A Kiss Before You Leave Me

By James Hulbert

Three master manipulators--and a woman in love--clash in the worlds of surveillance, voyeurism, and art.

Miranda Kincaid used liquor and other men to flee the control of her husband Vince and his mother Kathleen. Now divorced, sober, and man-free, she's putting her life back together. Vince, now her friend, wants her back--and his mother will stop at nothing to keep them apart. Kathleen's secret weapon? A new man: a seductive, married misfit, a once and future painter with demons of his own--and his own plans for Miranda.

Equal parts moral tale and "guilty pleasure," "A Kiss Before You Leave Me" is plotted like a thriller, but its most memorable violence is emotional--and all the more disturbing because it's done in the name of love.

Twelve rave reviews from readers at Amazon.com; average rating 4.8 stars (out of 5). An Amazon.co.uk bestseller for psychological fiction. A 2013 nominee (literary fiction) for BigAl's Books and Pals Readers' Choice Award.

"Cast a spell over me from the opening words... Strange and unexpected... Develops as the kind of affair you might have had (if you were lucky or cursed, depending on how you look at it) that makes you think deeper, drawing emotions not only from your heart and mind, but your very soul. Surface things are not always as they appear, motives, intentions, people. Seductive, powerful... excellent overall." --Red Haircrow, flyingwithredhaircrow.wordpress.com

"One's first impression is that, in its detail, 'A Kiss....' is consummately crafted as a Fabergé egg. There's not a word out of place, and many passages could comfortably stand by themselves as prose poems. At the same time, from the beginning... 'A Kiss....' is architectural in the sense that each detail is a carefully positioned part of a mystery, for like a Fabergé egg the novel is made to beautifully display the fact that it contains a secret. One reads on with the pleasure of anticipating its revelation. 'A Kiss....' is in a class all to itself, and I read it twice, fascinated. This is not a novel for lazy readers (or for prudes), but I heartily recommend it to all who love tight prose and a great mystery."--Mapuche2, Amazon.com product page

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Hulbert
• Release date: Sep 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9780557677863

James Hulbert

James Hulbert has worked as a bartender, food bank coordinator, government worker, Peace Corps Volunteer, research assistant, teacher, translator, and video rental clerk. He studied literature at Princeton, Freiburg, Geneva, and Yale. He has translated texts by Jacques Derrida and Jacques Lacan, as well as Hans Biedermann's 'Dictionary of Symbolism'. Hulbert is married to the painter Jim Carpenter, for whom he has somehow never posed nude, at least not in a professional capacity. His other avowed weaknesses include Jascha Heifetz, cinema, lattes and the German sci-fi series 'Perry Rhodan'. His blog is at http://jaschawrites.blogspot.com; on Twitter he's @jaschawrites. 'A Kiss Before You Leave Me' is his first novel.

Book preview

A Kiss Before You Leave Me

a novel by

James Hulbert

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 by James Hulbert

First published as an ebook in 2010

Version 1.01

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, enterprises or publications is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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for Jim Carpenter

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Later she claimed to have known…

Book One: Seeing Someone

Book Two: Comes Love

Book Three: Group Show

Book Four: Public Relations

Book Five: Solo Show

Book Six: The Drink

Book Seven: Recovery…

About the Author

Later she claimed to have known...

Later she claimed to have known intuitively that whatever was waiting behind the bedroom door was something terrible, but something to do with love. At this point, of course, that could have meant anything. Someone she loved—Jack, in spite of everything? Casey and Mark?—held prisoner, or killed in the name of love. Someone whom Vince, in his own way, loved: some new woman in his life, her very existence unknown to Miranda, a new wife, or a love-slave to bear him the child Miranda had been unable to... or the woman who’d come before Miranda with Vince and had never let them be, Kathleen as the late Rebecca de Winter or the madwoman in Mr. Rochester’s attic.... Miranda meant it all as a joke, of sorts, and the point of it was, she found the whole menagerie there, an all-of-the-above to conjure with. The navel was also an eye, the key also needle and nail, and the beloved lived on in death, as prisoner, victim, lover, mother, and bride. To say nothing of the cat. Or of Vince himself.

Book One: Seeing Someone

[Dr. Johnson] said he had written [Mrs. Thrale] a letter which he wished her to read when she was alone. It was not for careless eyes and was in French.

Why French? she asked.

The sentiments in it, he said, are best conveyed in another language.

—Beryl Bainbridge, According to Queeney

What does an imagination do but see what isn’t there?

—Hanif Kureishi, Gabriel’s Gift

"It’s only when I’m alone that I can meditate on the charm of the woman I love.... When she’s with me, I won’t have a moment to see her: I’ll be too busy watching her."

