Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He’d stared at her, the blue eyes she’d found so captivating on Friday night now icy and hard. “Fine,” he’d said, picking up his own Coach briefcase—black leather—and Burberry trench, also black.

  Then they’d walked to the elevator, ridden the fifty-three stories down to the lobby in silence, and stepped out into the brisk Manhattan morning. Alex had asked the doorman to hail them separate cabs, even though his law office was just two blocks from the publishing house where she was an editor.

  The doorman had blown his whistle and immediately flagged a passing cab. Alex stuffed some bills into his hand, then leaned over to again narrow that ice-blue gaze at Liza as she settled into the back seat.

  “West Fortieth at Sixth,” she’d said to the driver. Then, to Alex, “Call me.”

  “Right,” he’d replied, and she knew he wouldn’t.

  She’d shrugged as the cab pulled away from the curb. So he’d expected more out of their little tryst than she had. He’d get over it.

  She hesitates on the street in front of her office building, trying to talk herself into taking the subway. But it will mean walking the two and a half blocks to the station near the library on Forty-second Street. Then she’ll have to take the Seven train one stop to Grand Central and wait for the uptown local. That will take forever.

  She shakes her head decisively and checks the Movado on her left wrist. Six-fifteen. If she goes back upstairs and works until seven-thirty, she can take a company car home. The publishing house pays her peanuts and doesn’t offer many perks besides free car service for employees who work late. But it’s the least they can do. After all, most of the editors are females, and Manhattan’s streets are increasingly dangerous after dark.

  Liza walks briskly back into the lobby.

  Carmine, the night guard, looks her over appreciatively, as he always does. At least this time, he doesn’t tell her how much she resembles Sharon Stone, or ask her if she’s ever considered becoming an actress.

  “Forget something?” he asks, his eyes on her breasts even though she is bundled into her trench coat.

  “Yes,” she replies shortly, walking past him toward the elevator bank, conscious of the hollow, tapping noise her heels make on the tile floor.

  An elevator is just arriving, and she steps aside to let the full load of passengers step off.

  “Liza, what’s up? I thought you’d left,” says a petite brunette, emerging from the crowd.

  Liza vaguely recognizes her as one of the new editorial assistants who started right before Christmas. The girl is one of those bubbly, fresh-from-the-ivy-league types. The kind who can afford to take an entry level job in publishing because her rich daddy pays the rent on her Upper East Side studio.

  “I have to go back up. I forgot something,” Liza tells her briefly.

  “Oh, well, have a good night. See you tomorrow,” the girl says cheerfully, fastening the top button of her soft wool coat.

  Liza recognizes the expensive lines, rich coral color, and ornate gold buttons. She’d reached for that coat in Saks a few months ago. The price tag was over a thousand dollars.

  She’d put it back.

  “See you,” she echoes, and strides onto the elevator. She rides alone up to the sixth floor and steps into the deserted reception area of Xavier House, Ltd.

  She fishes in her pocket for her card key and flashes it in front of the electronic panel beside the double glass doors behind the receptionist’s desk. There is a click, and she pushes the door open.

  Liza walks swiftly down the dimly lit hall, past a janitor’s cart parked in front of one of the offices. She can hear a cleaning lady running a vacuum in another part of the floor. She turns a corner and heads down the short corridor toward her own office. The other editors who share this area are either long gone or behind closed doors, probably catching up on manuscript reading after taking the holidays off.

  Liza unlocks the door marked LIZA DANNING and steps inside. She slips her coat over the hanger waiting on a hook behind the door, then smooths her cashmere sweater and sighs. She isn’t in the mood for reading, although she should try to make a dent in the pile of manuscripts that sit waiting on her credenza.

  You could open the mail, she tells herself, glancing at the stack in her IN box. She hadn’t gotten to it today. Or Friday either, for that matter.

  She sits at her desk and reaches for the first manila envelope, slitting the flap with the jewel-handled letter opener that had been a gift from Douglas. Or was it Reed? She can’t remember anymore. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s long gone, whoever he was. Like the others.

