The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Rosie stepped back into the kitchen, and when she had been gone for several minutes, Jonas glanced that way to see her mixing what looked like headache powders into a glass of water. She drank it down then set about fetching a loaf of crusty bread from a crate that bore the hotel’s name.

  Still roving, Oakes peered up at the winding center staircase. “Could we go up and see the lantern?”

  A sturdy, wrinkled hand motioned the way. “All you wish.”

  As if suddenly boys and not men, Oakes, Dexter, and Oliver started up the twisting stairwell, voices hushed with reverence and barely veiled excitement. Jonas smiled. Rosie did as well, and when she waved him up, he gripped the smooth, curved handrail, starting after his friends.

  The staircase coiled around as though it were the inside of a seashell. Jonas slowed on the tiny landing that was barely enough for him to stand on where a door led into a bedroom that was clearly the old man’s. In a nearby corner, a sleeping, purring cat lay curled up. Jonas slid his hand over its head and the feather duster of a tail curved against his leg. To their right stood a bedroom that looked like it belonged to a lady. Judging by the combs and hairbrushes, a fashionable one. Through the open doorway, he glimpsed the folds of the soft quilt, the blouses and skirts peeking from a narrow cupboard, and the sun hat that draped from the curtain rod. Lace and ribbons…and Rosie.

  He could imagine her here, growing up wild and free. It suited her. No doubt shaped her into who she was.

  Climbing to the top, Jonas edged around the giant lantern and out onto the exterior walkway that circled around the glass panes. Cool air whipped at his shirt, and he gripped the iron railing.

  Oakes was just tipping his chin toward the breeze. “I feel like I should have been born a sea captain.”

  “Aww.” Dexter draped an arm around his shoulder. “You can grow up to be anything you want, little Oaksey.”

  Oakes shoved him off, and Jonas chuckled. Leaning forward on the iron railing, Jonas closed his eyes and let the crisp wind hit his face. Could they really be anything they wanted to be? Because if he had his choice…

  Someone moved next to him, and Jonas looked over to see Oliver. He assumed the same resting position and kept his gaze on the water as he spoke. “A wise cousin would say, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Jonas.’”

  “But…”

  “I suppose I’m not that wise cousin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  When Oliver dipped his head, the sun whipped across his red hair, knocking the thick locks about. “I mean you and Rosie.” Oliver rested elbows to rail and interlocked his fingers. “She’s a maid at the hotel.” He looked over at Jonas. “You do realize that’s going to pose some problems?”

  Jonas nearly nodded, but he checked it. “Nothing is going to cause any problems. I’m just her friend. Nothing more.”

  Oliver’s half smile was kind. “But that’s the issue. I don’t think you’re even supposed to be her friend.” Oliver straightened and clapped Jonas on his shoulder. “Not saying that I blame you. I just want to make sure you realize what you’re doing. You’re not supposed to know her name. Or where she lives or sleeps. Details about her life. It just doesn’t work that way between…” He fell silent, but Jonas knew what he meant.

  Between the classes.

  “But you know her name,” Jonas countered. “And you know where she sleeps.”

  Oliver’s half smile bloomed to a grin. “Yeah.” He straightened and took a step back. “But she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you.”

  Jonas dropped his gaze to the bluffs below. He stayed that way until Abner called them down for a breakfast of fried eggs and sausages. The hot, buttery bread that Rosie toasted for them all. They ate quietly, filled with thanks for the hearty fare and the kind generosity. Though the headache powders that Rosie had taken seemed to ease the crease in her brow, she was still awfully quiet.

  When they had finished and Rosie was soon due for her shift, they bid farewell to her grandfather and headed back down to the little dock. Then it was less than a half hour of rowing and the skiff was sloshing up to the sands at the far end of the beach of the Hotel del Coronado.

