The Novelist

By Tricia Drammeh

No one ever said being married to a writer was easy…

Jacque has always struggled to get his business ideas off the ground. From photography to catering to publishing, his poorly-planned endeavors have put a serious strain on his finances—and his marriage. Despite his difficulties in turning his passions into a paycheck, Jacque has always considered himself to be an intellectual, an artist, and above all, a writer.

Ever-reliable Cindy is always there to pick up the pieces when Jacque's ventures go awry, but it's getting harder and harder to keep things afloat. She wants nothing more than for her husband to find his way in the world, and she believes writing is his true path in life—until she reads his novel.

Every marriage has its problems, but when a shocking betrayal leads to vengeance, will their marriage survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Flower Books
• Release date: Oct 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386040026

Tricia Drammeh

Tricia Drammeh is a wife and mother of four children who lives in New Hampshire. Her published works include The Fifth Circle, The Seance, Better than Perfect, and the Spellbringers series. She is currently working on her ninth novel. When Tricia isn't writing, she can be found hanging out with her dog, devouring books, or drinking record-breaking amounts of coffee.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CINDY PLACED HER BRIEFCASE on the table in the entryway. She walked through the house, disgusted by the dust on every surface, the stacks of dishes in the kitchen sink, and the sticky residue stuck to the countertop. The carnage of a fast food lunch was scattered across the kitchen table—crumpled burger wrappers, a few stale fries, a half-empty cup of soda that left a wet ring on the table when she picked it up to discard it.

Cin? Where are you?

In the kitchen. What are you still doing here? I thought you had your meeting today.

I do.

Her husband rushed into the kitchen, laptop case in hand. Tall with tousled sandy-blond hair, intense green eyes, and a dazzling smile, Jacque was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a blazer with corduroy patches at the elbows. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him the appearance of a college professor. After all these years, the sight of him still took her breath away.

Cindy often wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Was he able to look past the thirty extra pounds she’d gained over the years? Did he see the strands of gray that were quickly overtaking her brunette bob, or did he still see the same girl he fell in love with?

Despite everything, she believed marrying Jacque was the best thing she’d ever done. Twenty years of broken promises, heartache, failed business ventures, threats of legal action, half-written manuscripts, and dusty brochures for businesses that never officially launched—there had been some rough times. But there’d also been twenty years of spontaneous trips, overnight getaways, hangovers from too much wine, and deep, intellectually engaging late-night talks. Yes, the good times outweighed the bad, at least in Cindy's mind. There was no reason to dwell on the bad times, anyway. Memories were what you made of them. Like a photo album, one made a choice which photos to display and which events were worthy of commemoration. Memories were the same way.

I can’t find my travel charger.

Where did you look? 

Everywhere, he claimed. I need to leave ... He glanced at his Rolex. ... Now.

Can you bring your other charger? I can look for the travel one later.

The regular charger is bulky and doesn’t fit in my bag. He tapped the side of his laptop case for emphasis.

I’m not sure when you last used it, but I promise I’ll find it later. I’ve got to take the dogs for their walk, clean the house, and figure out something for dinner.

He kissed her on the cheek. Okay, thanks anyway. I’ll just muddle through without it. The laptop is fully charged, so it should last through the meeting. So, how was your day?

It was okay, she replied.

It was the same reply she gave every day. The details of her day were too boring to share—the challenges faced when the computer system crashed, tidbits of office gossip, a promotion she received—so she tried to keep it all to herself. In the past, when she’d complained about her job, his response was always quit. He never worried about how they could afford their comfortable lifestyle if neither of them had a paying job; he said something would come along.

Well, sorry to run, but ...

I know. You don’t want to be late for your first meeting. Good luck!

I will. And, don’t worry about the mess, Cindy, he called as he headed out the door. I’ll clean it up later.

It was simpler for Cindy to just go ahead and do it herself. On her way upstairs, she grabbed a basket of clean, unfolded towels that had been left by the utility room, along with a couple of shopping bags full of clothes Jacque had purchased from the mall earlier in the week. By the time she lugged the basket and bags upstairs, she was out of breath.

After changing into jogging pants, a t-shirt, and grass-stained sneakers, Cindy tackled the bedroom. She wasn’t sure which clothes lying across the bed and in the recliner were clean or dirty, so she put everything in the hamper for washing later. Even though it was late in the day, she decided to make up the bed with fresh linens. Her mom had always instilled in her the importance of making up the bed every single morning, but usually Jacque was still asleep—or just climbing into bed—when she left for work. Old habits died hard, though, and despite the fact that her husband poked fun at her oddities, she did like a tidy bedroom.

She checked the time. With less than two hours until it got dark, she decided to forgo further cleaning in favor of mowing the lawn. At this point, it was so overgrown, it was an embarrassment and she couldn’t live with it another day.

Forcing herself to ignore the nightmarish mess in the kitchen, she strode purposefully past the sink full of dishes and opened the sliding door leading to the back porch. She was immediately swarmed by dogs. Maggie and Pi, her Labradors, charged at her legs, nearly knocking her down. So much for obedience training, she thought, rubbing her leg where Maggie’s nails had dug into her skin through her pants leg. She made a mental note to make an appointment at the groomers to have the dogs’ nails trimmed.

I know. I missed you too, she said, wondering how long they’d been outside. The water in their bowl seemed fresh, so Jacque must have tended to them fairly recently.

By the time she finished the lawn, it was already seven thirty. She had so much to do, but the dogs deserved their evening walk. It was something they looked forward to every evening, rain or shine. She still had a kitchen to clean, but maybe Jacque could pick up food on his way home. She sent him a quick text.

With the dogs straining at their leashes, Cindy strode past the rows of upper middle class houses and neatly manicured lawns, occasionally waving to neighbors as she passed by. She loved this quiet neighborhood, this friendly community where kids rode bikes up and down the street, and old folks sat in front porch swings, drinking iced tea.

Jacque called it a cesspool of suburban mediocrity. He often talked about moving to a log cabin in the mountains, or investing in a farm where they could live off the land. Other times, he spoke of urban living—an eclectic townhouse in the city surrounded by other artists where he could set up a studio on the top floor and be inspired by the bustling hub of humanity surrounding them. He talked about a lot of things, but his plans rarely got past the planning stage of talking to real estate agents and builders, researching crop rotation, or buying a guide to urban living.

When Cindy and the dogs completed their circuit of the neighborhood, Jacque’s car was parked