Ghost writer, p.41
Ghost Writer, page 41
He who has died is freed from sin. Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with Him.
And then:
For God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
Jonathan kneeled down in the snow and reread all the verses. He couldn’t believe what this had all led to. A Bible open and sitting in the snow next to a small candle in the middle of the woods. He smiled as he read the verses again. Now they meant something to him. Death and life had new meanings in more ways than one.
He gently set the Bible in the snow and lowered his head, silent before a God he knew was nearby, unafraid of anything else that might be. His life was in God’s hands now. He was no closer to solving the mystery of the writer. But he prayed that whatever was intended for his life tonight, it would happen as God wanted it to.
A cold wind moved the treetops and caused their shadows to dance on the white snow below. The tiny flame of the candle flickered but held its life. For the first time since he had walked outside his office building, he was cold.
Jonathan stood and scratched his head. So this was it? Three Bible verses and a candle? He glanced around to see if anyone was there, and then he saw it. Nailed to the tree he had first come around was another manila envelope. Jonathan looked around again and then shuffled through the snow to get the envelope. He laughed a little. It had almost become old habit. He wondered what this envelope held. More Scriptures? An instruction to go home and be with his family? Maybe more secrets from his life?
His hands were so frozen he had trouble opening it up. He finally managed to pull out another single white sheet of paper. Back at the candle he held the paper close to the flame.
It’s time to meet your ghostwriter.
Walk toward the light.
Jonathan gripped the paper as if he were trying to hold on to the leash of a running dog. Meet the writer? He stood and looked all around him. Did he want to? He had dismissed ever solving the mystery. And now it was time to know who had been doing this. Jonathan couldn’t move. A part of him didn’t want to know. Another part of him expected Clyde’s ghost to walk out of the woods. And yet another part of him had almost believed that God had written all the pages.
Jonathan looked at the page again. He stood, his muscles and joints beginning to feel the effects of the cold weather. Walk toward the light.
He looked around. There was not a single light around, except the flame below him. Even the moon had now ducked behind a thin, long cloud. Jonathan looked around him again. Maybe he had missed it. Nothing. Not a single light.
Wait.
There was one. Deep in the forest. A white light. Small and seemingly in the limbs of some far-off trees. Should he go? Was that the light he was supposed to follow?
Jonathan’s body was barely taking direction from his mind. He snapped open his briefcase and put the pieces of paper inside. He closed it and stood, his briefcase feeling as if it weighed a ton.
The trail he had walked on continued, so he glanced around one more time and decided this was the only light to be seen. He found the trail underneath the snow and followed it. His feet hurt from the cold, and now his fingers were red and swelling. He breathed warm air into his free hand and continued to follow the light for about forty more yards.
Suddenly, without warning, he came to the edge of the woods. And to his surprise, the white light had been a light in the parking lot of the restaurant at the bottom of the small hill he stood on.
Without further hesitation, he decided to go down the hill. But the snow was thick and a little slick, and before he knew what had happened, he was tumbling down the embankment. He hit the bottom hard, his briefcase landing on his head.
He was now covered in wet snow again, and his body began shivering uncontrollably. A couple who had parked their car nearby got out and stared for a moment, then walked across the parking lot and into the restaurant.
Jonathan didn’t bother dusting himself off as he looked up at the sign. Piora’s. He had never heard of it before, but he was so cold he knew he needed to get inside. And very quickly. His legs barely moved and his feet plowed through the small bit of snow that had managed to avoid the tires of the cars.
He finally got to the sidewalk that led to the front of the restaurant. He noticed the people going in and out were dressed in cocktail-type evening wear. He was still wearing his suit from work, but it had been wet, had dried, and had gotten wet again. His hair was soaking and plastered to his forehead. A well-dressed man at the door opened it for him.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said, a questioning look on his face.
Jonathan couldn’t even answer. His jaws were frozen. Inside, the heat immediately hit his face and he was able to catch his breath a little better. He looked around the restaurant. It was intimately elegant and definitely high-class. He took off his heavy coat and pushed his hair to the side.
From where he was standing, he had a good view of the restaurant. He quickly scanned the room but saw no one that looked familiar. The maître d’, a tall man behind a small podium, eyed him carefully.
“Sir, may we help you?” he asked in a drawn-out, haughty voice.
Jonathan wasn’t sure what he should say. “Um . . .”
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
Jonathan scratched his head. “Well, um . . .”
The maître d’ grew impatient. “Your name, sir.”
Jonathan stepped closer to him. “Jonathan Harper.”
The maître d’ checked his list and then smiled warmly. “Yes, of course. Right this way.”
Jonathan couldn’t believe it! He was at the right spot. And someone had already made a reservation in his name. The maître d’ led him to a table for two in a quiet corner of the room. In the center of the table a small candle was lit, creating a warm atmosphere. The maître d’ took his coat, and Jonathan slid his briefcase next to the table, then sat down. The maître d’ started to walk away.
“Sir?” Jonathan said.
“Yes?”
