Read Online Misery Loves Company by Rene Gutteridge - Free Book Online Page A

asked suddenly, as he finished his own bowl.
    “About what?”
    “About Jason’s death remaining unavenged.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “They never caught the men who shot him, did they?” He wiped his mouth. “It was in the newspapers for a while. Then it went away. Everyone sort of forgot, didn’t they? Life goes on all around you, but you can’t seem to go on.”
    “You don’t know anything about me.” She threw her napkin on the table and scooted her chair back.
    “I know more than you think.”
    “Good for you.” Tears dripped down her face. “So if you’ve set out to freak me out of my everlasting mind, you . . . well, congratulations.” His face filled with an expression that seemed to indicate not surprise at her tirade, but something else. “What do you want from me?”
    “You’ve got it all wrong, Juliet. It’s what you want from me.” His voice would have been soothing and calming in any other circumstance.
    “What I want is home. To go there. Now.”
    He nodded. “Of course you do. That’s where you believe your life is. Don’t you think I understand that?”
    She noticed the fingers of his right hand twisting the wedding band he wore. His wife had died three years ago, according to the papers.
    “You don’t think people will be looking for me?”
    “People? Who would that be? With whom do you still associate?”
    “My father.” She sniffled away the rest of her emotion. “He will look for me.”
    “Is he the one who drinks so heavily?” He paused, smiled mildly. “I’m good at reading between the lines.”
    Jules sighed a loud exasperation. “So you have me. Now what are you going to do with me?”
    “That is the trouble with this younger generation. No patience.”
    “No. The trouble here is that you’ve kidnapped me. Against my will.”
    “This is what you want. Trust me.”
    “Did you read that between the lines too? Somewhere in the middle of my post about the history of our lighthouses?”
    He regarded her a moment, then stood and carried his bowl to the sink. Normally she would do the same, even as a guest, but she refused and let her bowl just sit there. He rinsed his and washed it thoroughly by hand. As he dried it, he turned to face her. “You can’t be that ignorant, to believe that there are not layers to what you write, what we all write. I remember you wrote on your blog about all the meanings one single scene had for you in . . . Die Gently , I believe.”
    Jules threw her hands up. “Awesome. Maybe later we can gather the two of us and have a book club.”
    “You’re not as well-spoken as I’d imagined.”
    Now more angry than scared, she glared at him. “The fact that you’ve been imagining me at all is creepy.”
    Suddenly he looked wounded. Or confused. Something flickered across his face but she couldn’t capture it fast enough. “I see.”
    She bit her lip. If she was going to get out of here, she needed to think   —and speak   —more wisely.
    “Sorry,” she offered. “I guess I’m just kind of wound up at the sheer . . . weirdness of it all. I mean, not everyone can say they’ve been kidnapped by their favorite author.”
    “You don’t have to placate me.”
    “I’m not. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, even your short stories from your early years. I wait all year long for your next book. You’re a terrific writer. One of the best. But you already know how I feel.”
    “Hmm.”
    “I just don’t know what I’m doing here.” Tears stung her eyes again. As normal as she wanted to sound, none of this was normal.
    He blinked slowly, as if he were sleepy or bored or following distant thoughts.
    “Why don’t you pick a book.” He pointed to his collection.
    Jules gazed at the walls. There had to be thousands of books there.
    She didn’t really feel like picking a book, but his mood had shifted and she was starting to feel less bold and more scared again. She pretended to gaze at