In All Deep Places Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Part Two

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Part Three

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  A Novel

  IN ALL DEEP PLACES

  By Susan Meissner

  Dedication

  For Bob, who would follow me

  to the deep and back again

  if love required it

  Epigraph

  “Earth, I think, will not be found by anyone to be

  in the end a very distinct place.

  I think earth, if chosen instead of Heaven,

  will turn out to have been, all along,

  only a region in Hell:

  and earth, if put second to Heaven,

  to have been from the beginning

  a part of Heaven itself.”

  C.S. Lewis—The Great Divorce

  Whatever the LORD pleases He does —

  in heaven and in earth, in the seas and

  in all deep places.

  Psalm 135:6

  Part One

  One

  The young woman in green, silent and attentive, nevertheless spoiled Luke Foxbourne’s favorite speech as surely as if she had climbed atop the table where she sat and shouted the Gettysburg Address. Though she barely moved any part of her body and made no sound, she was Luke’s sole distraction all the same. He stammered through his folksy lecture entitled “Finding Your Writing Voice” like someone with a sudden case of stage fright, though he had given the speech to countless other audiences flawlessly. It wasn’t the dimmed lights, the clinking of dessert forks on china plates, or the occasional, obligatory cough from somewhere in the back of the ballroom that shattered his concentration. Every badly timed pause in his delivery was caused by the sight of the young woman seated off to his left, and he knew it.

  Luke’s eyes were drawn to her as if she were the only person there, though the dining room was filled to capacity. The elegantly attired, assembled members of the New England Mystery Writers Association seemed to collectively pity him as he stood there at the podium, alternately prefacing every other sentence with “um” or “ah.” His colleagues—some known to him and some not—blinked and nodded, leaning forward in their chairs as if this would aid him: him, the award-winning murder-mystery writer who surely must seem to have been stricken with sudden short-term memory loss.

  But Luke could not help it. The woman looked just like he imagined his character Eden Damaris looked, right down to the shape of her long, graceful fingers and the soft gray hue of her eyes. It was startling, to say the least, how much the young woman resembled the lady who lived only in his mind. The only apparent difference was that the woman in the green dress was most certainly not deaf.

  She leaned forward on an elbow and rested her left cheek in her hand. Her slender fingers were slightly curled as if in frozen caress, and her neck was delicately bent as she gave the weight of her head fully to her upheld arm. She seemed quite at ease; she gave him her full attention, turning her head only once during his bumpy oratory to listen to a whispered comment from the gentleman who sat next to her. Luke wondered as he fumbled if she was the writer or the guest. Had the man brought her to the annual banquet or was it the other way around? Was she the wife, girlfriend, or mistress of the man who leaned toward her and spoke into her ear? Was he saying something like, “Can you believe this guy has actually been on the New York Times bestseller list?” Or, “Thanks for coming tonight, darling. I know how boring this must be for you.” Or, “Promise me when you get rich and famous you won’t forget how to talk to people.”

  Luke forced his eyes away and sought the familiar, comfortable image of his wife, Téa, seated at a table just below the podium. She was leaning forward, too, on both elbows, her arms making a triangle over her nearly finished slice of chocolate cherry cheesecake. His own chair was next to hers—his napkin over the back of it—as was his untouched dessert. He had planned on eating it after he gave his speech. “Don’t let the waiter take it,” he had whispered to Téa twenty minutes earlier when he had stood to resounding applause. “Or my coffee cup.” He wasn’t sure now he would want to eat it after all.

  Téa’s eyes met his, sought his. She cocked her head and smiled at him. Her eyes said, “You’re doing great, honey.” He grinned in spite of himself at the absurdity of such a kind, silent—and clearly fallacious—message. And remarkably, grinning seemed to improve his overall delivery, at least the last five minutes of it.

  With effort, Luke kept his eyes off the woman in the green dress, staring instead at his notes, then at the clock at the back of the room, and then at the line of waiters waiting for their cue to retrieve the dessert plates. He felt the end of his speech coming and he relished it, finishing his remarks with the Françoise Sagan quote—“I shall live bad if I do not write and I shall write bad if I do not live”—that he had always thought made for a nice close. As the people in the room began to politely clap their hands, he murmured his thanks and grabbed his single page of notes. He willingly stole one last look at the woman in green. He wasn’t sure if he would ever see her again, and that thought oddly unnerved him.

  Taking one last glance he was aware of a ridiculous urge to run up to her and say, “Eden! What on earth are we going to do about Bowles?” He looked away again, quickly, forcefully, eyeing the steps that led off the stage. He silently scolded himself as he made his way to them. That woman is not Eden Damaris. Eden Damaris does not exist! Eden Damaris is a fictional deaf character employed by a fictional detective agency who lives in a fictional brownstone in New York with other fictional employees of the fictional Red Herring Detective Agency. Murder suspect Randolph Bowles is fictional too, for that matter!