“Will . . . anyone be . . . joining me?”
The maître d’ smiled slightly. “Yes, sir.” Then he walked back to his small podium.
A waiter then appeared holding a manila envelope. Jonathan couldn’t even act surprised. “For you, sir.”
Jonathan looked around and said, “I didn’t order this,” but the joke was only to himself. The waiter was gone.
He tore open the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. It was blank. Jonathan flipped it over twice. Nothing. Just stark white staring back at him. The waiter reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee. “Here you are.”
“Um . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money with me. I wasn’t expecting to, uh . . .”
The waiter smiled patiently. “I believe your tab will be picked up by the lady over there.”
Jonathan looked to where he was pointing. At first no one stuck out. But then he saw her. His mouth dropped open and his heart stopped.
It was Kathy.
She was dressed in a long, red, strapless silk dress and her hair was tied on top her head with small, light wisps hanging down on either side of her face. She met Jonathan’s eyes, smiled warmly, and then rose.
“May I join you?” she asked, standing above him. Jonathan was speechless. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She took a seat across from him. “You’re all wet.”
Jonathan’s eyes were so wide they began to dry out. He blinked and shook his head all at once. “Kathy?”
She shrugged and laughed. “Yes, well, I suppose I’m a bit unrecognizable with a fancy dress and makeup on.” She smoothed her dress and crossed her legs. “How do I look?”
Jonathan tried not to stutter. “Fine. Beautiful.” Jonathan looked around and whispered, “Kathy? You’re the . . . the writer?”
She never took her eyes off him. “Yes.”
A thousand and one questions filled his mind, but only one escaped to his lips. “Why?”
Her eyes moved to the candle on the table and she casually rested her chin on her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? It was the only way to reach you.”
“Reach me?”
“Yes. Books are your life. I couldn’t get to you any other way. So I wrote a manuscript that was sure to grab your attention. That’s how to get to an editor, right? A story with real punch?”
Jonathan was finally starting to feel his toes, but he was so stunned everything was starting to go numb again.
Kathy continued. “I wanted to save our marriage. I wanted to save your soul. And I couldn’t even get you to tell me how your day was. So I decided I had to find another way.”
Jonathan rubbed his face and peeked out at her between his fingers. “How?”
“How did I do it?” Kathy asked.
Jonathan nodded. “How did you know all those things about me? In my past? I never told anyone.”
She smiled and drew a playful line on the tablecloth. “No. But your mother did. The last Thanksgiving she was alive. Your aunt Eleanor almost told on me by accident when she talked about how we had stayed up late one night and talked. Your mother had so many regrets, and most of them centered on your relationship with your father. She started mentioning it that night, and I asked her questions. She had a lot to get off her chest, and I had a lot to learn. You never talked about your past, and it was so much a part of who you were . . . and your relationship with your father . . . so much of why you gave up on believing in God.”
Jonathan swallowed. “What about all the other stuff? How did you know what was happening in my life from day to day?”
“I actually got the idea from Leesol. Uncle Earl sent her a mini-recorder, so I sort of borrowed it without permission and recorded you. It has a feature that only records if there’s noise, so most of the time I had enough tape to last the whole day.”
“The tape recorder was in my office?”
“No. In your briefcase.”
Jonathan paused. Then he picked up his briefcase and opened it. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
Kathy stood. “May I?” Jonathan handed her the briefcase. She set it on the table and slid her fingers along the fabric on the inside lid. She then revealed a small hole, taped together with fabric tape. She unstuck it and reached in. Her hand revealed a tiny voice recorder a little bigger than a pocket calculator. “The microphone was powerful enough to pick up sound through the leather.”
Jonathan rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe it.” He looked at her. “What about all the future predictions? How did you know what I would do?”
“They only seemed like predictions. But I was actually controlling the situation. Each prediction revolved around me, so I made sure to write down exactly what I knew we would be doing.”
Jonathan’s temples pulsated with confusion. “I don’t get it. You knew about Sydney? When I came home and you were reading the pages . . . you knew all along?”
Kathy’s bright face faded a little. “I had my suspicions about your being involved with someone at the office. I wasn’t sure. But I did a little undercover work, which wasn’t hard, since Edie has a hard time keeping her mouth shut about anything.”
“Why didn’t you just confront me about her?”
“I did. In the bathroom when you accused me of not cautioning the girls about strangers. But you denied it. You were closed off. And distant. I knew I had to find a way to bring it to your attention and scare you into stopping.” She looked him square in the face. “I was willing to do anything and everything to save our marriage. I loved you so much, and I didn’t want you to throw what we had away. But I also knew that unless your heart changed, Sydney wouldn’t be the first or last ‘other woman’ in your life.”
Jonathan stared into the glow of the small candle. “I thought I was going to die tonight.” He looked up at her. “I thought that Jeremy kid was going to kill me.”
Kathy smiled. “Yes, well, he was definitely an easy suspect. But I overheard Sydney talking with a girlfriend of hers at the funeral. Jeremy was actually in jail and would probably be there for some time. Drugs, I think. Anyway, he wasn’t a threat, even if she told a different story. I used it to my advantage.”