  She removes a sheaf of papers from the envelope and scans the top sheet. It’s a painstaking cover letter, composed on an ancient typewriter whose vowels are filled in with smudges. Some anxious would-be writer, a Midwestern housewife, describes the enclosed first chapter and outline of a historical romance novel about a pirate hero and an Indian princess heroine. The woman has spelled desire d-e-z-i-r-e.

  Liza tosses the letter into the wastepaper basket and reaches into her top drawer for the packet of pre-printed rejections letters she keeps there. She removes one and slips it under the paper clip holding the partial manuscript together. She tucks the whole stack into the self-addressed stamped envelope the woman has included, seals it, and tosses it into her OUT basket. Then she reaches for the next envelope.

  Fifteen minutes later, the stack in her IN box has dwindled and her OUT basket is overflowing. She has worked her way through all the large packages and is now starting on the letters in their white legal-sized envelopes.

  She glances idly at the return address on this first one.

  What she sees makes her sit up and do a double take.

  D.M. Yates, P.O. Box 57, Tide Island MA.

  D.M. Yates—David Mitchell Yates, reclusive best-selling author? She recalls that the man has a home on some New England coastal island.

  Liza grabs the letter opener and hurriedly slits the envelope open. She unfolds the single sheet of creamy white stationery and notices that a train ticket is attached to the top with a paper clip. Amtrak. Penn Station to Westwood, Rhode Island. First Class.

  Intrigued, she skips past the formal heading to the body of the letter.

  Dear Ms. Danning:

  As you may or may not be aware, I am the author of several best-selling spy novels released by Best & Rawson, a New York City publishing house, over the past ten years. Since my editor, Henry Malcolm, retired last month, I have been searching for a new home for my novels. Would you be interested in meeting with me to discuss the possibilities of a deal with Xavier House, Ltd.? I have enclosed a round-trip train ticket to Westwood, Rhode Island, for the second weekend in February. You will be met by a limousine that will transport you to the dock in Crosswinds Bay, where you will board the ferry to Tide Island. I have arranged for you to stay at the Bramble Rose Inn. I will, of course, pay all expenses for your journey. I will be traveling abroad for the next several weeks. To confirm, please contact the innkeeper, Jasper Hammel, at (508) 555-1493. It is imperative that you keep this meeting confidential. I’ll look forward to meeting with you.

  Sincerely,

  David Michael Yates

  Liza is electrified.

  David Michael Yates.

  The man is gold.

  He’s also an eccentric recluse whose face has reportedly never been seen by the world at large. The jackets of his books bear no photograph; not even a biography. Over the years, it has been rumored that David Michael Yates is actually a pseudonym for a high-ranking government official; that he’s really a woman; that he had his face blown off in Vietnam.

  Just last week, the cover story in Publishers Weekly chronicled the retirement of Yates’s longtime editor and the bitter contract battle that resulted in the severed deal between the author and Best & Rawson. According to the article, Yates was about to depart for Europe to research his newest novel and hadn’t yet decided upon a publisher, although several of the most pre
stigious houses were courting him.

  How on earth did he decide to approach me, of all people? Liza wonders.

  True, she’s been getting some PW press herself lately. She recently put together a well-publicized nonfiction deal with an elusive, scandal-ridden senator for a tell-all book. Of course, the powers-that-be at Xavier aren’t aware of just how Liza had managed to persuade the man. And she’ll never tell.

  Eagerly, she reaches for the phone and begins to dial the number for the Bramble Rose Inn.

  Jennie Towne hears blasting music—an old Springsteen song—the moment she steps into the first-floor vestibule of the restored Back Bay town house. She rolls her eyes and hurries toward the closed white-painted door ahead, which bears a nailed-on, dark green 1.

  She transfers the stack of mail from her right hand to her left, then fits her key into the lock and turns it. It sticks a little, as always, and she tugs.

  Finally the door opens, and she steps into the apartment. She stomps her snowy boots on the rug and deposits the mail on the small piecrust table that once sat beside her grandparents’ front door in the old house in Quincy.

