by Laura Briggs
I drew a breath of my own, which rattled in my chest. "I told you how reclusive he is, but ... but we became friends somehow. It's the chance of a lifetime. Davies says my book is good, that I have a chance to find a real readership. That it's ready for the next stage, if I'm ready."
I was so nervous telling him that I was almost babbling. Two seconds ago, I had been telling him something altogether different in nature, changing direction without warning. I almost believed I had been less afraid of saying those monumental words than these.
"And he can help you?" Skepticism in Sidney's voice — or was it bitterness? Dismay, even? I couldn't decide. "You're sure of it?"
I nodded. "It's not just the critique of my work," I said. "It could open a door for me that I could never open myself by sending it to slush piles at publishing houses." Even the Ink and Inspiration didn't promise me the caliber of editors and critical readers with whom Alistair might help me share mine after its revision — the kind of people with whom she undoubtedly shared her own work in the past.
Sidney lowered his gaze. His breath was still slightly ragged. "It's not really an offer any aspiring writer could refuse," he said.
I shook my head for this reply. My eyes burned, feeling hot tears pooled just beneath them. "Deep down, I've known that I can't go on just changing words here and there while I sit on the fence about the future."
"Tomorrow," he repeated. "That soon."
"The author's last day here in Cornwall," I said. "There's only so much time available for me to rely on Davies' help, because of summer obligations and travel plans ... I don't know how long, only that we begin tomorrow. That's the way it is with Alistair Davies: there's no phone chats or internet sessions. If I want the writer's help, I have to be there."
No reply from Sidney. I swallowed hard. "There's a business meeting in London, then a writer's gathering in Paris for a couple of days ... then I suppose the rest of it will be spent editing it in a flat or an office somewhere. But I'll come back. I'll be back afterwards."
I searched his face, searching for a sign he believed this part. I needed him to know I wasn't leaving because I was bored with this place, or for any reason other than this opportunity: nothing less than an invitation this incredible would persuade me to leave. Believe me, Sidney. Please, believe me.
He was unreadable until he lifted his eyes to meet mine. "I can't ask you to change your mind," he said. "Can I?" A wistful smile crossed his lips.
I knew it wasn't a real question. Sidney wasn't going to ask me, not the way he had at the Newquay train station last summer. He had promised to support me in whatever choice I made. But his look was one of regret that I had never wanted to be my fault.
I laid my hand on his cheek. I traced the outline of his face, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I didn't want — I didn't want it to be like this." My voice barely reached a whisper. "I'm sorry. "
Gently, Sidney drew back from me. Freeing me from the wall and from his arms as he tucked his hands in his pockets. "So am I," he said. "But if this offer is what you want — then take it, Maisie. Don't look back. Take the chance and be happy."
Regret was there, even in his firm declaration. I wanted to believe he was telling me not to regret seizing my dream; not telling me never to think about him after I did. Surely I didn't have to tell him how I truly felt, or how important he had become to me. I had just broken my promise to keep in the boundaries of friendship, after all — I, who had been so careful about that rule, had torn down its wall and leaped to the other side to prove it with five little words and a kiss.
"Sidney." I reached for his hand. One last chance before I had to let go of him, and I might not feel those fingers in my own for a long time to come. I would be missing it very soon, for what was in his eyes was the same thing burning deep inside me.
"I should tell Dean I'm back, since I know he's been a bit lonely," he said. "And see Mrs. Graves, as well. Eat one of her awful scones by way of saying 'thanks' for her kind words of defense."
His hand eluded mine. He smiled at me as he spoke, though it was more like a copy of his real one, without any true life in it.
He didn't ask me not to go. He didn't say he was hurt by the news that the moment he was free, I was leaving. Or say that it hadn't always been the inevitable, this moment being destined to come between us. Either Sidney to the road again, a gypsy on a motorbike; or me on a plane to America for the Tucker Fellowship, or off to London to find my mentor.
