He nodded. “The one criteria is that this work has to be factually and historically accurate, but the story and the plot will be all mine. That much we’ve agreed on so far.”
“We?”
“Me and the Pleiades—at least that’s what I call them. There are many parts to this undertaking: publishers, editors, my agent, most of all the fickle public—what the heck do they want?” He laughed. “By the time I figure that out, they—the reader—is being seduced by a whole other genre: science fiction, fantasy, whatever.” He paused. “In fact, I have to run down to New York this weekend, and I’m not looking forward to it. They’re going to want to see something on paper.”
“Problems?”
“Not exactly. It’s more the angle. The hook.” He laughed, but it was not a laugh of good humor. “I have tons of material—lord knows I’ve accumulated enough of that—but nothing that fires the blood and fuses it all together.”
“You’ll find it,” Janet said without hesitation. “I know you will. By the way, you haven’t been by our library and applied for a card. Besides the latest computer technology, we have a bang-up research department.”
Stephen rubbed his chin. “Been waiting for an invitation.”
“You didn’t need one.”
“Still, I don’t like to be pushy.”
The waiter brought their food and arranged the plates of steaming lobster and snow crabs.
“I’m starved,” said Janet.
“Me too. Shall we dig in?”
Janet smiled. “I’m ready if you are.”
The rest of the evening was a symphony of silver against china and the clinking of crystal. When they left around ten o’clock, the inn had a new convert in one Stephen Prescott. He hummed a little ditty under his breath and Janet thought how pleased he was with himself.
The next morning Amanda Austin stood with her hand resting on the arm of the young man beside her. Her eyes seemed to actually show a slight flicker of warmth and her tight mouth was pulled into a slight smirk that Janet supposed was an attempt to smile. She seemed to be waiting for the right moment to introduce the replacement for Hilda—the one personally recommended by the chairman of the board of directors.
Janet smiled to herself and sensed a moment of heightened absurdity. Above all, we must be condescending, mustn’t we, Miss Austin? Janet thought. Word of what goes on behind these walls may filter back to the people who matter—the ones with the power.
Sebastian Massila couldn’t have been more than a little over five feet tall. His boyish face peered at Janet through enormous rimless glasses that covered most of his rosy-hued face. The lenses were heavy, with opaque rings that gave him an owlish appearance, an appearance suggesting wisdom and profound thought with just a hint of impishness. The glasses perched on a tiny nose that barely cast a shadow across the bow-shaped mouth.
He cupped his chin with long, bony fingers—double-jointed, Janet thought—and his smile was sweet, his teeth little more than nibs. He reminded Janet of a Hobbit. His forehead protruded a bit and swept upward to meet the magnificent mane of hair the color of burnt copper. It was full-bodied and cascaded in wondrous waves that brushed the top of his frayed collar. The camel-colored blazer swallowed his fragile frame and the ribs of the corduroy were worn nearly smooth. The jacket topped off rumpled wool trousers with cuffs that fell a good two inches short of the fringed tassels of his sharp-toed loafers. Janet imagined his feet: fur-covered and toes like little dried kumquats. In spite of his ragamuffin appearance he stood relaxed, with a casual bearing that emitted an air of unconventionality.
“Sebastian,” Amanda said, seeming to puff up as she made the introductions. “This is Chelsea Parker.”
His little head swiveled.
Chelsea gave him a classy smile as she shook his hand.
“Welcome to Lancaster Memorial, Sebastian. You’re going to love it here, and believe me we’re going to love having you.”
Sebastian’s laugh tinkled like finely struck bells.
“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” he said. His voice had a certain musical quality that matched his laugh. “Put me where you need me, and I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do grandly,” Amanda Austin said. “Janet and Chelsea are nice young ladies to work with. I’m sure your being here will bring a new dimension to the working relationship of the library.”
Janet looked at Chelsea and hiked a quizzical eyebrow at Miss Austin’s newfound affection for them.
