by Kristy Tate
He leaned toward her and she bit her lip, watching his lips approach. “No steaming?”
“Oh, there’s steaming.”
“And stirring?”
“Plenty of stirring.”
“I have to read this book.”
“And I have to write it,” she said, trying to sound calm, despite the rioting in her blood. Self-preservation, like a screaming siren, warned her that if this continued she’d only get hurt, but her libido urged her to hold him. Her sensible self said she didn’t know Drake very well and that their time together had a deadline. They both had books to write and their everyday lives to return to. She leaned away, but Drake pulled her back into his arms.
“Maybe we’ve botched up our past stories, but let’s get this one just right,” he whispered into her hair.
“We have a story?” She moved so she could see his face. His eyes stared back at her, full of hope and something else that she couldn’t define, but whatever it was it upped the level of her heart pounding and finger tingling.
He nodded. “With a happy ending.”
“What about the beginning and middle?”
He rubbed his thumb on her cheek. “We’re going to get those just right too.”
“A perfect recipe?”
“Absolutely,” he whispered, moving in for another kiss.
“Hmm, Drake,” Penny murmured sometime later. Drake pulled away from her. She tried to follow, but a cold breeze blew between them.
“Let me show you something.” He took her hand and led her to the steps of the old stone church.
A stone marker stood by the door. Moss and lichen hid some of the words, but Penny recognized the prayer of Ecclesiastes: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
“It’s fascinating to think that some words last forever and while some are forgotten almost as soon as they’re put down on paper,” Drake said.
“What made you write about Vikings?” Penny asked.
Drake scowled. “I didn’t want to write about Vikings, but after Blair told me Simon’s story, they haunted me.”
“Who’s Simon? I want to hear Simon’s story.”
Drake tugged her hand to lead her back to the car. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
He held open the car door for her and she settled behind the steering wheel. She liked that he didn’t mind her driving. Her brother never let her drive when they were together. Richard liked to be the one in control, even if they were taking her car.
“You want me to tell you a haunting story?” Drake climbed in beside her and buckled his seatbelt.
“I don’t believe in hauntings.” She turned the key in the ignition and the Volkswagen leaped to life. Avoiding potholes and fallen branches, she pointed the car toward home.
“But that’s the thing. You don’t have to believe in hauntings to experience them. I don’t believe in them either, yet the Vikings come, whether I want them to or not.”
“Maybe this is a story you’re meant to tell.”
“Says who?”
Penny shrugged. “Your muse?”
Drake smiled. “Do you have a muse?”
She flashed him a quick smile before turning on to the highway. “Yep, and she’s perpetually hungry. That’s why I write about food. Tell me about Simon’s story, and I’ll make you a Black Forest cake.”
Drake stared at her. “I love Black Forest cake.”
“So, close your mouth, stop drooling, and tell me the Viking story.”
“It’s long and dull.”
“How can a haunting be dull?”
Drake cocked his head in thought. “Okay, maybe it’s not dull.”
“It’s only as dull as you make it.”
A pained look flashed in Drake’s eyes, but he blinked it away. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, and she wondered if she should apologize, but since she didn’t know what for, she stayed quiet.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Drake began. “Charlotte—”
“Who’s Charlotte? I thought this was Simon’s story.”
“Charlotte Rhyme, Blair’s aunt. We’re never going to get through this story if you keep interrupting.”
“So sorry. Keep talking.”
“Charlotte was working as a graphic designer, and had been hired to create some PR for a fundraiser for a Lutheran Church hosting an antique show. This was the largest congregation in New York City, and the show was held in the basement of a nineteenth-century church. A choir sang liturgy in the sanctuary above, and the music was piped down to the basement. The atmosphere was surreal: the room had blackened brick walls, sunlight filtered through window wells, and gas-lit lanterns hung from rafters. The manuscript was the finest work Simon had ever seen.”
“Who, exactly, is Simon?”
“Charlotte’s lover.”
“She had a lover?”
“Yes, I just said so, didn’t I?” Drake looked annoyed.
“I promise I won’t interrupt again.”
Drake’s expression said that he didn’t believe her, but he continued, “When Simon saw the manuscript, he had a clear vision of women with spinning wheels, Viking men on sailing ships, and a tiny scribe sitting in a cold cell, carefully penning the legend. In short, Simon fell passionately in love and had to have the manuscript. Unfortunately, Hannah wasn’t interested in selling.”
Penny had to bite her lip to keep from asking about Hannah. She didn’t want to interrupt again.
“Hannah was draped all black and looked like somebody’s babushka, and she was nasty mean. Her pastor had persuaded her to display her personal antiques, so the manuscript was just for show. It had been in their family for generations, and she had no intention of selling it, or even letting it out of her sight. As the last surviving member of her family she was the only keeper. That’s what she called herself—the keeper. Her protection was fierce, but Simon just had to have it. He made generous offers, and he wheedled and charmed, but Hannah would not budge. Then a miracle happened.”
Penny turned the car onto Lake Shore drive. She wanted to ask Drake if he believed in miracles, but she stayed quiet and saved her questions for later.