If he had asked me not to go, I might have told Alistair to forget about me and my novel, to catch the London train by herself. If his hand were in mine, I might actually forget there were such things as words and novels. The only things grafted in me as deeply as the marrow in my bones would be supplanted by a feeling that could be simple and profound at once.
But I would be crazy to do it. He and I both knew it. That's why he would never ask me, even if I waited all day.
***
"This is farewell, I take it." Mr. Trelawney lowered the letter in his hands.
"It is." I stood before him, trying not to feel intimidated, as always. For once, I wasn't in my maid's uniform and apron, but in my red dress and a light summer coat, a suitcase at my feet and a red cloche hat on my head that I had bought on impulse last month. "I'm sorry it's such short notice. I didn't plan to leave. It just ... happened."
All my worldly possessions were gone from the upstairs room meant for Marjorie Kinnan the maid. Mr. Bubbles the stuffed giraffe, my tablet computer, the clumsily-painted blue TARDIS from Sidney, and all the bits of memorabilia I had collected while in Cornwall. The only evidence of me was the candy wrapper in its wastebasket and the nametag for my alter ego, which I had forgotten to unpin from my uniform. I would have brought it, too, except for the fact it was buried somewhere in the laundry now.
"I see." His pen was poised above an open pad now. "It's not an emergency, I trust?"
"I'm leaving to chase my dreams," I said. "I've been writing a book, and ... and the author staying at the hotel found out about it, and thinks it could be really great."
I didn't have to say which author, since it was fairly obvious, given Alistair's presence in the hotel. If Mr. Trelawney suspected something odd about my story — one which had been odd from the beginning of my time here — he didn't say anything, or even give me the quirk of his eyebrow that generally rattled his employees' knees.
His pen scrawled a signature on the bottom of the paper sheet, which he removed from his book. My final paycheck from The Penmarrow Hotel. He held it out to me, and I accepted it.
"Before I go," I said, "I want you to know that this has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. Without all of you — without this place —" I glanced at the walls around me, those of Mr. Trelawney's familiar office, with its stark, dignified photographic prints, its leather-bound books, representing all the dignity and majesty of the Penmarrow " — nothing half as wonderful could have happened to me. Everything that's happening to me now is because of all this. I can't thank you enough for believing in me. For believing me," I added. "No one else would have done it for someone who seemed as crazy as I did."
I have never been happier any place on earth, I wanted to say. You helped give me that. Those words were slight enough compared to my adventures, and the year I had spent getting to know my friends here, with one standing out above all others. Had he not let me stay, that chance would never have come to me, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.
"I wish you joy — Miss Clark," he said. "If you return to Cornwall in the future, I hope you will pay us a visit."
"I will," I said. "I'll come back here. But hopefully not as a maid," I joked. "I don't think you'd like to rehire me if I return."
"Stranger things have happened." The manager's tone was dry, as usual. But to my surprise, he held out his hand to me. "Farewell — Miss Kinnan."
"Goodbye." I shook the manager's firm fingers one more time. "Thanks again." I lifted my suitcase and walked out
of his office, closing its door carefully behind me.
The car waiting for me and Alistair Davies had arrived, visible briefly from the window of her suite as it rounded the final curve in the hotel drive: a gleaming black Austin-Healey classic in pristine condition, that could be the more dignified cousin of the hotel's model.
"My own car," she explained, as we walked to the foyer from her suite, with Riley bringing her bags. "My own driver as well. I don't mind cabs now and then in London, but I can't abide cross-county trips in one. He only arrived today after seeing off Paige in Falmouth."
"Shall I carry your suitcase for you, Madam?" Gomez addressed me in his fake accent, his hand on my suitcase's battered handle. "For old time's sake, perhaps?" No tip necessary, he meant.
"No, thanks," I said, with a smile. "I think I prefer to go out the way I came in."
None of them had expected me to leave this suddenly, or leave at all. But word had spread about my manuscripts after PC Pringle unceremoniously dumped it from my bureau onto my bedspread — and while Alistair's registration identified her as 'Mary Lamfort' from Uninvited Hauntings, almost everyone knew that the hotel's regular guest to the upstairs suite was some sort of writer under a pseudonym.