“Let’s not talk as if she’s not here.” Sebastian swiveled back to Janet. “And you must be Janet Lancaster—as in ‘The Lancasters?’”
“Guilty,” Janet said.
He tilted his head to one side, the owlish face breaking into a charming grin.
“I don’t know whether to shake your hand or make a leg and execute a royal bow.”
Janet waved away his dilemma “I vote for the handshake.”
Chelsea smiled. “Don’t let money or any of that other stuff fool you—Janet’s just folks. I’ve known her for a lot of years and have yet to see her strike a rich-girl pose. Give her a couple of days and you’ll love her.”
Sebastian laughed. “According to you there’s nothing here not to love.”
“Well, not much anyway,” Chelsea said and crooked a finger. “Come on, I’ll show you around?”
“Lead the way.”
Amanda Austin watched as they walked off. “Well, Janet,” she seemed to challenge, “what do you think? Quality—did I not tell you?”
“I like him,” Janet said.
“Of course you do. He’s that kind of person.”
Not waiting for Janet’s reply, she turned away and headed for her office.
Janet followed along after Chelsea and Sebastian and stood in the doorway of the lounge watching as they became acquainted in a playful sort of way.
Sebastian glanced over. “Come join us,” he invited. “Chelsea assures me she makes the greatest coffee in the world.”
Chelsea slid the basket into its track on the coffeemaker. “You’ll—”
“—I know, love it.” He glanced around. “I like being here, you know.” He nodded and the light sparkled against his cinnamon hair. “My being here is definitely good.”
Miss Austin stuck her head through the doorway. “Of course, your being here is good.” She walked over and took his arm. “Good things happen to those who deserve it.”
Puzzled by such a display of charity, Janet looked at Chelsea and wondered if the new employee would have received such acclamation had it not been for the high office and influence of Ethan Chandler. Janet doubted it.
Miss Austin looked at her watch and clapped her hands.
“Nine o’clock. Chelsea, you may open the doors.” She pursed her lips. “Time to get to work.”
Janet and Chelsea smiled at each other. Now this was the Miss Austin they both knew. And Janet felt more comfortable with what she knew to be the genuine article.
It was just after dinner that night as Janet sat on the sofa flipping the pages of her new Cosmopolitan when the doorbell rang. She tossed the magazine onto the coffee table, smoothed back her hair and yanked the kinks out of the braid before opening the door. Stephen was standing on the porch, his brown eyes intensified by the teal-colored sweater beneath the navy tweed jacket. His thick shock of hair tumbled around his face and Janet felt an urge to brush it back from his forehead.
Shoving the thought away, she motioned him inside.
“How was New York?”
“So, so,” he said.
“When did you get back?”
“Late last evening.” He paused. “I tried calling, but there was no answer.”
“The phone didn’t wake me,” Janet said, deciding not to tell him she had turned off the ringer. She took his arm and pulled him to the sofa. “Sit down and tell me all about it.”
“Not much to tell. I had a meeting with the Pleiades.”
“And?”
“And, they
wanted to see something—anything. Getting downright antsy being the high-strung bunch of immortals that they are.”
“Still no flashes of brilliance, huh?”
“Nothing that grabs the old gray matter and won’t let go.” He smiled. “Writer’s block can be a demon, sometimes fatal.”
“Maybe you should visit Heather Down,” she suggested off-handedly.
Stephen frowned. “Why?”
“Because it’s steeped in history—especially the shot tower.” She grinned. “It could just be the inspiration you’re looking for.”
“What the dickens is a shot tower?”
Janet laughed. “Well, people weren’t taken there and shot, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He swiped his brow. “I’m glad to hear that. It sounded a little on the life-threatening side.”
“A shot tower is a place where ammunition was made—way back there in the good old days when duels were fought over piddling things such as suggesting that a handsome dandy just might be a lazy scoundrel. Or, on the other hand, not so piddling, like wars fought over the right of humans to own other humans.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away. Grandmother always said my imagination’s too active.”
