Professional Documents
Culture Documents
If She Were Dead Smith J.P full chapter instant download
If She Were Dead Smith J.P full chapter instant download
P
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/if-she-were-dead-smith-j-p/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...
If We Were Us K. L. Walther
https://ebookmass.com/product/if-we-were-us-k-l-walther/
https://ebookmass.com/product/if-we-were-us-1st-edition-k-l-
walther/
https://ebookmass.com/product/if-we-were-kin-race-identification-
and-intimate-political-appeals-lisa-beard/
https://ebookmass.com/product/wish-you-were-dead-quick-
reads-2021-a-quick-reads-short-story-featuring-detective-
superintendent-roy-grace-peter-james-james/
She Too Eve Thomson
https://ebookmass.com/product/she-too-eve-thomson/
https://ebookmass.com/product/where-she-went-kelly-simmons/
https://ebookmass.com/product/the-family-she-never-met-caridad-
pineiro-2/
https://ebookmass.com/product/advances-in-heat-transfer-52-1st-
edition-j-p-abraham/
https://ebookmass.com/product/after-we-were-stolen-beyfuss/
Also by J.P. Smith
The Drowning
Airtight
Breathless
The Discovery of Light
The Blue Hour
Body and Soul
The Man from Marseille
Thank you for downloading
this Sourcebooks eBook!
Happy reading!
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Two
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Three
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part Four
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Part Five
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
The interview had been arranged for four, less than an hour away,
and the moment she got in the car she remembered it. She
tightened her lips and said Oh shit and drove out of the parking area
and onto the highway. She was sorry she hadn’t arranged it for the
next morning, or even canceled it altogether. She tried to recall the
voice on the phone, the way the interviewer asked for directions.
She lived in the city, the woman from the newspaper said. “I’ll take
the highway up.”
Amelie described her home, an old farmhouse set on a rise off the
road, the low stone pillars that stood on either side of the entrance,
a red mailbox that, like her, had seen better days. She said that her
car would be in the driveway, a dark-blue Volvo. This was the house
she and Richard had taken so much trouble to find, to renovate, to
enjoy. She wondered if it needed to be cleaned, if she should haul
out the vacuum and run it over the wide pine floors, or if she should
give a quick dusting to the tables and lamps, even though the
cleaning woman had been there two days earlier. She knew it didn’t
matter, that no interviewer had ever passed judgment on how she
lived, the imagined squalor of her living room.
She turned on the radio and opened the window. A driver in the
next lane turned to look at her. His little mustache rose in a smile,
and she looked at him through dark glasses and eased her foot
slightly off the accelerator. She watched as he pulled ahead, his head
tilting to catch her image in the narrow slit of his rearview mirror.
She turned up the volume on the radio: a woman was singing in
German while an oboe twisted its melody into hers. It was obviously
something by Bach, from a cantata probably, a piece that her
mother would certainly have been able to identify. She tapped her
fingers lightly against the steering wheel, for there was something
comforting in the rhythm, the mathematical regularity of the
pizzicato behind the woman’s yearning voice, as though each beat
were a step higher on some celestial staircase.
It was three thirty when she arrived home. She opened the
refrigerator and put her finger to her lips. She would have to offer
the interviewer something, and because it was warm and they could
sit out on the deck under the umbrella, she wondered if she should
make a pitcher of instant iced tea. She herself would have preferred
a dry martini, but that could wait. The last time she had made drinks
for an interview, the writer had mentioned in the article her subject’s
evident lust for alcohol, and both her agent and her publicist had
called her, gently suggesting she stick to a more neutral beverage in
future.
She walked quickly upstairs and changed into a skirt and blouse.
She stood before her mirror and pulled a brush through her hair. She
put on a different pair of earrings; she took her sandals from the
closet and slipped them on. She went into the bathroom and
brushed her teeth and then took some mouthwash directly from the
bottle and spit it into the sink.
She smoothed the covers on her bed and banged at her pillow until
it no longer showed the imprint of her head. She wondered if she
would have to give the interviewer a tour of the house, or if when
she excused herself to use the toilet the journalist would bolt up the
stairs and take a look for herself, rifling through her medicine
cabinet, discovering her pink vibrator in a drawer by her bed.
On her bedside table were stacked a biography, a novel, and the
latest New Yorker, sitting next to a lamp and a clock radio. The
drawer was slightly open and she nudged it shut. Over the bed was
nothing but the shadow of what had once hung there, a framed
exhibition poster so beloved by her ex-husband that when he left,
she insisted he take it with him. She still hadn’t found something to
replace it. She wondered if it now hung over his and his wife’s bed.
On the dresser stood a framed photograph of her daughter, Nina,
taken in September when she’d started college at Wellesley. Her
eyes glowed with pride and excitement and terror. Behind her were
other students with their families, arms around shoulders, scenes of
farewell. Amelie and Richard had together driven Nina there, and
she remembered the day as having passed without incident.
Without incident: it was in just those terms that she recalled it, as
if she were referring to some zone of mayhem in the Middle East, a
place of terror and spiritual malaise, where peace, when it came,
shimmered into uneasy stalemate. Afterward, after they’d seen Nina
into her room at the college and made small talk with her
roommate’s parents, after they’d fussed with her and kissed and
hugged her, the two of them stopped for lunch at a restaurant in
town, instantly ordering drinks, saying nothing of substance for the
entire hour, as if, were they to trespass on a subject of depth, small
wars or skirmishes might break out.
Since Amelie and Richard had split up she’d added little to the
house. It had been difficult enough when her mother had died and
Amelie had emptied her Scarsdale home of china and chipped candy
dishes and paintings. They still remained in boxes in the cellar, and
they would stay there for years, decades, centuries. It didn’t matter
because she would never unpack them to reconstruct the suburban
Westchester house in which she had been raised. Every time she
descended to the bowels of her home she would see them jutting
out of their chardonnay and merlot boxes, brief reminders of the
dead and gone, silent reproaches for her having overlooked
them. The pity of it was that none of it represented what her mother
had been: once a respected concert pianist, in later years a beloved
teacher and lecturer at Juilliard. Nothing that defined her remained:
the filing cabinets full of sheet music now long gone; a baby grand
Steinway sold a few weeks after her death to a private school in
Connecticut.
At rare moments the thought of her mother’s death would return
to her in unexpected ways. She thought of the half-light of the
landing as her mother walked up the stairs, her knuckles white
against the dark wood of the banister as she stopped to catch her
breath three steps from the top.
Amelie walked into the living room and looked at her watch and
then out the window. Now it was ten past four. She hoped it
wouldn’t last long, not that she minded being interviewed—in fact,
she adored publicity. It was like being bathed in the glances of
others or caught in the intersection of a thousand conversations. She
enjoyed being photographed. She liked the snick of the camera, the
intrusion of the lens into her wistful smile, her blue eyes. She
thought ahead three hours, projecting herself into the future, trying
to see herself at that moment, lifting the phone, pressing in the
numbers, letting it ring once. Then she would hang up. Then she
would wait. Then she would pick up the phone and try the number
again. Then he would pick it up. This is how it went.
A routine that had so far lasted two years.
3