It all felt strange and surreal. Me dressed for a London trip, luggage in hand, leaving side by side with a wealthy hotel guest. It felt as if Maisie Kinnan was a separate person, who had existed outside of me and who now didn't exist at all, having ceased to be real at the same moment Mr. Trelawney bid her goodbye.
I was only Maisie Clark now.
"Farewell, home away from home," said Alistair, waving her hand to the hotel in general as she stepped into the sunny court outside. She gazed up at it from beneath the brim of her floppy white summer hat, the same traveling costume she wore the day she arrived. "Au revoir, as one says to those whom they remember fondly while away. When you're ready, dear girl," she added to me before setting off towards her waiting car, where the driver already held open the rear door for her. Riley followed, carrying her luggage.
I stepped outside. Waiting for me in front was Molly — and, strangely enough, Brigette, whom I hadn't expected. I set my suitcase down as Molly put her arms around me in a farewell embrace.
"I shall miss you," she said. "You were loads nicer than the last maid Helen — she never let me borrow her books, and made fun of my accent sometimes."
"I'll miss you, too." I hugged her back.
"Will you remember to send me a copy of your book?" she asked, anxiously, when we parted. "You said I could read it, but I never had the chance."
"I'll send you a copy," I said. "Promise."
Brigette hugged me next — I expected a feeling of prim stiffness, since she was wearing her perfectly-starched uniform. "Take proper care of yourself," she said. "Have a lovely time. Though London is a bit smoggy for my taste, and the Ritz isn't quite as grand as everyone tells you."
I hid my smile. "I'll remember," I said. "I don't think anyplace could be as grand as the Penmarrow, anyway." I clasped both her hands in mine, and felt a friendly pressure from Brigette's.
"Perhaps you'll come back sometime," she said. "We'll miss you."
"I'll be back," I repeated, with emphasis. "I guarantee it." I stepped aside, and smiled at Gomez, who was next in line. He leaned across and kissed my cheek.
"Take care of yourself, love," he said. And not in his customary Latin lover's voice.
"You, too," I said. I lifted my suitcase again and approached the car park. Riley was loading the suitcases in the car's boot, while the driver held the door open for me. I paused, glancing expectantly at the gardens around me. My final view of the hotel Penmarrow under the Cornish sun, and the green square lawns that rolled towards the distant horizon of sea and sky.
I wasn't looking at the scenery, but looking for someone who wasn't here. I had told Sidney what time I had to leave this morning to catch the train. He told me he would say goodbye before I left. I searched the line of Penmarrow staff in the distance one last time, as if expecting to see him standing among them. No one in the gardens, or approaching from the sea walk; no battered motorbike or jeep barreling into the car park at the last possible second.
He wasn't coming after all. A deep sigh of disappointment was heavy within my chest.
"Loads of luck, as they say in the States, Maisie." Riley held out his hand.
"I'll see you soon," I told him, shaking it in return. "Whenever I can come back."
"My devilish charms conquered you at last, eh? I knew it. No woman can resist forever." The porter winked at me, offering me one of his terrible roguish grins. He set my suitcase in the car's boot as I stood poised to climb inside the car, my hand lightly touching its side. I hesitated one last time.
"High time we set forth, Miss Clark," Alistair reminded me, leaning forward to catch my eye. "Trains wait for no man. Or woman."
"Right," I said. "I'm coming."
"Miss Clark?" I heard Riley's voice behind me, his tone incredulous now. Probably he suspected me of using an alias to get into the good graces of a famous author — just as he imagined I had sneaked into the Randhouser Foundation's charity ball last summer. I glanced back, laying my finger against my lips with a conspiratorial smile, then I ducked inside, the chauffer closing the door behind me.
The car rolled steadily towards the driveway, and I saw the two porters and Brigette and Molly waving goodbye to me. I waved back. No one new had joined them in the last half minute before I climbed into the car.
