meandering back into the den with her tea. Bad things came in threes.
What’s next? she wondered, plopping down on the couch and absentmindedly pulling out the knob on the TV. As the old television sprang to life, Pandy gathered the afghan around her and wished she could go back to sleep.
Forever. She yawned as her eyes slid toward the screen…
And once again, she was wide awake. And here came bad thing number three:
She was dead.
For there, on the screen of the old black-and-white TV, was that old black-and-white author photograph of her from ten years ago, when—she realized with a start—she had been so much younger.
“PJ Wallis, a longtime Connecticut resident, has died at her home in Wallis,” said the announcer; the same announcer Pandy recognized from when she was a child. “She was known to many as the creator of the popular character Monica. She was forty-six years old—”
“Forty-five!” Pandy shouted automatically.
And then her image was gone, replaced by a package of Depends.
“That did not just happen,” Pandy said aloud.
She stood up, uncertain about what to do. Surely, what she’d just seen had to be a mistake. Otherwise, Henry would have called.
Or would he? As she went into the mudroom to pick up the receiver, she remembered that the TV only got the local station. Apparently that nice fireman had filed his report, but perhaps the news hadn’t spread. Henry likely didn’t know she’d been declared dead.
She dialed Henry’s number. He answered with his usual drawling “Hellooooo?”
“Hello?” she demanded. “Have you noticed that I am dead?”
“Now why on earth should something that convenient happen to you?” Henry asked. “I saw a tweet from Publisher’s Daily that the author PJ Wallis has been reported dead by her sister, Hellenor…”
“And?” Pandy continued.
“That was it. Since we both know that Hellenor is in Amsterdam, I could only conclude this particular ‘Hellenor Wallis’ was actually PJ Wallis playing dead.”
“And why would I do that?” Pandy asked archly.
“To remind me of how wonderful you are, and how terrible it would be if you really had died.”
Pandy laughed. And then she remembered the boathouse. “Actually, Henry, there is a tragedy. The boathouse. It was struck by lightning, and now it’s burned to the ground. I know how much you loved that boathouse. Remember that scene in The Philadelphia Story?”
“That’s one of your favorite movies, not mine. In any case, the boathouse doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you, my dear, are alive.” Henry gave a low chuckle. “Although I can’t say your publishers feel the same.”
“What do you mean?” Pandy’s eyes narrowed.
Henry cleared his throat. “Based on their reactions, it’s rather a shame you’re not dead. Your demise seems to have caused a small stir. One actually called at seven this morning to discuss it. Of course, he expressed his condolences. But he also pointed out how good it would be for your sales.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t see the need to get into the details about Hellenor’s likely identity. I simply said that I’d get back to him when I found out more about the accident. It won’t hurt him to think you’re dead for a few hours.”
“You’re such a sneak,” Pandy said admiringly. “Of course my death would be good for my sales.”
“Now, darling. Don’t get too excited. You’re not actually dead—yet.”
“It’s almost a shame I’m not,” she said, reminded of Jonny. She glanced in the mirror and sighed. She seemed to have aged two decades overnight. She was literally gray. Her skin was still smeared with soot, and her hair—her hair—
She turned quickly away from the glass. She had worse things to worry about than her hair. “I need money, Henry. And fast.”
“You have money.”
“No, I do not. I need money desperately.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Henry.” She grimaced at the mirror and noticed that her teeth were also sooty. She sighed. She was going to have to tell Henry the truth: She hadn’t made Jonny sign a prenup, and Jonny had lost all the money she’d given him in a bad restaurant deal.
Henry would be furious. And it would turn out that he would have been right about Jonny all along.
“Pandy?” Henry coaxed.
“It’s just…” Pandy took another look in the mirror and noticed her charred bra strap was showing through where her T-shirt had torn. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here, okay? And can you please bring up my clothes? I can’t fit into my old ones, and the clothes I’m wearing have been literally turned to