—Sartre, adaptation of Dumas père’s Kean

This is a story about what a Woman’s patience can endure, and what a Man’s resolution can achieve.

—Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

Chapter One

It begins in a time without painting.

After the paintings of the distant past. Before the ones that are still to come.

But if this were a painting, the man and woman on whom we’re about to eavesdrop would be only what’s called a detail in it. Two figures in an interior, part of a conversation piece, a society tableau. As a painting, it might be from another century, another continent, and it would be awash in color, colors that go unnoticed now by both the man and the woman.

They form the oddest of couples. Both of them misfits, but in different ways. She looks out of place at a party this grand, and he, for one thing, looks wrong standing with her. They’re the right ages to be mother and son, but they stand and speak and watch each other like two people who met for the first time only moments ago. Besides, did such an unassuming woman ever bear such a son?

She is in fact kin to no one at the party, though she looks for all the world like some poor relation of their hostess, an aunt or elder cousin perhaps. It must be her dress, her hair, the extra weight, the thick and strangely tinted lenses. For the two women are the same age, and when they were at day school together not ten miles away it was tonight’s hostess who was the poorer (make that the less rich) of the two. You can’t see history in a painting, of course, but in this time-without-painting you can eavesdrop on what the woman’s saying to the man who isn’t her son and get a pretty good idea.

Marianne... my oldest friend... so kind... invites me every year....

She’s talking away as if to hold him in place, and for some reason he’s making no effort to pull away. He may be one of those men a great part of whose charm is to appear to be charmed. But if you were making book on these things you’d give good odds he was just devoting the obligatory five minutes to her before he could excuse himself to connect with someone more attractive or more important at the other end of the impossibly long room. And you’d lose your bet.

She—let’s call her the editor for the moment, since that’s how she’s described herself to him, as an experienced editor who nowadays does freelance work when I can get it—the editor’s been having similar thoughts. And the longer he stays with her, the more she hopes it’s not out of some sense of obligation, duty. She knows enough about duty—she was once a wife, and she’ll always be a mother—to suspect it’s dictating the actions of others.

What does he want, anyway? You’d guess differently depending on your point of view. And the context. If this were a different sort of party—in a larger city, and with the press in attendance, or explicitly barred—you might think he’d been paid to show up, to dance attendance on unescorted women (or men), or simply to be seen and admired.

Too attractive for his own good, some would say. But not the editor. When she was first widowed she might have put it that way, but she’s survived all that and tonight she can see him simply as a man of a certain type, who can be counted on to turn certain heads. And that, she knows, is something, regardless of whether her own head is one of them.

We can call her Kathleen now, the way she’s just asked him to. And he’s always been Jack to her, even before they met. Her old friend Marianne, you see, has mentioned him, from time to time: his history at her husband’s law firm, and some of the speculation about him. Kathleen’s also seen his drab, determined little wife working the other end of the room, on her own. But it’s not one of those conjugal team efforts: he’s not moving, not working anything or anyone, unless—surely not—it’s the oldest friend of a senior partner’s wife. Is anyone that calculating?

Perhaps he’s just... kind. The sort of man who dances with every woman at a wedding, especially the ones who are there on their own. Or perhaps he’s just as shy as Kathleen is. His voice is rich and deep, but his words are coming out in short phrases, as if he were uncertain of meeting with understanding and acceptance. Good-looking men can also be kind and shy, can’t they?

She notices he’s not drinking, and she approves. She, too, turns down every waiter who presents a tray filled with glasses of champagne. She leans closer to Jack, as if to impart a confidence: It’s nice to find someone here I can talk with, for once. It’s not quite true, or at least it’s not the whole story, but it’s a conversational ploy that’s never failed her: divulge something about yourself as a way of holding on to the other person. And soon she’s talking about her work again, the joys of sitting in front of her computer, going over someone else’s final draft, with a pot of tea and her cat nearby, and no interruptions. It’s not like being on staff with a New York publisher, but it lets her keep her hand in and earn something....

Jack seems to see a connection only now, what he calls a coincidence. Maybe she can help. My wife was just reminding me on the way over—it’s the first time he’s mentioned her—I promised my grandmother, before she died—so he is dutiful—that I’d get someone to go over a family manuscript that may be worth publishing. It’s very personal, full of... family secrets...? His voice, his eyes, suggest the secrecy is a bit of a joke but that he hopes she won’t laugh.

And she doesn’t. All families have secrets, Jack. Of course, they usually don’t want to publish them. For the first time she appears to take the upper hand.