Jonathan raised his eyebrows and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off a maddening headache that threatened to pull his focus away. “I have to ask—did Clyde know about this?”
Kathy shook her head. “No. Not until the end. A few days before he died. I felt guilty that you suspected him. I had sort of contributed to that suspicion. I finally went to his house and told him what I was doing. He didn’t agree with it and told me I should just talk to you about it, but he told me he wouldn’t interfere with what I was doing.” Kathy moved uncomfortably in her chair and adjusted her dress. She looked away and said, “There was a part of me that wanted you to suffer. To be scared.”
“Well, it worked.”
“It was wrong of me, but I wanted you to pay for your fling with that girl. And the more I saw what the pages I was sending you were doing to you, the more it made me feel better. But then there came a point when I realized it was wrong. I was being deceitful and you were going insane. Seeing you suffer like that was breaking my heart. That’s when I decided to use the manuscript to point you to God. That’s what I had wanted from the beginning, anyway. Just to point you in the right direction.”
Jonathan laughed and frowned all at once. “So you just sat up one night and thought all this out?”
“Well, it wasn’t quite as organized as an outline or anything. I thought I’d write down your past and send it to you. Make you confront your demons. But the more I wrote down, the more I realized you needed God. It just kept working, so I kept doing it.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Apparently you’re not the only one.” He looked up at her. “Clyde wrote his last story for me. It was all about Jesus Christ and my relationship, or lack thereof, with Him. It was incredible. I’ve never been so touched by anything in my whole life.”
Kathy smiled. “Clyde told me that he was writing that book for you. The day that I went over to tell him what I was doing. We both sort of laughed about it, then prayed that something would work and that you would give your life to God.”
“I did. Today. At the office.” Both their eyes teared and then Jonathan laughed a little and looked at his briefcase. “So everywhere this briefcase went, you were there, too?”
Kathy grinned. “Yep. It was like putting a handle on me and carrying me by your side.” Her expression turned serious. “Are you mad? You should be. You can be. I’ll understand.”
Jonathan wasn’t mad. He was tired. And still a little cold. He took her hand from across the table. “I didn’t realize you were such a prolific writer.”
“Well,” she said, squeezing his hand, “I did major in journalism.”
He laughed. “It showed. You’re actually a terrible storyteller. No consistent description. No flow. Just choppy bits of information.”
She locked eyes with him. “An editor’s worst nightmare.”
“You have no idea,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
She shook her head. “In the end, it wasn’t my story that led you to God, anyway. It was Clyde’s. I suppose we all know what our demons are. No one needs to tell us, right?” Tears came from nowhere and dropped down her face. “I did this because I love you. I know it got a little out of hand. But I did it to try to save our marriage. It was my last hope.” She laughed a little and added, “There were so many times when I thought you knew. You’d tell me about the pages you found, and I was sure your next sentence would be that you knew it was me. That’s why I always looked so scared! A few times I even tried to tell you it was me. I started to. But something always happened and I never got a chance.”
Jonathan felt tears forming, too. “No. I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad it ended this way.” He reached across and touched her face. “You look beautiful.” He laughed through his tears. “But did you have to traipse me through the woods and into the snow?”
She laughed, too, and more tears fell. “I wasn’t counting on this much snow.”
He wiped her tears away and then his own. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here with you. And you still love a man who is totally unworthy of that love.”
She leaned across the table. “I always have. I always will.”
Jonathan sat a little taller and drew in a breath that released every bit of tension he had felt over the past few weeks. Then he said, “Tell me something.”
“What?”
His lips turned upward into a half smile. “How does the story end?”
A deep glow radiated from within, shining through the sparkle in her eyes. “It’s kind of funny.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You see, the story doesn’t have an ending.”
A huge smile found its way to Jonathan’s lips. “Is that so?”
“It’s true.”
Jonathan stood and said, “Well, then, I think I know what happens in the next chapter.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. The sorry low-life excuse for a husband asks the beautiful, talented heroine of a wife to dance.”
Kathy blushed and laughed. “We haven’t danced in years.”
Jonathan took her hand. “Then here’s to another fifty chapters of dancing the night away.”
She took his hand and he led her to the quaint dance floor in the middle of the restaurant. A soft, slow piece of music filled their ears, and he held her close to him.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.
“You’re welcome.”
And that’s how it happened. It sounds unbelievable, and maybe it is. But God used what I loved so much—books—to help me find Him. And to help me find my way back to the right kind of life that I had lost many years ago. And so I wrote it all down, so that maybe someone might read it and know that life has a lot to offer. But if God isn’t offering it, then it’s really no life at all. I was changed that day. Changed for good. My life went on. My children grew. And I eventually left the editorial world and became a writer so I could tell the many more stories about God that Clyde Baxter had to leave behind. But I never forgot the story he wrote for me. And I never forgot what my wife did, either. Never again did I forget God. Ever.