  Rosie was quiet all the way across the bay. Even when Dexter helped her out and the four of them lifted the boat overhead to carry it back to the boathouse. Certain she had to be chilled through, Jonas urged her to not wait for them, but she walked quietly beside him, across the sand and toward the square, squat building with its red roof. Inside the boathouse, they placed the quad with care onto its rack then headed back out.

  The lads striding a few steps ahead, Jonas and Rosie trailed behind. As they neared the hotel, he finally spoke. “Did you find what you were looking for?” He climbed the three steps to the south entrance then opened the door.

  But Rosie was still on the sidewalk, peering up at him. “I’ll…” She glanced to the grand double doors, one of which was ajar for her. “I’ll need to go in the other way.”

  Yes.

  He’d forgotten.

  She took a small step back, and he tried to think of something to say, but then a gaggle of women exited the open door, thanking him. By the time they passed by, Rosie was already striding down the sidewalk. He went to call her name, but with patrons now milling about, some even glancing between them, Jonas just ducked his head and stepped inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  With a newspaper clutched under her arm, Rosie strode down the sidewalk, pondering the various shop signs of Coronado Island businesses. A bank and then a milliner. A flower shop. Cafés that tempted with their strong aroma of hot coffee and baked treats. Such simple sights to ponder, but compared to the memories that had risen inside her on the water, the inviting storefronts were much easier to wrap her mind around.

  She’d spent many sleepless hours last night trying to catch more of the past, but there was nothing else she could grab hold of. Even as she let out another sigh, Rosie spotted a rack of books ahead. Bookseller. She slipped around the rack and ducked into the snug shop. Inside smelled of paper and geraniums, the latter of which lined the windowsills, letting off a sweet, musky scent against the sun-warmed glass.

  Stepping behind a nearby partition of children’s stories, Rosie glanced again to the article in her newspaper. The two-day-old paper not only stated today as the first date the book would be available for purchase, but it had also given her enough time to secure the afternoon off by swapping shifts with a fellow maid. Now Rosie had the rest of the day and evening to herself and was just moments from standing face-to-face with Dr. Brooke’s very own medical journal. All his hard work and efforts.

  She perused the shelves, checking first the medical section before returning empty handed to the front of the store. There she spotted the thick text on display next to the register. She plucked a copy off the stack, slipping it carefully around the sign that read LOCAL AUTHOR.

  Rosie tapped a small bell, and a friendly salesclerk strode from the back of the store. He tallied her total while she dug about in her reticule. After stating the sum, the middle-aged gentleman wrapped the book in paper and string. Rosie tried not to think too much about the cost as she slid most of that month’s earnings across the wooden counter. She’d promised to be the first in line, and she had meant it. And since she would see the doctor this very afternoon, she was eager to have her copy signed. Not only because it would make the book all the more special, but because she knew what it would mean to her friend.

  The transaction finished, Rosie thanked the clerk, clutched her parcel close, and slipped out into the sunshine. She strolled back up Orange Avenue, glancing about at shops that boasted maps or treasures from the coast. Palms and cypress ran down the center of the road in geometric perfection—illustrating the very spirit of this resort town that meant to please and awe its guests by drawing the eye to nature’s beauty. Multilevel townhomes had their windows flung open to the breeze, and in yards, neatly trimmed hedges boasted exotic flowers. Rosie paused
to smell a bud, and then another, making much out of her walk back to the hotel, so rare was a day off.

  When she reached Ocean Boulevard, she crossed the street and followed the train tracks toward the south entrance of the hotel. Farther down the length of the resort, she slipped into the servants’ entrance then climbed the stairs toward the fifth-floor attic, where her room was set on the far end of the hallway. The one she shared with two other maids, Jolene and Mary Anne.

  Rosie let herself in and crossed to her narrow bed, where she sat and unlaced her shoes. After pulling her feet up, she leaned against the wall and tore into her new treasure. The book was thick, the heavy pages new and perfect. Rosie flipped through them and lowered her head to take in the comforting scent of freshly dried ink.