"We don’t know what we want. But you’re right. That’s why we had to wait: till there was no one left to be hurt. Then find an editor—well, a translator—someone discreet—"

Translator?

The manuscript’s in French.

That, clearly, is a different matter. Ah, well. I’m the soul of discretion, but only in English, I’m afraid. In my work if you know how to spell ‘divorcée’ that’s all the French you need.... Your grandmother’s family was from France?

By way of Montreal. They came to the U.S. in the 1890s.

"So it’s an old manuscript?"

Not quite that old. There was one person in the family who was something of a... throwback, who lived in France and kept a diary in French for a couple of years. In the 1920s.

Why not publish it in France, or Quebec?

"That was part of the promise: wait till the death of... another relative, then unseal the manuscript, and publish it in English, if at all... at my discretion. My grandmother said it was really an American story." He shrugs a little.

Kathleen usually prides herself on not missing much. But in her voice there’s simply understanding now, not pride: It’s her own manuscript, isn’t it?

Jack lowers his eyes and says nothing, but she takes the movement of his head as assent.

And would it really be considered... sensitive... today? With all the things people do to each other now, her eyes add.

His shrug, she thinks, has something Gallic about it. No one’s looked at it yet. I never took French—just Spanish. I’ve probably been misspelling ‘divorcée’ all these years. I don’t suppose you... know of anyone?

A nice divorcée? Your wife would never forgive me! Kathleen’s eyes twinkle. Actually, I do know someone, but you might suspect me of having a conflict of interest. She leans on the last phrase: she’s having a little fun with the lawyer. But she has to change gears. Miranda—she speaks the name carefully—is a fine literary translator, and—I won’t say she’s never made a mistake in her personal life, but she’s.... Well, talk about discretion! I could say to Miranda—she glances at his wrist, and not for the first time—"‘Jack was wearing beautiful mother-of-pearl cufflinks, but you must never tell anyone,’ and she’d agree, and she’d keep her word. And a real secret—Kathleen leans in closer to Jack, as the topic dictates—she could keep even from me!" She gives him a moment to smile.

She’s a friend of yours?

Kathleen speaks like someone who wants to be precise, disclose everything. "That’s the conflict of interest. She used to be married to my son. She still uses the name Kincaid—our name. It was a very friendly divorce, all water over the dam now. So—I may have a translator and a divorcée for you, and your wife can’t even object!"

They both laugh, Kathleen a bit more. Then she goes on. "If you’ll trust a recommendation from an ex-mother-in-law. No one ever said a mother-in-law was impartial, did they?"

Before long he gives her his card with all his numbers, and she promises to see what she can do.

Kathleen’s always been able to do a great deal. It’s now the next morning, though, and she never works on Sundays. Never edits, that is.

She’s already home from an early Mass, back with her feet up in her cozy living room, and she has plenty of time to spend with the New York Times before noon rolls around and even Miranda can be assumed to be out of bed and taking phone calls. Of course, it’s only Kathleen for whom this interlude is time with the newspaper: for the bundle of fur in her lap, it’s time for two friends to spend together in a comfortable chair, and Kathleen learned long ago to read with the paper constantly folded and refolded so as to free one hand for the magnifying glass and one for caressing Alcestis. Domestic shorthair, it says in the file at the vet’s, and that says all and nothing at all. She’s more precious to Kathleen than ermine, which the cat’s fur rather resembles, and Alcestis often hears that she’s as close to ermine as this old lady will ever get. (Kathleen’s son is generous, but not to a fault. And, however often she mentions ermine to her cat, she barely remembers her own mother’s furs and the world that went with them.)

On one recent occasion, however, Alcestis may have sold herself cheap. Kathleen is close to abandoning the assumption that the cat’s newly increased weight and girth are the results of maturity and inactivity—rather than of a bit of activity that would have occurred several weeks ago, at the time of her last heat, when she disappeared in the night and returned serene the following morning. Well, Ally, if it happened, it happened, Kathleen says now, a bit obscurely, as if reluctant to give her friend any ideas. There are worse things. A little loving, then a little more loving, and then in a few months it’ll be just the two of us again. Alcestis purrs as if she understood, but it’s unclear whether it’s for the first or the second of those two lovings—or for her friend’s loving, which doesn’t need the word to sell it. And you’ll never have a daughter-in-law to deal with.

Kathleen’s relationship with Miranda has always been complicated, and now, even after years of supposed healing, it’s not unusual for them to go for months at a time with no contact. But Kathleen in no way dreads talking with Miranda. Problems are there, after all, to be dealt with. Just handle them the right way and everybody wins.

By the time she’s broken the back of the crossword, it’s time. She puts the newspaper and magnifying glass aside and lets Alcestis, sleeping now, stay in her lap as she dials the number.

