said. She never liked to leave her house. Some people’s happy places are their gardens, or places to drive to for solitude. Not Zetta. Her happy place was her cabin and keeping to herself. I doubt she ever met the neighbors. 

I walked back onto the porch and admired her choice of white wicker furniture, all dressed in cushions and matching throw blankets. The wicker end tables and matching coffee table each had a glass top with themed centerpieces and stacks of curated books. It felt like I was standing in a home and garden magazine shoot. In the air was a nostalgic, warm feeling of love and romance in abundance. I doubt one could stand here and not sense that welcoming feeling. But there was also a mysterious and intriguing aura surrounding the place. And I couldn’t wait to learn more about the woman who had graced these rooms just a few short weeks ago. 

In lieu of pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming of standing in the home of Zetta Castellan, I laughed, shook my head, and thanked her out loud for choosing me to write her story. People are closer to you in death than in real life, so I knew she could hear me. There was also a good chance she was standing here with me in this very room. 

A shiver ran up my spine at the thought of that, and I had to bring myself back to positive and uplifting thoughts. Alone in a new place, in the middle of nowhere, being scared out of my mind wasn’t how I wanted to spend my first night. It was also not the impression I wanted Zetta to have of me. I would be the perfect houseguest, put myself into the life she once lived, and make her proud of her decision to choose me for this project.      

I brought my suitcases and bags in from the car, took a nice shower, had some dinner, then stood before Zetta’s bookcase. There were so many journals, it was hard to know where to start. Then I remembered the partial manuscript in the back of the binder that Iris had directed my attention to earlier. Per Zetta’s instructions in the leather binder that Iris read from, I was to start with the manuscript in the back of the binder.

I made myself some hot chai, grabbed the binder, and got comfortable on the loveseat in the living room in front of the fireplace. I opened the binder and flipped to the back section. After I read the first page of the manuscript, I grabbed a throw blanket and set my drink on the coffee table. One page and I was already fused to the words of Zetta Castellan.

 

 

CHAPTER 2: ZETTA

 

I glanced up at the woman smiling before me, opened the cover of the book, and grabbed my marker. 

“I just love your books, Mrs. Castellan,” she blurted, a big grin on her face. “I binge-read every book of yours. And now I have a bookcase for your books only, in my dining room. I have every paperback and hardcover book. Even the international covers.” She beamed as she spoke.

“Well, I sure love to hear you’re enjoying my stories. And thank you for the support and for granting me an entire bookcase. That’s so sweet. I appreciate that, Rebecca,” I replied as I read her name on the sticky note. 

When she saw the signed book, her eyes lit up with joy.

“Thank you so much for coming tonight. I hope to see you again.” 

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed as she carefully placed the signed copy in her canvas bag. “I’ll be at your next New York signing. Well, I’ll be at all of them. Thank you again, Mrs. Castellan. I’m so glad I got to meet you. You’re an incredible person, and truly made my night.”

Reaching for the next person’s book my smile faded, and I was taken aback. My heart momentarily stopped, and I had to remind myself to breathe. As I looked into his eyes, maroon flushed my face.

“Zetta.” 

Like a wave of emotions, his comforting voice immersed me in memories of tailgate nights, falling stars, and silk sheets. Even though I’d written hundreds of books, his presence left me speechless. I stared at him with a yearning, throbbing desire to race around the table and into his arms. I couldn’t shake the memories of him hoisting me up and spinning us around, my laughter filling the air as I held on to his neck. 

“Out of all your books, this is definitely one of my favorites,” he said, winking and gesturing towards it, his eyes fixed on mine.

“Right. Um… Hi.”

His kiss. His touch. His arms wrapped around me as he told me everything was going to be okay. His words—

“I apologize if I’m making you feel uncomfortable,” he whispered, glancing at a few individuals nearby, then back to me.

“You aren't.” I hesitated. “Okay. Maybe a little. But in a good way.” I nodded and fumbled with the marker in my hand before shaking my head. “You just caught me off guard.”