  “Laura?” she calls, walking straight to the stereo on the wall unit across the living room. She lowers the volume to practically nothing and promptly hears a disgruntled “Hey!” from the other room.

  “It was too loud,” she tells her sister, who appears in the doorway within seconds.

  “Oh, please.” Laura tosses her head. Her ultra-short cap of glossy black hair doesn’t even stir.

  “Come on, Laura, do you want Mrs. Willensky down here again, threatening to call the landlord?”

  Laura shrugs. She says, “Keegan called.”

  “What did he want?” Jennie looks up from tugging off her boots.

  “What do you think? To talk to you. He said he’d tried you at the shop but you’d already left. He wants you to call him. He’s on the overnight shift and he’s leaving for the precinct at six-thirty.”

  Jennie just nods.

  “You going to call him back?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on, Jen, cut the guy a break. He sounded so pathetic. I mean, he didn’t say anything specific, but I could tell the guy’s going crazy without you.”

  She tries to ignore the pang that jabs into her at the thought of Keegan hurting. “Laura, I can’t. I have to make a clean break. Otherwise we’ll keep going back and forth forever.”

  “I see what you mean,” her sister says dryly, folding her arms and fixing Jennie with a steady look. “You love him; he loves you; you both love kids and dogs and the Red Sox and antiques and the ocean. . . . It’ll never work.”

  “Laura—”

  “I mean, Jen, I know what your problem is, and you have to get over it. It’s been three years since—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” Jennie effectively cuts her off, fixing her with a resolute stare.

  Laura sighs and transfers her gaze to the stack of mail Jennie dumped on the table by the door. “Anything good come for me?” she asks hopefully. “Like an airmail letter?”

  Her new boyfriend, Shawn, is spending a month in Japan on business. She’s been moping ever since he left right after New Year’s.

  Jennie shrugs. “I didn’t look.”

  She unbuttons her winter coat and hangs it in the closet while Laura flips through the stack of mail.

  “Bill, bill, bill, b—hey, what’s this?” she hears her sister say.

  She glances up. Laura’s holding an oblong white envelope.

  “A letter from Shawn?” Jennie asks, running a hand over her own shiny black hair, exactly the same shade and texture as Laura’s, except that hers hangs well past her shoulders. And right now, it’s full of static, annoying her.

  I should just get it chopped off, like Laura did, she tells herself, even as she hears Keegan’s voice echoing inside her head. I love your hair long, Jen. Don’t ever cut it.

  “No, this isn’t from Shawn. The return address is a post office box on Tide Island,” Laura is saying with a frown. “I don’t know anyone there.”

  “Well, open it.”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  Jennie knows what she’s thinking. Laura’s ex-husband, Brian, pursued her relentlessly after their marriage ended last spring. Her sister had finally been forced to get a restraining order against him. He’d dropped out of sight right after that, presumably returning to Cape Cod, where his parents still live.

  Jennie’s aware that her sister is still afraid he’ll resurface and start bothering her again. Brian is a deceptively mild-mannered guy; but when he’s drunk, he’s a monster. Jennie witnessed his violent, alcohol-induced temper on more than one occasion and had suspected he was abusing Laura long before her sister ever admitted it.

  “Don’t worry,” she tells Laura now, watching her carefully. “It’s probably just some travel brochure, or a charity asking for money. And if it’s not—if it is from Brian—you can take it straight to the police.”

  “I know.” Laura, her face taut, opens the envelope carefully and withdraws a sheet of white paper.

  Jennie watches her sister’s features, identical to her own except for a small scar by her left eye—courtesy of her ex-husband—gradually relax over the next few seconds.

  “What? What is it?” she asks, hurrying across the room and peering over Laura’s shoulder at the letter.

  “I can’t believe it. I mean, I never win anything,” Laura says, handing her the letter. “Read this.”