Miranda recognizes Kathleen’s voice immediately and puts into her own a warmth they both know she doesn’t feel. In her own way, she’s still making amends.

Even though Kathleen thinks Miranda should view Jack Emery and the French manuscript as an enormous favor Kathleen’s doing her, she’s careful to couch it differently: a favor for a man I met at Marianne and Bill’s last night.

On the other end, Miranda was confused. She turned the music down, carried the cordless phone back into the kitchen to pour herself more coffee, then came back and settled in one of her two comfortable chairs to hear Kathleen out. Her first reaction had been to wonder what Kathleen was up to—what the real story was. But long experience had taught her she might never know.

A Mr. Emery, J. L. Emery. An attorney, Kathleen was saying, an associate with Bill’s firm. A very kind man. In need of someone to evaluate, maybe translate, a long French manuscript. He kept talking about discretion, and judgment....

"And so of course you thought of me." Miranda’s joke was on herself, not Kathleen, and she was sure Kathleen knew it, too.

"I did think of you. It’s one of those family things—they were both serious now—and the poor man doesn’t know where to turn. He doesn’t know French, and he made a promise to his grandmother. It’s probably some very personal journal she kept. You could take a look, tell him what’s in it, advise him whether it’s worth translating. It could turn into a nice job for you."

A comeback?

You never really went away, dear.... Now, I didn’t promise him anything, but if you could just see him once, have a look at the manuscript....

It was an easy decision. Miranda needed the work, and not just for the money. It’s... so kind of you to do this, Kathleen. Sometimes I wonder how you and Vince can have anything to do with me. And here you’ve become... my friends.

We understand what you’ve been through. We’ve all had problems in life, we’ve been hurt, we’ve hurt other people. But it all has to stop sometime, and we have to go on with our lives. You’re doing that. You face up to things.... So—I have your permission to give Mr. Emery your number?

Of course. But she was uncertain how to put the next part. Kathleen, what does he know about me?

He knows you used to be married to Vince, and that you’ve had years of experience as a translator. But I didn’t mention—Oh, one other thing. It’s a bit delicate. I know you talk with Vince, and he’s always happy when you get more work, but... could we keep this between the two of us, my suggesting you for the job? She seemed to be engaged in a bit of sensitive diplomacy. It’s just that he wouldn’t understand. And it’s no one’s fault. Things between you and me weren’t always the way they are now, and Vince always blamed me. He and I are very close, but when it came to your marriage, your divorce—I promised him I’d leave you alone, let you live your own life. And he’d view even this as interference. To this day, you’re the one subject he and I can’t discuss....

Miranda drew a deep breath, but not so Kathleen could hear. Always the secrets. Of course I won’t say anything to him. And I’m sorry. I never wanted to be the cause of trouble between you.

I know, dear. It’s funny, isn’t it? He thinks you and I are enemies, but we understand each other and neither one of us can talk to him about it. Maybe we can just accept it and... turn the page....

Miranda’s eye drifted to the bookshelf a few feet away.

Kathleen went on. So you’ll see what you can do for Mr. Emery?

Miranda had a vague sense of something wrong in the room, but she kept the conversation going. I’ll... do my best. She never fussed, never cared about appearances or what people might think, but now she stood on tiptoe to straighten a heavy bookend she must somehow have turned awry.

Kathleen, hearing the uncertainty in Miranda’s voice, sought to reassure her. I just know you’re ready for this, dear.

Jack eased a worn volume from his briefcase, but just as he opened its pages Miranda was suddenly there, as if by magic. He forgot the diary and rose to take her hand. She was beautiful.

He would say, much later, that he saw in her at that moment an explosion of colors and possibilities. There was more truth in the word explosion than in the others. But the explosion did have something to do with gold and rose and cream, and a piercing blue that was almost azure. And certain possibilities were obvious enough, weren’t they?

She seemed unaware of the effect she had, but Jack, ever conscious of how he presented himself, for a moment mistook her artlessness for show. Miranda, in truth, had spent more time steaming her grey Chanel suit than applying make-up. The only impression she’d wanted to make was of someone who’d show up on time and keep her promises. That, of course, was before she saw Jack.

He’d asked Maurice for a booth away from street noise and other lunch parties, and the headwaiter had his own idea what sort of lunch this would be. When Miranda arrived, her beauty confirmed his original notion, but the conservative elegance of her suit, and the portfolio she carried, complicated things. A business lunch after all, perhaps. Miranda’s breezy refusal of a drink seemed to confirm this.