“Simon hadn’t forgotten Hannah and her manuscript. He called her several times to try and tried to reason with her. Then one day he decided to go and visit her. When he arrived he saw an ambulance parked in front of her tiny row house. Paramedics wheeled old Hannah out, a neighbor followed behind the gurney, and another lingered on the sidewalk. Just before a paramedic slammed the ambulance doors, Hannah looked straight at him and crooked her finger.”
“Simon didn’t know if it was an invitation or a challenge, but he accepted it. As soon as the emergency response people had gone, he went around to the back of the house and broke in. He found the manuscript inside an ornately carved box, obviously created specifically to house the manuscript. He slipped the box under his raincoat, and walked out with it. He wasn’t stealing it, mind you. He was just going to read it then return it.
“He and Charlotte argued bitterly over his theft of the manuscript; Charlotte was unflinchingly honest. Simon tried to explain Hannah’s last look, her crooked finger, his intention to return it, but Charlotte was unrelenting.
“She was offered an opportunity in South America and she took it. Simon tried to return the manuscript to Hannah, but she was gone. Her house was empty. Simon’s life in New York became a hell. He developed boils, his business went sour, and he lost everything. Simon tried to contact Charlotte, but she returned his letters unopened. And every night he had the same nightmares with spinning wheels, Vikings, and sea monsters. Simon thought he was going insane. Perhaps he was. Eventually, forced by financial pressures, Simon tried to sell the manuscript, but no one wanted to buy it without knowing its history. Of course Simon couldn’t tell its history without exposing how he had gotten the manuscript. A poten
tial buyer suspected Simon’s dishonesty and threatened to go to the police. Simon was frantic. One night he became drunk and doused the box with liquor and set it on fire. The box wouldn’t burn, but his apartment did. He was cursed.”
“Simon left the box in the ashes and ran to South America searching for Charlotte. After a grueling trip by boats and buses filled with chickens and goats, he finally tracked Charlotte to a tiny fishing village in Southern Chile only to be told that she had died during a fishing excursion. After many years, Simon returned to the U.S. to find Charlotte very much alive and well in Rose Arbor.”
“Only she wasn’t well,” Penny said.
“No, she was insane.” Drake took a deep breath. “Sometimes I think that if I don’t write the Viking story, I’ll go insane, too.”
“Really?”
He smirked. “No, not really. I just tell myself that so I won’t be embarrassed by writing drivel.”
Penny parked the car in the drive and gave Drake a hard look. “I love drivel.”
“I know. I like that about you.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I like you too.”
***
Penny and Drake fell into a pattern of writing, cooking, blogging, and stealing kisses whenever Mia wasn’t around. Penny also spent the week slipping over to the Bluebird Café to help Andrea prepare for the party.
Mia supposedly was staying only until Drake’s birthday, but since she didn’t show any signs of homesickness, but she showed plenty of signs of a Don Marx infatuation, Penny concocted a plan on the day of the party.
“Penny,” Drake called from the bottom of the stairs, “we’re ready!”
In response she moaned dramatically from her side of the bedroom door. “I’m sick.”
“Sick?”
“Don’t pester the girl, Drake. She’s not feeling well,” Mia’s voice floated up the stairwell.
“She was feeling fine a few minutes ago,” Drake muttered. “I’ll stay home with her.”
“She’s a girl, sweetie,” Mia said. “In ancient Israel when a girl wasn’t feeling well they left her in a tent for a week.”
“This is Rose Arbor, not ancient Israel,” Drake said.
“I’m just saying that sometimes when girls aren’t feeling well they like to be left alone.”
Penny wished she could see Drake and gauge his reaction, but when he pounded up the stairs and knocked on her door, she didn’t open it. She had a hard time denying him anything, so he was easier to resist if she couldn’t see his face.
“Penny? Can I get you anything?”
“No,” she moaned. “Just go.”
“Do you want me to bring you back a plate of food?”
“Drake, for heaven’s sake!” Mia called from the bottom of the stairs. “Give the poor girl some peace.”
“How am I not being peaceful?”
Penny smiled, imaging Drake with his arms tightly folded—no, he’d have his hands on his hips.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t bring me anything.” After spending the day cooking with Andrea, she really didn’t think she could look at another stuffed mushroom without actually getting sick.
“Are you sure?” Drake rattled the doorknob.
“Don’t you dare open that door!” Mia scolded. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”
Penny peeked her head out the door and gave Drake a pained expression. He moved to kiss her, and it hurt to stop him.
“Cramps aren’t contagious,” he said, suspicion lacing his voice.
“I didn’t say I had cramps.”
“Then what?”
“Then go.” She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to turn him toward the stairs.
“I won’t stay long,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yes, you will. I want you to,” she said, giving him a gentle push. Leaning against the doorframe, she watched him clomp down the stairs. After one last look back at Penny, he headed out the door.
Penny didn’t know how much time she had until he returned, and she had a lot to do before she executed her plan. She made a mental to-do list: finish the rewrites and typing, Photoshop the cover, and print the manuscript out. Of course, it would have been much more fun to have an actual book to give him, but her editor had said that the proof would take at least a week.
She sat down at the computer and opened the Word document.
