A Madness Most Discreet Read online

  Liam’s eyebrows rose and he shook his head in disbelief. “Choosing your lover over your friends already, Michael?”

  “It’s not a contest, Liam.”

  “Love is a madness most discreet,” he taunted.

  “Don’t quote Shakespeare to me, motherfucker. And if you do, at least get it right.”

  “I was condensing for clarity.”

  “You dare abridge the bard?”

  Liam laughed and I recalled then how we’d first become friends—through our shared love of wine and words. How we’d get leisurely drunk in our dorm room and stay up until the early morning reciting our favorite lines of poetry like it was some eighteenth-century Parisian salon. At least we never slept together.

  “Arden was Shakespeare’s mother’s maiden name,” I said absently. “He told me his mother loved Shakespeare.” I left out that I’d been blowing him when he said it.

  “If that’s even his real name,” Liam scoffed.

  “Out with you.” I made a motion for him to scram. “Be nice to my new friend, or I won’t bring him around anymore.”

  “Promise?” Liam said. I shooed him out of my apartment, then worked up the nerve to call my father because I needed to ask about the cabin.

  I took a couple calming breaths while I entered his number. My dad was a total Type A personality. A fast-talking, deal-making New York City businessman. My mother was the West Coast, bottle-blonde version of my father. I didn’t know where I fell on the ball-busting spectrum, only that when he got on me about something, it generally made me want to do the opposite.

  “You plan on writing while you’re there?” he asked when I told him of my plans. How I wished I had a job where my success wasn’t intrinsically linked to his.

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Better do more than think about it. Black Rook has been asking about your next mystery.”

  Black Rook was the imprint who published Cold Lake Chronicles. He’d said mystery, because that was all they were interested in acquiring.

  “I’m working on a memoir,” I said.

  My father’s discontent was made known to me by an exaggerated sigh. I imagined him in his seventh-story office in midtown Manhattan, looking down on the bustling city and bemoaning the son who wouldn’t follow his good advice when others paid through the nose for it.

  “You’re twenty-nine years old, Michael. What the hell is so interesting about your life?”

  “Not mine. It’s for a friend.”

  “You ghostwriting now? I thought we talked about this. That’s not going to build your readership. It’s all of the grunt work with none of the recognition.”

  “It’s not a paying gig. I’m in a drought, and I need something to inspire me. My friend has an interesting story. I’m willing to see where it goes.”

  “Listen, Michael, I know we’ve had some differences of opinion lately, but I hope this isn’t some kind of delayed teenage rebellion you’ve got going on here. I’m only trying to help you make a career out of your talent. It’s cutthroat out there with the rise of ‘Zon and the indies. You’re lucky we got you the advances that we did—”

  “I know, Dad, and I appreciate it.”

  “—and the longer you wait to publish your next novel, the more your readers will forget you ever existed. It’s all about timing, Michael. You have to strike while the iron is hot.”

  “I get it, Dad. Tell it to my muse.”

  Another noise of dissatisfaction. “There’s always a spot for you in the agency if you want to put writing aside for a while. Might be a steadier income until you sort out your next project.”

  Going to an office every day where my father was also my boss? Our relationship wouldn’t survive it.

  “Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it. For now, can I just use the cabin?”

  “Yeah. You know where the key’s at. Make sure it’s stocked when you leave.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Dad.”

  “If you want to come into the office and bounce some ideas of Bitzy and me, we’d be happy to steer you in the right direction. Hell, you could even try your mother.”

  It must be bad if my father was referring me to my mother for help.

  “All right. Maybe I will.”

  “And remember, you’ve got to put in the time. Bestsellers don’t write themselves.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks for the pep talk. Catch you later, Dad.”

  I ended the call, feeling more debilitated than inspired, then sat down in front of my computer and stared at the blank screen until the bees in my skull became an incessant drone.

  I needed another drink.

  6

  the muse

  Writer’s block is similar to what I’d imagine a blockage feels to the intestines—a clogging of the creative flow. A vile, bilious stoppage. And the longer it persists, the more toxic the system becomes.

  I was irritable. Obsessively cleaning my apartment didn’t help, neither did meeting friends for drinks. My pithy posts on social media only made me feel like more of a fraud. I couldn’t research because I had no idea what my next plot would entail, so I ended up following absurd, online rabbit trails only to surface, hours later, and wonder where the time had gone. Also, a lot of napping.

  I was floundering.

  I started reading The Old Man and the Sea, the book Arden had given me. About twenty-five pages in, I reached a truly moving passage and had to call him.

  “He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy.”

  “My father loved that part,” Arden said when I’d finished reciting it.

  “He read it?”

  “I read it to him, several times. It was his favorite. That and Moby Dick, which was a real bitch for me to get through, if I’m honest.”

  “Tales from the sea,” I mused.

  “It was the only thing that interested him. So, tell me, Michael, what does it mean to you?”