"We'll lunch at a lovely spot between here and London," Alistair said, consulting a compact mirror to fix the strands of hair teased wildly by the breeze. "A quiet evening's rest, then we'll lunch with Paige and do a bit of shopping on the morrow in between our chats. I have a rather pressing schedule these next few weeks, so do bear with me. We'll begin earnest work on your novel soon enough."
She lifted off her floppy hat and laid it aside, adjusting her scarf over her shoulder. "I thought we might chat a little on the way about what inspired your book — I always like to know what gives any writer their ideas. And I thought perhaps you might have a few questions of your own for me."
"What do I call you?" I said. "I can't call you Alistair, clearly. Unless that's your name?" A man's name, but there were several reasons why it could be hers, I knew. I had never stopped to think about who exactly Alistair Davies might really be.
"Margaret Holcombe," she said. "That's my given name — long, long ago, as the poets would put it. But call me Alli. All my friends do, except the ones who know me by my real name, for reasons that make for a terribly long story best saved for the train journey."
"Alli," I said. "I'll do my best to forget your alter ego's name when we're in public."
"Good." She took my hand and squeezed it. "We're going to have quite a bit of fun in between your book's edits," she said. "For a young writer, I can't think of a better scene than the one you'll experience in my company. Parties with publishers, novelists, and all their sundry acquaintances — poetry circles in Paris book shops. Do you like the theater, Miss Clark? Or may I call you Maisie? I believe the others called you that, didn't they?"
"Maisie," I said. "And I love the theater. Why?"
"You'll see why." A mysterious smile crossed Alistair's — Alli's — lips, as she settled comfortably in place and tucked her compact into her handbag again.
In my head, an image swimming of meeting famous authors and brilliant minds beneath glittering Parisian lamps. Sylvia Isles would be there — probably Alistair — Alli — knew dozens of others whose names I would recognize from bookshop shelves and digital retailers.
Dizzying. Astounding. And even though one half of me was very near to tears, the other half still couldn't believe that any of this could be true or real. What if this fantasy was every bit as imaginary as I always believed? What if they didn't like me and hated my novel? Would it matter?
Promise to take it with a grain of salt, so no self-aggrandizing dreamcrusher turns you a
side with a bleak prognosis. Sidney's voice was in my thoughts again.
"I have a spare key to my flat that I must remember to give you," she said, now searching her handbag's contents for another item. "In case you should wish to go out some evening alone — perhaps a rendezvous with another lovely young writer with a headful of dreams?"
I wasn't listening to this romantic prediction, which wouldn't interest me in the slightest, in any case. Ahead, at the mile marker for the village of Port Hewer, someone was standing as if waiting to cross. My heart beat faster, and I sat up straighter on the car's seat. Even before I could see the person's face, and was sure that the shapes around him were those of a pack of mongrel former strays, I knew it was Sidney waiting for me.
"It wasn't a summer fling," he said. "I never thought of you as simply a brief means to an end. I did think of wanting to know what it is about you that made me feel as if I knew you already. You can laugh at that if you want — or disbelieve it, if you prefer."
As the car approached, he lifted his hand and waved to me. There was a smile on his lips — not the one I wanted to see, but it was still there. I waved back at him as my own smile lit up my features.
Momentarily, he dropped out of sight, then rose with Kip in his arms, waving one of the terrier's front paws at me in farewell now. I almost laughed. Sidney caught my eye, and for one fraction of a moment, I saw the real him again, and the smile that would always cast its spell over me. One last time before I would be gone.
He lowered Kip again as the car drove past, and began walking towards the village, hands in his pockets. I turned to gaze out the back windscreen of the car. Waiting for him to look back once more, the way I always knew he would.
Look back, Sidney, I willed him. Please look back. Just one more time. I desperately needed him to do it, to know that he wasn't angry with me, and that this farewell wasn't really the last one between us. I placed my hand against the glass, as if I could somehow reach him.
"Daisies," he says.