The mighty sea roared as if a creature alive. Billowing waves threatened to sink ship and sailor. The planks groaned beneath the onslaught, and the wind pitched the ship first up then down as the vessel rode the steaming tide—
Penny paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She thought for a moment and then typed, coming face to snout with a giant sea serpent. Uh, no. She had to describe it like Drake would describe it. She tapped her fingers on the table as she thought.
With eyes of flame he came whiffling through the tulgey wood.
Wait, that was Jabberwocky, and Drake was good, but he wasn’t Lewis Carol. She couldn’t tweak some of Mr. Carol’s words, even if he were a long dead opium addict who probably wouldn’t have cared even when he was alive.
“Surprise!” The crowd next door cheered. Laughing and clapping followed and Penny tried not to listen. Through the stand of trees bordering the Marx property, the lights from the party sparkled in the fading daylight. The mariachi band began to oompah.
Penny’s heart hurt. She wished she could be there, but she told herself that this gift was better. Drake would love her surprise. They would celebrate with just the two of them, like they had at the old stone church in the woods.
Afloat and awash in sea’s frothy foam, the monster appears in his great, green glory.” Smiling, she typed it in. Now to find a picture of a sea monster.
Chapter 36
The billowing smoke told him that events had turned even before the ship reached the shore. The cries of children and the screams of women rose above the sound of crashing waves, and the acrid odor of burning hair and flesh drifted out over the tide.
From Hans and the Sunstone
Lights flashed in his eyes. Drake blinked rapidly then registered his mother’s bright smile, Melinda’s laugh, and Andrea’s stunned expression. Drake caught her sudden comprehension. He didn’t know how she knew about Penny, but he knew that she knew.
Andrea gripped the back of a chair with one hand and let go of a platter of bacon wrapped shrimp and lime slices with the other. The crustaceans and limes bounced around her feet before landing next to her shoes. He tried to reach her, but she pushed away, stepping on the shrimpy mess without regard for her spikey heels. One stiletto stabbed a shrimp and she carried it away with her. Drake watched Trevor follow her, and he guessed Trevor was Andrea’s new crush.
Melinda wrapped her arms around him and tried to kiss him on the mouth. He stiffened in her embrace, but she didn’t notice. Her lips hit him on the chin.
“Excuse me,” he said, untangling himself from Melinda and pushing past his mother’s outstretched arms. He found Andrea in the kitchen, bracing against the table, her head down. Trevor stood beside her, but instead of comforting her, he was chastising her. Drake watched from the doorway.
“This is not how you advertise your business.” Trevor gathered napkins and glared at Andrea. He shoved a handful at her. “Are you going to clean it up, or should I?”
Andrea gulped and reluctantly took the napkins from Trevor. She straightened her shoulders.
“I’ll do it,” she said, her voice small.
“What happened back there? Do you know Drake?”
Andrea nodded. “And his wife.”
“I already knew that.”
Andrea shook her head and Drake held his breath, waiting for Andrea’s next words. “Maggie…where is she?”
Drake exhaled. He needed to talk to Andrea, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
“What’s going on?” Melinda whispered.
“Kitchen drama,” Drake replied in an equally low tone.
Melinda blew out an expletive and moved toward Andrea. Drake stopped her with a hand around her waist. Stunned, Melinda settled against him, which wasn’t what Drake intended, but whatever Andrea knew, whatever she had to say, Melinda was the last person that Drake wanted to hear it. He racked his brain to try and remember if Andrea had ever met or seen Magdalena. He hadn’t thought so, unless Blair had stalked him online. The thought of Blair stalking him didn’t please him the way that he thought it would.
Andrea looked past Trevor and saw Drake. “You louse!” She pointed her finger and glared at him.
Drake held up his hands to fend her off, and Melinda stepped in front of him in full momma-bear-protective mode. Drake knew this wouldn’t help.
Melinda placed her hands on her hips. “Before you start slinging insults, I suggest you clean up the mess you made.”
Andrea’s gaze flicked from Drake to Melinda and landed on Drake’s hand on Melinda’s shoulder.
“Maggie, or whatever her real name is,” Andrea inched toward him, wielding the now empty shrimp platter, “is way too good for you!” She lifted the platter as if to swing it at his head, but Trevor grabbed her around the waist.
Drake ducked while Melinda grabbed the platter. Lime and shrimp juice ran down Melinda’s arm making her scream.
“I agree with you,” Drake said.
Melinda grabbed a washcloth and hastily wiped off her arm. “You’re fired!” she screamed.
“You can’t fire me. You didn’t hire me.” Andrea wiggled in Trevor’s arms. “Drake’s wife, whoever that is, did. Only she can fire me.”
Trevor cut Andrea a quick glance. “Why don’t we go and talk to her right now.”
“She’s sick.” Drake hated how small and pathetic his voice sounded. “But if you really think you need to speak with her, I’ll go with you.”
“You can’t leave your own party, Drake!” Melinda huffed. She held up her arm and dabbed her underarm with the cloth, reminding Drake of a chimpanzee. All she needed was a banana. She tossed the used cloth at Drake. “I’m sticky!”