  “It seems like a necessary winnowing of priorities as one ages. Everything else falls away—desires, ambitions, conquests. It would seem that Santiago’s big adventures are behind him, and he’s content to bask in the twilight of his life, and yet, I know he means to go after a very big fish, thus seeking adventure again.”

  “Or adventure finds him, and he must rise to the occasion,” Arden said.

  “I’m jealous of Santiago and his simplicity. No bullshit, no posturing. Just him and his boat and the great fish. Was your father that way too?”

  “At sea, he was a very simple man. It centered him and gave him purpose. On land, though, he sometimes lost his mind.”

  “Was he an alcoholic?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’re a lot alike. Big on avoidance, short on communication.”

  I waited to see if Arden might elaborate, but he didn’t, so I continued, “I read somewhere that Hemmingway was working through his own insecurities as a novelist when he wrote The Old Man and the Sea, that he hadn't published a successful novel in over a decade, and he worried that people considered him washed up.”

  “I hope this isn’t eroding your confidence.”

  I chuckled. “I’m not there yet.”

  Almost, but not quite.

  “You’ll be fine, Michael. Your best work is still ahead of you. Everyone needs to take time to sharpen the saw.”

  “Thanks, Arden. I appreciate it. The book too.”

  We firmed up our plans for next week, and then I left him to read more about Santiago’s struggles with aging and infirmity, trying not to read too much into it.

  We left on a Monday and headed for the Adirondacks. Arden said he’d need to be back by Thursday evening. I didn’t ask why. On our four-hour drive to the mountains, Arden probed me a little more on my writer’s block, and I confessed to how paralyzed I felt whenever I sat
down to compose.

  “Would it help if you switched up your process?” Arden asked. “Use a pen and paper instead of a laptop. Or, instead of outlining, what if you just free-wrote? Or journaled.”

  “I haven’t kept a diary since I was a teenager.”

  “Why not?”

  “My boyfriend at the time found something I’d written. It hurt his feelings, and I felt really bad about it.”

  “He shouldn’t have been snooping. What did it say?”

  “It was a pro-con list for breaking up with him then or waiting until summer.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, not my proudest moment.”

  “So, then what? You just stopped journaling?”

  “Pretty much. I didn’t want to risk it again. And the boyfriend… well, he was also my roommate, and it’s impossible to hide anything from him.”

  “Do I know him?” Arden asked.

  “Franco. And, as a side note, it didn’t last until summer. He broke up with me.” That time, at least.

  “I did pick up on a vibe between you. On his end, at least.”

  “It’s been over for a long time. We had good chemistry, but he wasn’t very trustworthy.”

  “Was he your first?” Arden asked.

  “Yeah, he was,” I said with some bitter sweetness. It wasn’t unrequited, just messy. The silence was too heavy, so I decided to weigh Arden’s suggestion. “It’s probably not a bad idea, though, to try journaling again. I have this hang-up about wasting words. Like, if I’m not working on a novel or essay or something I can sell, then I’m dipping into my creative well for no purpose.”

  “Do you think your creativity is a finite supply?”

  “I worry sometimes that it is.”

  “But when you were writing Cold Lake Chronicles, you probably felt the same way. Yet, you kept coming up with these really twisty and amazing plots.”

  Twisty and amazing.

  “I felt a similar way when I graduated college,” I told him. “I had a degree. I had a job waiting for me at my dad’s literary agency, and yet, I resisted. That was when the muse started speaking to me, almost as a matter of survival, to keep me from following down a path that might have been less rewarding.”

  “Maybe this is your muse’s attempt to channel you again, and instead of resisting, you should just give in and go with it. Write whatever comes to mind, without worrying about whether it will turn into something you can sell. In every profession, there’s some amount of fucking off allowed.”

  “I’m not much of a risk-taker,” I admitted. “I think that’s why I write fiction. To get my thrills in a safe and structured manner.”

  Arden grinned, just a bit wicked. “We’re total opposites.”

  “You’d probably be good for me, then. Get me out of my comfort zone.”

  “Want to take some risks with me, Michael?” Arden said in a low, seductive voice.

  I studied his flirtatious expression, as much as my driving would allow. “What kinds of risks?”

  Arden shrugged and turned his gaze back to the road. “Beautiful country,” he remarked.

  “I’d like to take some risks with you,” I said in case it wasn’t already obvious.

  Arden hummed, which could mean anything. Or nothing.

  We unpacked our groceries first. Then I gave Arden a tour of the place. There were two bedrooms, both with beds, a shared living area, kitchen, and small dinette. The back porch looked out onto Sacandaga Lake, and there were several trails within walking distance.

  “We can go for a hike later this afternoon or tomorrow if you want,” I told him. “Whenever you’re ready for a break.”

  Arden got comfortable on the couch, lounging like a cat with his bare legs tangled up in a blanket. I sat at the nearby dinette. I watched his studious expression as he scribbled on a legal pad. He glanced up and caught me staring.

  “How does one begin a memoir?” he asked in all seriousness.