Now it was Jack who took in the formal simplicity of the suit, warm for June but more appropriate for the restaurant’s air-conditioning than his own tennis shirt and khakis.

She glimpsed the notebook as Jack returned it to his briefcase. Saving business for after the meal? More correct, perhaps, than plunging right into this bizarre assignment, his grandmother, her death, her secrets.

One question, though. To let him know Miranda’s a human being. So was that the famous diary? A volume not much larger than Jack’s broad, sinewy hand, and bound in faded blue covers, like an account book from another century.

Just volume one. I thought all ninety-three might scare you off.

Her eyes widened. Are there really...?

He grinned and shook his head. An even dozen. Relax.

She tried. "I’m not that easily scared, you know. Just to set him straight. But I’d like to start slow, look a bit deeper...." And it was a moment before her eyes left Jack’s.

I do have the next few in my car. I didn’t know....

Well, we don’t know, do we?

Then the waiter was back. Miranda ordered just a salad and Jack followed suit. Soon there was a large bowl of greens between them. Jack said he’d serve, and the waiter took his cue to withdraw. When Jack met her eyes again, he saw a trace of puzzlement there.

What is it?

She laughed, surprised into candor. I was thinking you don’t seem much like a lawyer.

The only time I dress like one is when I’m working, and even then my heart’s not in it.

I didn’t mean your clothes. She already knew it was his day off and that he’d just had a session with his personal trainer. But she’d expected Kathleen’s Mr. Emery to be more the overworked-executive type and less.... Her eyes moved back up to his face. I don’t know what I meant. She smiled again, then tried to pull the conversation into safer territory. He let her lead—a change from most of the men she’d known—and soon she’d forgotten all about seeming businesslike.

She got them talking about books and movies, and when the coffee came she’d led them back to the diaries. They decided she’d read the first volume, translate some sample pages, and tell him what she thought. Then you can decide where to go from there.

You understand, you might spend weeks on this, and be paid of course, but we might not end up publishing.

Actually, I used to get assignments like this. From producers looking at film rights, publishers deciding whether to bid on a novel....

But now it’s mostly technical translations, you said.

Whatever comes along. If I had to choose between a novel and specs for a widget, I’d do the novel. And I’d love to work on a woman’s diary.... Your grandmother obviously thought it was a book people would want to read.

She said she didn’t matter herself—it was just that she saw so much, lived so much, in those years. This book was all the stories she’d never told me. I knew about her childhood in Baltimore, and her married life, after she came back, but nothing about the time in between. In Paris, in the late 1920s. Now, the diary may be a little... racy. She wanted it kept sealed as long as her son was alive.

Your father? Was he easily shocked?

Jack rolled his eyes and mugged a no.

Then I can’t wait to start reading.

They both laughed.

I was just thinking—he sounded almost wistful—"I’d like a cognac or something, but I’m afraid I’d be at a disadvantage for all this heavy negotiating... unless I could get you to join me?"

She thought before she spoke. There’s something Kathleen didn’t tell you. Give me seconds on cheesecake, B-movies till breakfast, every operatic indulgence... but one. I don’t drink. I’m an alcoholic. There. She’d said it.

He looked at her as if for the first time. She sensed she was constantly surprising him, and she didn’t know what to say next. Look, if I weren’t here with you I’d be telling my story ‘in the rooms’—in a meeting somewhere. It gets pretty juicy, and that’s just the parts I can remember. Anyway, I used to have lots of secrets. Now I just keep other people’s.

"You have a right to... a few secrets of your own, don’t you?"

She reached out and covered his hand. It’s not about rights. It’s.... She wasn’t sure what it was about.

Miranda, what about you? What do you... want?

She looked even deeper into his eyes, thinking. Something made her pull her hand back. Let’s say, for now I want you to take cheesecake for an answer. Her smile was faint, but warm.

What are we talking about here? He smiled uncertainly, as if he really didn’t know.

"I’m talking about cheesecake."

Did I say something wrong?

No. You asked me a hard question, and I pulled away a little.

You didn’t have to.

Maybe I needed to....

Then the waiter was back, and soon the cheesecake would be a reality. She faced Jack again. Let’s talk about you.

I’m not very interesting....

Look. I’m a thirty-year-old divorcée who lives in front of a computer screen doing technical translations and hasn’t seen anyone but her ex-husband and her sponsor and the rest of AA for so long she can’t remember. Believe me, if you’re not interesting, I’ll never notice. Her eyes put it differently: If you’re not interesting, I haven’t noticed.

So you still see... your ex? I notice you still use his name....

"Kincaid’s my name, too. Obviously a discussion she’d had before. I did a lot of work under that name, and I’m not about to start over with a new one. And Vince