Words Unspoken (45 page)
“This woman, my dear Lissa, is none other than Miss S. A. Green, the famous and anonymous novelist.”
Lissa stood up with an angry look on her face. “You’re insane.”
“No. No, I’m brilliant. I’ve figured it out. And if you want to say something is weird, you can talk about how I just happened to run into you again at The Sixth Declension while I was looking for this woman. That’s weird.”
“You were
looking
for S. A. Green? You mean you were trying to find her in person? Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Oh, please. I guarantee you, Silvano, Annie MacAllister isn’t the type of woman who writes novels, and she certainly isn’t S. A. Green.” Lissa stood. “Leave. Just leave.”
“Lissa, hear me out.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “Give me a chance to explain.”
She sighed and sat back down. “And anyway, what if she were a novelist? There’s nothing illegal about that, is there?”
“No, of course not. But if your pen name is S. A. Green, and if you don’t want anyone to know who you really are, well, people start wondering. I’ve been wondering for a long time. And what I’ve found out is very interesting. She has a little ‘foundation’ worth millions of dollars.”
“What proof do you have of all this? This photo?”
“I found Miss Green’s mailing address, wrote to her, and asked her to meet me at a restaurant. This is who showed up. I would call that some kind of proof, wouldn’t you?”
Lissa felt tears pricking her eyes. “Silvano, why are you saying these things? I happen to care a lot about this couple, so you’d better just leave all that alone. It’s crazy.” She was trying to piece it together. Silvano had a recent picture of Annie; Annie had responded to a letter to Miss S. A. Green.
“Listen to this.”
He took a small tape recorder from his pocket and let the tape play. It was a conversation between a man and a woman. Lissa recognized the woman’s voice as Annie’s.
“Why are you taking pictures and taping these people? Are you some kind of spy? The MacAllisters are great people. They’re religious and real and … and spiritual. They aren’t crooks.”
“I’m sorry to upset you, Lissa. But I think Ev MacAllister’s wife is our novelist, Stella Ann Green. And I think she makes a bundle of money that she doesn’t pour back into the driving school. I think they play some pretty risky games with that money.”
Lissa put her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more.” She felt a tinge of fear inside. But Silvano was wrong, and she could prove it to him. “What you’re saying is impossible! I
know
them. Annie is
not
literary. She’s nuts and bolts. Practical down to her toenails. She does the math for the driving school. She’s an
accountant
, Silvano. How many accountants do you know who are brilliant novelists? Mr. MacAllister is the literary one in the family. He’s the one who—”
“What, Lissa?”
“Nothing. We just enjoy reading the same books, that’s all.” She got up and went to the front door. “Please leave, Silvano. Thank you for caring about me. But I don’t believe you. I need to be alone. I’ve got so many things on my mind—Caleb, my dad. I can’t think about this. I’m sorry.”
“All right, Lissa. But please be careful. I swear I’m here because I’m concerned for you. Last night after I let you off, all the pieces began to fit together. It was weird, all right. Very weird. But it makes sense. I could be all wrong, but I don’t think so. Just be careful, okay? Please.” He hugged her and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’ll call you later. Good-bye.”
She waited for Silvano’s car to leave. Then, in a panic, Lissa ran up the stairs and opened the bottom desk drawer where she had hidden the manuscript under her journals. Shaking, she opened the box and took out the thick ream of typewriting paper.
Driving Lessons
.
She knew for sure that Silvano was wrong. Annie MacAllister was not S. A. Green.
It was Ev.
It was
his
voice she’d kept hearing when she read the other novels, his poetic voice telling her about history and literature, his turn of phrase that made the prose in the novels sound so familiar. She swallowed.
She stared at the manuscript through blurred eyes. She sat down on the floor by her bed with her back propped against it and began to read. She had no idea how long she sat there—thirty minutes or three hours. She kept turning the crisp white typing paper, page after page. Yes, it was like poetry; yes, it was beautiful, almost spiritual. Heavens, some of it
was
quoted directly from the Bible! And the rest was quoted from Ev MacAllister’s life, his philosophy of teaching. She closed her eyes and was standing beside the tall old man in a seersucker suit, looking out from Rock City at the seven states far in the distance.
I’ve known a lot of heartache. Enough to weigh me down further than the
valley below. So I have to concentrate on being thankful for the good things. It’s a simple mental exercise that has surprising repercussions. At least for me, it has.
He had said that to her, and here it was, almost verbatim, in the novel.
Ethereal.
She tried to block out the word. Such a beautiful word and now it was icy, stabbing, painful. He had used that word a few weeks ago.
The best poetry is ethereal. It points you to something better, higher. It calls forth your imagination and haunts you with its beauty.
Ev MacAllister was S. A. Green. He had never blinked an eye or given her any indication of the truth, even when she had talked about the novels,
his
novels, the ones he wrote with his long, slim hands. He was the author of these books.
He never acknowledged a thing because he
knew
.
He knew that his whole thesis—about God’s omniscience and nothing being random—was indeed being played out in her life—through him. It didn’t make sense. Or made too much sense.
And Silvano Rossi, the name-dropping creep, was somehow entwined in the whole thing. Lissa wanted to throw up.
… She makes a bundle of money… . I think they play some pretty risky games with that money.
Silvano was wrong! The idea was preposterous!
She thought about the old sprawling Victorian house. Yes, they had beautiful china and crystal, antique furniture, oriental rugs. But they were displayed beside a sagging sofa and a cheap coffee table. The MacAllisters were not pretentious, not interested in wealth.
Then why did they keep Mr. MacAllister’s identity such a secret? What was the point? A tiny stab of doubt pricked the back of her mind.