“Imagination’s good. Creative people might as well be dead without it.”
Janet nodded. “But not librarians. We’re supposed to be a more realistic bunch.”
“Sounds boring,” Stephen said. “But back to the shot tower.”
Janet took a deep breath. “Gosh, I haven’t been up there for such a long time.”
“Would be okay if we went to see it?”
“I don’t see why not. I own—” She stopped. “It belongs to the family.”
“You own it, isn’t that what you started to say?”
“No. Well, I guess I did.” She frowned. “Oh, I don’t know, it’s all so terribly mixed up. Want to take a run up there this weekend? It’s a beautiful drive up the mountain.”
He flipped the braid on her shoulder. “A beautiful drive with a beautiful lady—how could I refuse an offer like that?”
Janet felt herself blushing and appreciated that Stephen pretended not to notice.
“So, tell me about what’s been going on around here. Did I miss anything important?”
“Hilda’s replacement showed up—Sebastian Massila.”
“Who?”
“Sebastian Massila,” Janet repeated. “He’s from New York. Don’t tell me you know him?”
“New York’s a big city.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Interesting name, though.”
Janet laughed. “If that’s any indication, the name fits him to a tee. In fact, he’s downright fascinating—reminds me of a Hobbit.”
“Bilbo or Froedo?”
“Probably a little of both,” she said. “I have a feeling that he’s rather bad off, financially, I mean.”
He glanced around the room. “Not like you.”
“I’m luckier than most,” she admitted.
“Luck? Is that what it is?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “I seem not to be sure of anything these days.”
Stephen stood up. “So, we’re off to visit your old homestead this weekend?”
Janet blanched. She had said nothing about Heather Down being her home. Why did she now feel so uneasy about her suggestion?
“We don’t have to go,” she said.
“Of course, we do.” He dropped an arm around her shoulder. “And I can’t wait.”
Janet walked with him to the door, aware of the weight of his arm on her body. There was strength in the arm, but, remembering Adam, was it strength to heal or to hurt? They stood for a moment, their eyes measuring each other. Taking stock. Words seemed unnecessary as Stephen dropped a light kiss on top of her head and went out into the night.
NINE
On Sunday they set off for Heather Down. Janet forced herself to dismiss any misgivings that might be tugging at the dark side of her brain and relaxed in the bucket seat as the Mustang whipped around the switchbacks and climbed Laurel Mountain. The day was bleak and cold, but the heater hummed a comforting melody and the flow of warm air felt sensuous on her feet.
“We’ll have to stop at the Newkirks to pick up the key,” Janet said.
Stephen smiled. “Will do. Just point the way.”
“It’s going to be strange coming back up here with everybody gone. Being in Middlebrook and keeping busy at work, I didn’t always have a lot of time to think about them. But now it’s all changed.” Her voice choked. “Grandmother and the staff—the familiar sights and sounds, the smells—everything that went into making my home the port in the storm that it was.”
“And the Lancaster Legacy?”
“That’s changed, too.”
Stephen nodded. “Change—the only constant we can count on.”
Janet tried to shake off the gloom and turned her attention to the world on the other side of the windows. The landscape was stark and barren. She shivered.
“Cold?” He reached for the heater knob.
“Just the weather, I guess.”
“I don’t like winter,” he said. “Winter thoughts are illusive and can’t be trusted. It conjures up ideas that wouldn’t ordinarily cross the mind. Winter makes me sad.”
“Me, too.”
“The holidays are the hardest: parties, get-togethers, reunions.”
Janet nodded. “Makes it doubly hard when there’s no family. This will be my first year of not coming up for Christmas and bringing gifts to my grandmother and the staff. And having Cook’s famous stuffed goose and pumpkin pies.”
“I never had stuffed goose,” he said with a laugh. “Goose of any kind, now that I think of it.”
Janet swallowed back a sniffle. “Lord, I’m going to miss them.”
“At least you had a family.”
“You didn’t?”