  Returning to the beginning of the text, she read carefully and soon passed an hour as she read the introduction that Dr. Brooke had crafted. While some of the language and terminology was difficult to understand, Rosie could practically hear his voice. She smiled as she turned another page.

  An opening paragraph caught her eye, and Rosie tilted her head to the side, reading further:

  In several of my studies, I have witnessed cases of memory loss due to brain hypoxia. Two cases were brought on by cardiac arrest, while the third was a lack of oxygen which resulted from a near drowning. It is the latter of these patients, one I have observed for nearly a decade at the writing of this text, who will be discussed in this section.

  Rosie blinked across the room. That’s about how long she’d known the doctor. Dropping her gaze, she continued reading:

  One of the factors that makes this case so unique is that, in addition to memory loss, the patient has also exhibited behavior that in some mannerisms would be considered childlike.

  A little twinge tingled in her cheeks at the phrase, but it was nothing other than the truth she’d already known:

  My initial conclusion was that this was merely a delay in development. The characteristics of innocence, confusion, wonder, and at times lack of propriety, however, despite repeated explanation and careful practice, has had occasion to continue into adulthood.

  The twinge turning to a flush, Rosie nearly closed the book, but the next line drew her attention back to the page:

  The cause for this behavior is at no fault of the patient’s but solely resulting from oxygen deprivation which occurred at the young age of ten, at which time the symptoms also affected the use of several limbs, not uncommon. While physical improvement has been shown to a high degree, several years of studying the patient has drawn the conclusion that the other elements of brain damage, thus far, have been irreversible. The following chapter will dissect these findings.

  Irreversible.

  Brain damage.

  That meant broken and there was no fixing it.

  Lifting her gaze once more, Rosie caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. A pale face, wide blue eyes. Childlike. Despite repeated explanation.

  She closed the book and set it aside, wishing very much to rise and leave this room, which was getting stuffier by the minute, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. So she sat ever so still, memorizing the lines of the wood paneling beside her bed, repeating Dr. Brooke’s words in her mind.

  Small was the comfort that no one who read his text would know her identity. But even that tiny spark of relief was trampled down by the realization that she wasn’t going to get better. She wasn’t going to become the kind of young woman she wished to be. The kind that Dr. Brooke had made her believe she could be.

  Irreversible.

  The word churned her gut, souring every piece of hope she had.

  The door burst open. “Rosie! There you are.” Her roommate Jolene peeked around the door. “Your doctor friend is downstairs waiting. Mrs. Kline sent me up to fetch you.”

  “Coming.” The word felt rushed and stiff as Rosie reached for her shoes. She slipped her feet in, tied up the laces. Looking to the book, she hesitated briefly then took it up and headed out. Down the hall she walked, not nearly as hurried as she might have been an hour earlier. When she reached the storage room, Rosie let herself in past the open door.

  Dr. Brooke was just setting his medical bag on the pool table. “I came bearing gifts,” he said. After opening the bag’s clasp, he pulled out a small wrapped parcel and set it on the edge of the felt-covered table. His smiling face turned toward her, gaze falling quickly to the book she held in her hand, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s only just arrived in town.”

  She set it down slowly. “I was awful eager to get one.”

  His smile was full of pleasant surprise. “I’m honored by that.”

  She pushed herself up to sit on the pool table then crossed her ankles. It was with unsteady hands that she opened the cover and flipped to the pages she’d been reading. Rosie set the book down between them, not saying a word. Dr. Brooke looked to the text, skimming briefly, before lifting his gaze to her face.

  All surprise—all manner of joy—gone. In its place was unveiled worry. “Rosie.”

  “This is true?”

  “I mean only to write the truth.”

  “And this is how you think of me?” She motioned over the page before returning her hand to her lap.

  “I think of you as remarkable. Because that’s what you are.”

  She quoted him directly, and as the words he’d written about her fell between them, she felt anything but remarkable.