  “You said it was about your father, so it might be your first memory of him, as it relates to the narrative arc of your story. Some memoirs are about understanding yourself better or forgiving yourself for some past mistake. If it’s centered around another family member, it might be about accepting them as they are or having the strength to remove yourself from their influence. If I were to write one about my father, it might start with a scene that illustrates how I’ve always felt like I was living in his shadow, then the memoir might take the form of me struggling to gain my independence until I’m able to show the reader I can stand on my own, apart from him. Or, it could end with me realizing that I am nothing without my father and seeking his shadow with full knowledge that I will never escape it.”

  “Can you?” Arden asked. “Escape it?”

  I smiled. “To be determined.”

  Arden, now inspired, scribbled something on his notepad. “Are you close with your mother?” he asked.

  My relationship with my mother was complicated. She was born into an affluent New York family and married my father at a young age. She’d enjoyed her life as a socialite and admitted to me more than once that she’d never really wanted children. She did enjoy mingling with authors and movie industry types, and like my father, had a keen business sense, especially for discovering and selling women’s fiction. (The naming of the genre unnerved me, but that was a rant for another time.)

  I told Arden all of this, as well as her move to L.A. to open a West Coast division of the D’Agostino Literary Agency, which she managed to this day. They’d divorced a few years after her move and transitioned their romantic partnership into a business one. I’d visited my mother during summers for a while, but she remarried a man I didn’t much care for, which put a strain on our relationship. I also didn’t care for L.A. Too much sun and glamour. I much preferred New York, where people were rude to your face.

  “She’s always been more like a friend than a mother,” I told Arden. “I know she loves me, but I can’t say she’s all that interested in me.”

  “Sounds ripe for a memoir,” he said, and I laughed.

  “What’s your motivation for writing this?” I asked. I didn’t think it was to make money. “You said it was something your therapist suggested?”

  “I find myself circling back to my father a lot in our sessions—we were inseparable for most of my adolescent and teen years, and then later when I cared for him. She thought I might benefit from writing it all out, organizing my thoughts and emotions around him. He—” Arden broke off. “I was so angry at him in the end. It’s like we were both trapped in this burning house fire, and neither of us could leave. We could only smolder in our fury together.”

  “You were mad that he didn’t get treatment.”

  “So mad. I wanted him to fucking fight for his life. And he wouldn’t. Not even for me. And why? For a broken down, piece-of-shit boat? He always chose that fucking boat over me.”

  Arden’s brow wrinkled and his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a pissed-off teenager. It was a rare glimpse of the temper he tried very hard to control.

  “You could use this memoir as an opportunity to tell your side of things. You said he was captain and you were his first mate. There were probably a lot of emotions and impulses you had to stifle in order to preserve your relationship.”

  “Yeah, there were,” Arden said with a brooding look.

  “You said you only called him Captain?”

  “And he only ever called me Kid.”

  “Even as a child?”

  “I didn’t even know him until I was nine. It was at my mother’s funeral service. I was standing with my aunt when he came up to me and said, ‘You’re with me now, Kid. Pack a bag. It’s time you got your sea legs.’ Less than forty-eight hours later, I was sailing away from everything I’d ever known.”

  “That’s insane,” I said.

  “That’s nothing,” Arden said a little bitterly. “The man was confounding.”

  “You could try writing that mem
ory and see what emotions it stirs up. Build upon it throughout. Maybe it will bring you some closure. Or understanding, at least.”

  “That’s the goal. My therapist can only do so much. What are you working on?”

  I smiled. “You convinced me. I’m starting a diary.”

  We worked like that until the late afternoon. At one point, Arden was stretched out on the couch with his head propped up on pillows and his laptop resting on his abdomen, asleep. I watched the sunlight fall across his face and turn his eyelashes golden. He looked angelic—didn’t all beautiful boys have that ability to look utterly innocent at rest? Vulnerable too, as if he needed someone like me to care for him.

  I refreshed his glass of water without disturbing him. Upon waking, he looked around sheepishly, hair mussed, lost as a lamb. I gave a little nod and acted as though I’d not been fixated on him during the entirety of his slumber.

  We took a walk along Sacandaga Lake. Arden asked if it was my inspiration for the fictional body of water in Cold Lake Chronicles, and I confirmed it.

  “The city of White Mountain is based on Lake Placid, though. There aren’t any resort towns around here. I needed a place with a decent number of visitors to offer a little more variety.”

  “You’d have run out of people to murder,” he said.

  “Exactly.” I chuckled.

  I told Arden about fishing trips with my father on this very lake, and Arden told me more about his father’s—now his—sailboat. Tondaleo was the vessel’s name. Arden’s father had named it after a Polynesian princess. It was a forty-foot Schucker sailboat with a “huge ass” that seldom got above four knots per hour, which I gathered was slower than your average sailboat speed.

  “It’s going to cost more to fix it than what it’s actually worth,” Arden said gravely.

  “Where is it now?”

  “Tied up behind my aunt’s house. It’s something of an eyesore. She never fails to remind me when I talk to her.”

  “You feel like you owe it to your father to maintain it?” I asked.