I stared at the post-it with his name on it and glanced back up at him. 

“Um…” 

“Jed. I still go by Jed Conley.” 

I grinned, let out a small laugh, shook my head, and signed his book. 

I cleared my throat and shifted my attention back to him. “Well, Mr. Conley, it is very nice to see you. A lovely surprise.” I took another deep breath as he held his hand over mine for a few seconds before taking his book. 

“You as well. Take care, Zetta.” He winked as he walked away, not looking back. I kept my gaze fixed on him until the door of the bookstore closed.

The fact that there weren’t many people in line behind Jed Conley was a good thing, considering the rest of the signing was a blur. All I could think about was him. It took everything in me to not race out of the store after him. The sound of my name on his lips awakened buried memories and emotions. He had a way of captivating me, and he knew it.

What was he doing here? This signing was in New York—quite a drive from Wisconsin, where I had last known him to live. It had been years since I last saw him. Decades, to be honest. He crossed my mind daily, but him showing up at one of my book signings all these years later was an unexpected and pleasant surprise. 

For years, I had to conceal all the feelings of us within me. Only my books provided an outlet for their release. I wondered if he read my books and, if he did, how thoroughly. Did he grasp the implied message in my words? He left me with an overwhelming need to let my emotions out, and writing provided the safest release.

“I can finish up here if you want to get back home for an early night. It’s been a long day,” Catherine, my assistant, said as she boxed up the few remaining hardcover books. 

“Are you sure? I can stay and help. You’ve been working all day, too, and shouldn’t have to do all this by yourself.” 

“I’m not by myself, remember?” She giggled as she nudged my arm. 

“Oh!” I laughed. “I’m so sorry. I forgot you brought your fiancé on this trip with us. Well, I didn’t actually forget. I knew he was here all weekend. It was just a moment of brain fog.”

“We’ll get things packed up. You head home. Get some rest and we’ll see you back in Wisconsin at some point.”

“Okay. Thank you so much, Catherine. You’ve been a lifesaver. And I couldn’t have pulled any of this off without you. The back room is still open for anything extra to go, and I’ll stop back this week to—” 

“Goodnight, Zetta!” She laughed. 

After grabbing my bag, I thanked her again and left the store. 

The night was warm, almost on the edge of muggy, but the breeze made it the perfect evening for a walk. I was glad my condo wasn’t too far from this bookstore. Although a walk seemed pleasant I was exhausted from the busy weekend, and the idea of going to bed early sounded heavenly. 

“Can I walk you to wherever you’re staying?”

I turned around quickly.

“Jed!” I smiled as he embraced me in one of his hugs. “I didn’t know if I would see you again.”

“Don’t think for one second I flew to New York just to have you sign a book and then disappear without a proper goodbye.”

“What are you doing all the way over here?”

“Visiting my favorite author.”

I looked at him intently. “Seriously. What are you doing in New York?”

A laugh escaped him as he nodded. “Visiting my favorite author. Just like I said.” 

“How did you know I was here tonight?”

“Your website.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your newsletter. Your blog posts. Perhaps a few of your social media posts. Now I sound like a stalker.”

“To some extent, yes.” I laughed lightly.

“I’ve been wanting to see you at one of your events, but it never seemed to work out. I made up my mind a few days ago that I was coming here to see you this weekend no matter what. So, I dropped everything and booked a flight.”  

“What about Phil? What if he decided to come with me on this trip?”

“I wanted to take my chances.” 

“I see.”

“He’s not with you, I assume.” 

I shook my head. “He had things back home. It’s nice when he comes, but he has his own career, too.” 

“So, where are you headed?”

“Home,” I replied. 

“Oh. I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Well, not full time. Just occasionally. The hotel fees were getting as high as apartment rental costs due to the many events here. So, I’ve been renting a condo a few blocks from this bookstore for the last, gosh, fourteen years now.”

“I’m happy things have been going well for you. You deserve it.”

“Thank you. I’m very grateful for being able to have this as my career.”

“Can I at least see you safely to your door?”

“I would love that.”