  Then, in the midst of his silent reprimand, while he descended the three stairs to the ballroom floor, Luke had a revelation. It suddenly made sense why seeing this woman had unsettled him so. She was simply a vivid reminder he had hit a wall. Seeing the very personification of Eden Damaris had awkwardly reminded him of the one thing he daily tried to minimize: He was desperately behind schedule with his new book. The July 1 deadline loomed in front of him like an invitation to oral surgery without anesthesia.

  It was late May. He was stuck squarely in chapter ten—the halfway mark—and had been for three weeks. That was surely the reason.

  He took his chair next to Téa, who rewarded him—to his chagrin—with a motherly smile full of I’m-so-proud-of-you sentiment. The president of the association reappeared at the podium and began to thank Mr. Luke Foxbourne for his inspirational and timely message. Luke pushed his dessert plate away.

  The president’s closing comments fell about him unheard as he folded the page of notes and slipped it into Téa’s purse, on the floor in between their chairs.

  “It’s really yummy,” Téa whispered to him, motioning with her head to the slice of cheesecake resting atop an elaborate drizzle of dark chocolate.

  Luke shrugged. “Guess I’m not hungry for it after all,” he whispered back.

  More app
lause followed as the president wished everyone a safe journey home as well as a year of unmatched creativity and success. The applause died away and was replaced with dozens of conversations as people rose from their chairs and began to chat with those near them.

  The other officers of the association, who had shared the dinner table with Luke and Téa rose too, and began to thank him for speaking.

  “It was my pleasure,” he lied. Well, actually, accepting the invitation to speak at the banquet had been pleasurable. Practicing his favorite speech the past week had been pleasurable. The lamb in mint sauce had been pleasurable. The first few seconds of delivering his favorite speech had been pleasurable. Then he had seen the alarming apparition and pleasure had gone out the window.

  Time to go.

  “It was very kind of you to ask me,” Luke said to a board member of the association as he reached for Téa’s arm. It was the move of a man about to escort his date to the door, to the car, to home.

  “Lovely to see you again, Téa!” one of the wives was saying.

  “Yes, it was. Hope to see you again soon!” Téa replied even as Luke began to propel her away.

  “You have another pressing engagement?” she said under her breath, but maintaining a smile as she placed the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

  “I just want to go home,” he replied, smiling also and moving her forward.

  But Luke was stopped every few seconds as they made their way to the doors by fans, well-wishers, and hopeful agents who handed him their business cards.

  He spent several minutes in polite but strained conversations, answering questions, accepting praise, and offering advice.

  Then he was aware that the image of Eden Damaris was just a few yards away. He had caught a glimmer of green as he listened to the woes of the unpublished man in front of him. He looked toward the flash of emerald and there she was, in conversation just like he was—but she was laughing and enjoying herself. She was explaining or describing something to the little cluster of people she was near, and her hands were a part of her story as they moved to the beat of her voice. He could not hear what she was saying but he was transfixed nonetheless. Those hands he knew so well mesmerized him: They were the same hands Eden Damaris used to give meaning to her thoughts. Those were the hands Eden used to speak to the other characters in his books. The ones she used to speak to him.

  “I said, do you think I should send a registered letter telling them I’m withdrawing my manuscript?” the man was saying.

  Téa nudged him. Apparently the man had asked this once already.

  “Yes… yes, by all means,” Luke said. “Six months is a long time to wait. If they were really interested I think you would have at least had some kind of response.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m thinking. You know, they haven’t answered one e-mail from me since that first one. Not one.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said, trying to pull his eyes away from the ballet of hands. A man stepped in front of the woman in green, obscuring his vision, making it easier. “Not a good sign. I think I would look for another agent.”

  “Well, I think I just might. You know, I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Nice to have chatted with you,” Luke said absently, wanting more than ever to get home. He started to move away.

  “Good luck to you,” Téa said to the man as she followed, and Luke winced. That was usually his line. He knew what it was like to feel like a writer, to have already written a complete manuscript and be unable to find anyone in the industry willing to read it. He had told Téa once he would always give whatever encouragement he could to undiscovered writers.

  Definitely time to go.

  Luke wove his way through the crowd, avoiding eye contact, especially with people he knew. He and Téa emerged from the ballroom, and he led her down the carpeted steps to the hotel’s glistening lobby. He walked over to the valet parking counter and handed the man his receipt.

  “Let’s wait outside for the car,” he said to Téa as he walked back to her. She took her shawl off her arm and draped it across her shoulders, saying nothing.

  They stepped outside. The late May sunshine had given way to a warm, starry night with only a slight chill in the air. Luke wrapped his arm around Téa’s waist as they waited, and he felt her snuggle into his one-armed embrace.