“I’m your classic loner; not always a good thing to be—a loner. People should be like birds and stay with the flock. Take me, for instance. Sometimes I feel lost. Not the lost-in-the-woods kind of thing, but adrift, cut off from my moorings.”
“I’m sorry,” Janet said.
He glanced at her and laughed. “Listen to us, two Morbid Mopes.” He tapped the horn as if trumpeting an all-important announcement: “Gloomy day, gloomy day, hurry up and go away.”
Janet laughed. “You’re a poet. I’m impressed.”
“I’m no poet.”
“Says who?”
“Yeah, who? What the heck, I can be a poet if I want to.” He glanced at Janet, his eyes softening. “And if you want me to.”
“I do,” she said.
“Okay, then. For you, I’ll be a poet. Anything else you’d like? I’m open to suggestions.”
“Happy,” said Janet. “I want for you—for both of us—to be happy. Extremely, wonderfully happy.”
“You got it.” He slowed the car at the welcoming sign. “Briar’s Point, I presume.”
Janet looked at the quiet town. “Don’t you love it?”
“Don’t know yet. Sure looks peaceful.”
“Peaceful and comforting; like an old friend.”
“Sounds like you’re sorry you don’t live here any longer.”
“I guess I am, in a way.”
“Would you consider moving back?”
“Not only consider it, I’m looking forward to it. Someday I’d like to come back here to paint, to raise a family, to grow old with someone I love—and who loves me.” Her unexpected honesty caught her off guard and she felt slightly foolish. “You don’t think I want too much?”
He patted her hand. “Sounds entirely reasonable to me.”
Janet smiled to herself, pleased that he had not made light of her giving voice to her innermost thoughts, and mused at his casual ability to get her to be so open and frank.
She leaned over and touched his sleeve. “There,” she said, pointing to a white house on the left. “
The driveway with the blue boat. That’s the Newkirks.”
He rolled the car off the edge of the pavement and took her hand as they dashed across the road and up a planked walkway. Janet’s knock was answered by a short, plump lady with a smudge of flour on her rouged cheeks. Her silver hair was brushed up into a small doughnut on top of her head. Janet had long imagined that Phoebe Newkirk was, in actuality, Tweety and Sylvester’s granny: Sylvester, you bad old cat, get away from Tweety’s birdcage. And she’d imagine the little round person swinging a broom at the aggravating cat as he darted and dodged the stiff bristles.
“Janet, my dear. How good to see you.”
Janet shook her head to clear the cartoon images.
“Mrs. Newkirk, this is Stephen Prescott. We’re on our way out to the house and need to pick up the key.”
“Nice to meet you, Stephen.” Mrs. Newkirk pulled back the door. “You children come in out of the cold and have a nice cup of tea.”
“No time today,” Janet said, getting a delicious whiff of cinnamon and cloves. “Can we take a rain check?”
“Anytime, my dear. Anytime.” She turned. “I’ll get the key from Ian’s study. It’ll only take a second.”
“Thanks,” Janet said.
“You kids sure picked an unfriendly day for your trip up,” she called from the other room to the sounds of opening and closing drawers. “Now where do you suppose Ian put those keys?” she asked of herself. “I haven’t seen them since the day Lettie dropped them off.”
Janet and Stephen stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by doily-enhanced furniture and lace curtains with sharp, straight creases.
“Ah, here they are.”
She held them in her hand like some small treasure as she returned to the room and proudly handed them over.
Janet nibbled her lower lip. “Mrs. N, do you know if there’s been any luck with—well, you know, the search?”
“I don’t think so.”
Janet stared at her feet and rubbed the toe of her shoe against the broad-board flooring.
“I figured not—or I’d have heard.”
Phoebe Newkirk took Janet’s hand. “How’ve you been, dear? This is the first time I’ve seen you since the funeral.” Her sweet face melted into a look of sadness. “You need to come home more often. Don’t forget about us, Janet, we think of you as family. Ian and I speak of you frequently.”
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