  Jennie takes it, noticing that the stationery is heavy and expensive. There is a delicate pen-and-ink drawing of a charming house on the top. The imprint on the stationery reads Bramble Rose Inn, Box 57, Tide Island MA. Jennie scans the bold type.

  Dear Ms. Towne:

  It is our pleasure to inform you that you have won the grand prize in the annual New England Children’s Leukemia Society fund-raising sweepstakes. You are hereby entitled to an all-expenses-paid solo visit to Tide Island on the second weekend in February. The prize includes three-nights, four-days deluxe accommodations at the Bramble Rose Inn, all meals, and round-trip transportation on the Crosswinds Bay ferry. Please confirm with me at (508) 555-1493, upon receipt of this letter.

  Sincerely,

  Jasper Hammel

  Innkeeper

  Jennie lowers the letter and looks at Laura. “This sounds pretty good,” she says cautiously.

  “It would be, if it were any other weekend. Shawn’s coming home that Saturday in time for Valentine’s Day. I already arranged my hours at work so that I could take off and be with him. I can’t go.”

  “Maybe you can switch to another weekend,” Jennie suggests. “Then you and Shawn can both go.”

  Laura shakes her head. “See that small print on the bottom? It says this offer is only good for that particular weekend. And I remember buying the sweepstakes ticket right before Christmas. The man who sold it to me said the prize was for one person, no guests. Sort of a pamper-yourself, get-away-from-it-all thing.”

  “I never heard of the New England Children’s Leukemia Society,” Jennie comments, scanning the small print.

  “Neither did I. But he told me it’s been around for a while. Actually, I think I’ve seen him before—he looked familiar. He’s probably been collecting for charity before, and I’ll bet I ducked him. If I hadn’t just gotten paid and been feeling rich that day, I probably wouldn’t even have bought the ticket from him. Although, I may have if I knew what it was for,” she adds soberly.

  Of course Laura would never refuse to contribute to that particular charity. Jennie wouldn’t either. Their younger sister, Melanie, had died of leukemia fifteen years ago.

  Jennie glances again at the letter. “Where’d you buy the sweepstakes ticket, Laura?”

  “In the parking lot at Stop and Shop. Don’t worry, Jen. It was legit.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Jenny says.

  “But you’re thinking that Brian might have something
to do with this, aren’t you? That it’s some sort of set-up to lure me to this island so that he could convince me to give him another chance. Right?”

  Jennie meets her sister’s lilac-colored eyes guiltily. “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Trust me. Brian’s not this clever. Can you see him going through all the effort of making up a fake charity, hiring some stranger to persuade me to buy a ticket, and then somehow getting his hands on the stationery for this Bramble Rose place and forging a letter from an innkeeper?”

  Jennie grins. “You’re right. He couldn’t do that in a million years.” She glances down at the drawing of the inn again. “Too bad you can’t go. It looks really cozy.”

  “Why don’t you go instead Jen?” Laura asks suddenly.

  “Didn’t you read the rest of the small print? It says the prize can’t be transferred.”

  “So? We’re identical twins. When was the last time we switched places?” Laura asks with a grin.

  Jennie smiles. “I thought we agreed never to do that again after that time in high school.”

  Her sister’s boyfriend hadn’t been very appreciative to discover that Laura had sent Jennie on a date with him while she went out with someone else. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have figured it out if Jennie hadn’t done such an unconvincing job of faking a sudden stomachache so she wouldn’t have to have sex with him.

  Laura had neglected to mention to her sister that they’d been sleeping together for over a year and he might expect it.

  “Jen,” Laura says, “this isn’t high school. Take my driver’s license as ID and go to the island. You can spend some time drawing and painting, or whatever. The place is really artsy. You know, that’s why they call it Tie-Dye Land.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tide Island—Tie-Dye Land. That’s what everyone calls the place. Didn’t you ever hear that before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Figures. Sometimes, Jen, you’re in a total fog,” Laura says, shaking her head. “Anyway, a lot of artists hang out there in the summers. You know—long-haired types who wear grungy tie-dye outfits and sit around painting the scenery all day.”