  At least I’ve managed to do one thing right tonight, he thought, grateful he had suddenly considered Téa might be cold standing there next to him.

  The silver Jaguar he had bought three years ago—when he finally came to terms with being a rich man—appeared at the curb, and a smiling young driver hopped out, beaming like he had the best job in the world.

  “Thanks,” Luke said, handing the young man a ten-dollar bill and then helping his wife get in. He walked quickly over to the driver’s side and slid in.

  Neither one said anything as he negotiated the heavy downtown Boston traffic. When they were at cruising speed on the freeway, headed home toward Connecticut, Téa spoke.

  “So, you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Luke thought for a moment. Did he? He wasn’t entirely sure he knew. He decided he would just mention the result, not the cause.

  “That was the lousiest speech I have ever given,” he said.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Téa said, laughing just a little.

  “It was still the lousiest speech I’ve ever given. You know it was.

  She slid her hand over to his knee and rubbed it gently. “Maybe you’re just getting bored with that one. Maybe it’s time to come up with something new.”

  “People like that one,” Luke replied, not really knowing why he was defending his speech. It almost seemed like he was lying to her. Keeping something from her.

  “Yes, they do, but maybe you don’t like it anymore. Maybe you need a fresh topic to work with.”

  Luke sighed and reached down to hold his wife’s hand as it rested on his knee. He had given Eden Damaris his wife’s hands. They were delicate, small-boned, and artistically beautiful. They were the first thing he had noticed about Téa when he saw her playing the violin at his college roommate’s wedding reception at Cape Cod nine years ago. He was not dating anyone at the time and had instead been engrossed in the wonder of having the first book published in his Red Herring Detective Agency series. Téa had been sitting in a half-circle of unbelievable talent; one-fifth of a string quintet all dressed in black velvet. It was her instrument that seemed to sing above all the others. She had told him later that it was because she had the melody line. But he never did think that was the reason. Luke didn’t know enough about classical music then to know what tunes the quintet was playing. He only knew he was fascinated by the golden-haired violinist with the amazing hands, because everything she played seemed to be the music of heaven itself. He hovered nearby, waiting for the musicians to take a break, waiting to speak to her. Within minutes of introducing himself he found himself asking her for a date.

  She was hesitant to accept an invitation to dinner, first telling him she was too busy and then making it seem like her responsibilities with the Boston Philharmonic were too difficult to work around. But Luke had persisted, and he’d taken her to dinner the next week and the week after that and the week after that. By autumn, they were seeing each other exclusively, and his first book, Slight Imperfections, had found a place on the New York Times bestseller list. Six months later, on a breezy day in June 1997, they married and set up housekeeping in an apartment just outside of Boston. After the release of his second book, which hit the Times bestseller list in its fourth week, they bought a fashionable town-house. A year later, when the third one hit the list in its first week, Luke and Téa moved with their then infant daughter, Noelle, to a beautifully restored manor home in rural Connecticut. Téa began giving violin lessons to keep her fingers limber and to have something to do, but Luke’s royalties soon elevated them to a financial state neither one had dreamed possible. Then a year after Noelle was b
orn, Téa gave birth to another daughter, Marissa.

  Book four, published last year, earned him the celebrated title of Mystery Writer of the Year and his first contract for screenplay rights. It was book five that awaited him, unfinished, at home.

  He’d never stumbled onto a writer’s block before and was daily surprised that he was masterfully unskilled at how to maneuver past it. Or jackhammer his way through it. Or scale it with grace. His characters had always driven the story, not him. They controlled it. It was a quirky arrangement with his characters he had never been able to adequately explain at writer’s conferences and workshops. Aaron Spaulding, the afflicted owner of the Red Herring Detective Agency and also the main character, usually directed the plot, “telling” Luke where to go with the story, followed by Eden, both speaking to him without words. He usually wrote as the ideas flowed out of the characters’ encounters with each other. He had always felt like a spectator, narrating the actions as they took place. He had always been comfortable not knowing how the story was going to end until he got there, because his characters always came through for him.

  But those imaginary people had seemed to fall silent three weeks ago for no apparent reason. It had been wildly frustrating. He now inwardly smirked at the thought of Eden Damaris, the deaf woman who does not speak, falling silent.

  Eden actually wasn’t a character in his first novel, though she’d appeared in every one after that. Luke rewrote much of Dinner with Enemies, his second book, just after his honeymoon and only weeks before deadline, after his editor told him his fictional agency needed a strong female character. He fashioned Eden to have Téa’s beautiful hands, but the resemblance stopped there. The rest of Eden’s persona—though he had never confessed this to his wife—was crafted from the enigmatic pull of a peculiar girl from his childhood named Norah—the first girl he’d ever kissed. Luke had given Eden honey-blonde hair and pewter-gray eyes like Norah’s, and he layered Eden’s character with Norah’s uncanny intuition into human character.