Be careful, Lissa. Please.
She didn’t trust Silvano—he gave her the creeps—and yet maybe he had a reason to be concerned.
She felt hot and sweaty and afraid. She could not think about all this. She needed to concentrate on saving Caleb. Caleb was more important than the mystery of S. A. Green. Every bit of her energy needed to be spent on convincing her father to keep her horse. Then she would deal with Silvano and the MacAllisters. Somehow.
She held her head in her hands. Once again her life felt out of control, as if she were galloping on Caleb toward that high fence and could not get him to slow down. No matter how hard she yanked, he ignored the bit in his mouth and plunged ahead.
Is this what happens when I pray? My whole life falls apart? Is that it? God comes in with His almighty power and crushes me?
She didn’t want a God like that. She had enough problems without Him stepping in and taking over. She preferred her little bottle of pills.
________
Silvano stopped his convertible in the first service station he found after coming off Lookout Mountain. He filled up with gas, all the while congratulating himself. He had done it! He had found S. A. Green. Amazing! A very big coincidence.
Silvano kept seeing Lissa’s startled face when he showed her the photo—S. A. Green, alias Annie MacAllister. But now the truth was out. Lissa had helped him in many ways, but the best was admitting that Annie MacAllister could not be the novelist. So it was the old man. Ha! What a very nice setup. The wife takes on the role of the bossy, intimidating author so that her hubby can be free to write and hide behind his driving school. Not bad. Not a bad cover.
He went inside the gas station to pay, then headed to a phone booth where phone books hung on a metal stick. He flipped through the Yellow Pages. Driving schools. There it was, MacAllister’s Driving School. The address was on Sunrise Road in Fort Oglethorpe. He looked in the white pages and found Ev and Annie’s name listed right there. Same address, same phone number. He could not wait to give them a call.
First, though, he needed to get his camera and tape recorder, needed to jot down interview questions, needed to make sure all was ready. Then he would show up on their front porch and get the interview. Ha!
Good job, Silvo! Bel colpo!
Silvano thought briefly of Lissa. He had not been lying when he told her that he cared about her. He really did. Then he thought about a scene from the novel where the driving instructor challenged the protagonist:
Do you care about your friends, or are you simply out for yourself?
He didn’t know. But he’d have plenty of time to work it all out in his head on the drive down to Atlanta and back to Chattanooga. It seemed insane, but it was worth it. Well worth it.
________
The ringing jerked Lissa out of her thoughts. She pulled herself off the floor and grabbed the phone, her mind in a fog. Cammie was on the other end, and she sounded distressed.
“Liss, I tried to talk to your father this morning when he got here, but he’s made up his mind. The buyers came at nine. The girl rode Caleb, and the two of them were brilliant together. The parents signed on the spot.”
“No!” So that’s where her father was. The selfish, cruel jerk!
“The vet is coming on Monday morning. If everything checks out, they plan to take Caleb back to Virginia that afternoon.”
“I can’t believe he’s done this.”
But she did believe it. She had seen it coming for a long time.
In a flat voice, the emotion drained out of her, she said, “Thanks for trying, Cammie.”
“Liss, I really am sorry.”
“I know. Bye.” She could not get another word out. Her mouth had gone completely dry.
What am I going to do?
Immediately she knew. Lissa got out a suitcase and packed it with underwear, toiletries, jeans, sweat shirts. She threw in the journals, the manuscript, the two framed photos, S. A. Green’s other novels from the library, and with one more glance around the room, the Bible.
She carried the suitcase down the stairs with her good hand. Who could she call to come pick her up, and where could she go? Her first thought was the MacAllisters, but did she still trust them? Definitely not Silvano. But she had to get away.
You drive.
She went to the kitchen and got the keys for the little Camaro that had sat in the garage for months, waiting for her to get up the confidence to drive it. The garage door was still open from when her father had left with his car that morning. Should she write a note or just disappear without a word?
As she contemplated this, his car turned into the driveway. When he came in the front door, she was standing there, frozen, like the lovers on Keats’s Grecian urn.
“Hey, Lissa. How are you?” His voice was jovial.
She turned on him in a rage. “You can’t sell him! You can’t! Don’t you care about me? Momma would never have sold him. She understood. Caleb is part of the family.”
His voice changed, wooden, yet fierce. “Your mother is dead, and I make the decisions in this family.”
“You can’t sell him!”
“Liss, it’s already done. The horse is sold. Get over it.” He turned to walk away.
She grabbed his arm. “Get over it? Get
over
it? I love Caleb. I love him more than I love you! Caleb did not kill Momma! He’s just a horse. It wasn’t his fault. And it wasn’t my fault either, Dad. It was an accident. A freaking, horrible accident. Quit blaming us! Quit it!”
The hate and fury felt so real, so palpable. It shot up from the ache in her stomach.
Lissa moved to within inches of her father’s face. “I’m leaving,” she announced. “I hate you and I’m leaving and I don’t care what you think about it! I wish you had been killed in the accident instead of Momma. I wish it had been you! I wish you were dead!”
Astonishment flashed in her father’s eyes, and he stood there, for once stunned into silence.
Lissa didn’t wait for him to regain the power of speech. She turned on her heels and ran out of the house, slinging her purse over her good shoulder like a rifle filled with ammunition. She tossed her suitcase into the Camaro, jumped in and put on her seat belt out of habit, and winced when pain shot through her shoulder. Ignoring it, she slammed the car door shut, turned the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and let the tires squeal in protest as she screeched out of the driveway onto East Brow Road. She wanted her father to be terrified that she was getting ready to drive the car over some steep cliff.
The thought brought her a morbid satisfaction.
