by Laura Briggs
I turned back from the garden gatepost. He stood at the opening of the shed. "Because of the book," he continued. "Doctor Seuss. That's why you wear one."
"How did you know?" I asked. It was obvious in a way, but it wasn't, too. It wasn't as if everyone had read and remembered that book, or would think I would choose them for that reason. Or would be thinking about me closely enough to make the connection between me and a simple flower tucked behind one ear.
"The same way I know everything else about you," he replied, with a mysterious smile that will never tell me the answers.
He turned. I caught a glimpse of his face, though I couldn't see his expression. He lifted his hand once more and waved to me; I watched him until the car turned at the next bend in the road and I lost sight of Sidney, Kip, the other dogs, and the last glimpse of Port Hewer's boundaries.
"Change your mind."
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling tears gather beneath my lids, briefly.
An impossible hurt that could split apart muscle formed this heartache — if medical science scanned it right now, I would expect its rift to be visible. Leaving Ronnie behind after our steady two-year relationship had never hurt the way leaving Sidney did — a mere friend by the most technical definition of our status.
"Looking backwards already?" Alistair — Alli — lifted her gaze from her handbag as she snapped it closed again, her eyeglasses perched on her nose, and her little notebook on her lap now. "Or saying farewell?"
I opened my eyes and looked at her again, putting a smile on my lips so she wouldn't see that I was sad beneath it. I tried concentrating on the cover of her little notebook, with its beautifully-patterned cloth and its decorative little pencil. Innocuous details like these would save me for the time being.
It was probably full of secrets, including those about the fourth novel, I told myself. The bright red kimono silk was blurred ever so slightly by the tears rimming my gaze. If I asked her about its elusive details, maybe she would share them sometime — Dean might be interested in knowing about the unfinished novel, too, though he never confessed to actually liking Davies' works. I would tell Sidney in a letter and swear him to secrecy.
I could write Sidney every day. No more typing journal entries he would never read, full of stories about other people's lives. If he would write me only one honest line in return, it would be enough; though, when I imagined what Sidney's voice could be like on paper, I hoped for more, even if only the words of a friend.
"Even if that's all we are, we might at least make the most of it." Sidney, however, could never be simply a friend to me after the way he understood my thoughts. A friendship begun with a spark of romance would always carry the embers of something stronger.
"Saying au revoir," I answered. I turned to face the world ahead, sitting forward on the car's seat again. I placed my hat beside me. A pink daisy was tucked between the cloche's decorative ribbon trim.
Alli’s promise is sweeping Maisie away for a glamorous tour with a chance for fame, even as her heart and thoughts remain in Cornwall … will she find a way to have both, or has she made the wrong choice after all? Discover the answer in Book Five, coming to eBook retailers in April of 2020!
Special Excerpt from Book Five, A Train from Penzance to Paris:
"Is it your birthday soon?" Alli could see the dancing cake with candles decorating the front of my card from home.
I nodded. "Today," I said. "Perfect timing by Europe's mail operations." It was a stroke of luck that mom's package and letter had arrived on the day itself, and I knew she would laugh when she heard about it later. I imagined the package must contain a book by the shape of it. I shifted Molly's postcard under it, finding the last card I had received was only a coupon ad from a shop in Penzance. My heart sank. No birthday greetings from Sidney.
"What a pity that we have that engagement tonight already with a couple of old friends of mine, else we'd celebrate it in style while in the City of Light," said Alli. "But I promised I'd come and that I'd bring you so they could meet you, since they're rather struck by the idea of me having a protege. Or amused might be the better word." She chuckled. "Well, we shall have to think of something in London for tomorrow night."
And I thought by now we had met every one of Alli's friends, French or otherwise, proving how wrong I was. "It's all right," I said. "I didn't expect anything special." I played with the twine on my package as I tucked it into my shoulder bag for later. I wondered if my mom had sent a bestseller or something obscure and interesting-sounding that she stumbled upon.
"At least you'll love the spot where we're going, if nothing else," said Alli. "It's a quaint little hole where all the writers I know in Paris tend to gather — nothing at all like the Thinker's Society's hall, I assure you. Though I did understand once that Fitzgerald supposedly wrote part of a screenplay while drinking a cocktail at the little table near the back."
"That sounds interesting enough for me," I answered. I had a leftover pastry of chocolate and coffee tucked away in my room for afterwards, one I hadn't been able to finish after last night's opera. A birthday bedtime snack before my open window, with a view of the silent pastry kitchen at nighttime, the diners laughing and conversing in the softly-lit upstairs room of the restaurant. My French farewell as I marked the beginning of another year of life.
I remembered my last birthday, spent gazing at Tintagel Castle at sunset from mine and Sidney's vantage point on a big rock. A carpet of pale emerald grass rolling away from the craggy stones, rose and orange horizon in the background as I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees, Sidney beside me, leaning back on his elbows as he alternately gazed at the landscape and at me.
His sandy hair took on shades of russet and wheat gold in the dying light, and I thought of the gold in fairytale books, the blush-worthy mistake I made regarding his looks when we first met. He had never mentioned it again, but I knew he hadn't forgotten my slip of the tongue on that occasion. I could see his laughter for it in the corner of his eyes whenever he was smiling over a joke he didn't share.
Our eyes had met, and the look we exchanged expressed everything about the moment and the beauty we were sharing in these ruins, without any need for words between us. I couldn't top that experience, not even with all the fireworks in Paris.
"Wear your new dress tonight, since you didn't get a chance for the opera," coaxed Alli.
"The dress I'm going to return?" I answered.
"Think of it as a birthday gift. Please do," said Alli, pleadingly. "You're young and this is Paris. I do want you to have a splendid time, even if it's in the company of two rather dull ladies for the evening."
I smothered a laugh. "I don't think you could ever be dull," I answered. "You win. I'll put on the dress tonight for the drink with your friends."
The dress Alli had persuaded me to keep would have been perfect in this club's glory days — a jazzy, sheer black lace with an opaque lining and delicate beaded fringe around its skirt. She had loaned me a black scarf to match, and I pinned an old brooch and black ribbon in my hair like a fascinator. A pity my locks weren't as short as they were last winter, because it would complete the look perfectly.
I checked the effect in the mirror. The dress was beautiful, although I still wished I could have persuaded Alli to take it back. I put on my jewelry, then put my room's keycard into my clutch.
There was still time before leaving to catch up in my journaling, though I had all but given it up by now. There was too much to write about, because any time I spent in the world of Alistair Davies held too many details for me to remember. From the performance of La Dame aux Camelias to the French riverbank scene depicted on the postcard to Molly, who would be amazed how the sunset on a Paris postcard could look so much like one over Port Hewer's coast.
There was a new sheet of paper for my next letter, waiting on my desk beside the propped-up birthday greetings from Mom and Molly. One more letter to Sidney, one more to be posted with fingers crossed that he wa
s going to write back.
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