  “This is nothing but what you’ve already known. I’ve shown you my notes. You’ve always been free to read through them at will.”

  Yes, and she’d done that multiple times.

  He tugged out his leather-bound notebook, flipping toward the middle. “It’s all right here,” he said.

  But his writing was nearly impossible to decipher. She said as much. “You write in riddles. In codes.”

  He squinted down at it as if trying to see it as she might. “This,” he said, pointing to a section of the text he’d read, “is here. And this”—he pointed to another segment—“is here.” He compared the two editions—his notes and his publication. Trying to show her they were very much the same.

  Rosie glimpsed it all, trying to grasp the clarity, but it was lost to her. She covered her face with her hand, letting out an exasperated sigh. Perhaps this was what he meant by her being like a child. And here she had been thinking of herself as a grown woman. One perhaps worth the love of a young law student whose face she couldn’t erase from her mind. What a fool she’d been. “I thought you were my friend. You made me believe I could trust you.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “You haven’t been honest with me….”

  Dr. Brooke blinked at her slowly then shook his head. “Rosie.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “What would you like me to call you?”

  For a single, fierce moment, she tried to conjure the name of the little girl standing on the Grahams’ doorstep. Just two years old. Unwanted. But all she could see in her mind was a small lifetime spent with Abner and Esther. Bread crumbs floating down from the sky and flashes of white wings. The rush of the sea. Stories of ships and selkies at bedtime. Jonas’s smiling face as he strode with her at sunrise.

  Heart aching, Rosie pushed the doctor’s gift aside, not wanting it. “I think we’re done now,” she said softly.

  Dr. Brooke looked at her a quiet moment then gave a slow nod. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small paper rectangle. His name and address were embossed on the front. Taking up the book that still lay between them, he licked his thumb and flipped forward two pages; then he eased the business card into the crease and closed the book.

  He set it beside her and tapped the cover softly with the tips of his fingers. “If you should change your mind.” Without another word, he slipped on his hat and left.

  Chapter Twelve

  From the Crown Restaurant came the gentle clatter of silverware and fine china. Waiters bustled ab
out, and men wearing dinner tails leaned back in wicker chairs, sipping scotch and whiskey. Ladies fluttered fans, stirring the feathers in their hats. Jewelry graced ears and necklines, glinting in the electric lighting of the overhead chandeliers. Rosie glimpsed it all through the broad windows as she strode across the outside deck. At the stairs that led toward the beach, she shifted her gaze to the final, darkening threads of sunset.

  She headed out toward the water, still feeling the gratitude of this evening all to herself. With the bronze bottle in hand, she carried it until she’d reached a place of solitude. There she settled down on the sand and placed the bottle beside her. She’d come here to toss it back to sea, but to hold on to it for a few moments more…

  To remember him. That morning she first saw his face. Heard his voice. Saw the way the sun had glowed on his shoulders even as water dripped from his hair. And she in her haste had been pesky. So…childlike.

  A tight throbbing in her chest, she pulled her feet in and gripped her ankles. Moonlight shone on the dark water, setting a glowing path. The froth glittered, and she could just barely make out the dips and rises of beach that led to the water’s edge.

  How many vacationers filled this spot during the day? How many dozens of blankets and chairs? Striped umbrellas? Children fashioning sand castles and collecting shells? Vacationers wading into the salty water to seek remedy from chronic ailments or to simply splash and play? Such silly wonderings—but they were easy. A safe trail of musings and her heart couldn’t wander elsewhere just now. Yet the peace of such simplicity snapped at the sound of someone approaching. Rosie glanced behind her.

  Jonas.

  Her mouth parted. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be attending the concert.”

  He settled down, his arm brushing hers. “I’m on holiday so I’m pretty sure my itinerary is wide open.” He smiled; then his attention fell to the bottle. “May I?”

  Rosie handed it over. Jonas tipped it upside down and ran his thumb along the base. Then he righted the vessel and studied the thick round of cork jammed into place.