A Stargazy Night Sky

by Laura Briggs

  She reached to take his other hand. "But I will choose it alone if I must." She held him tightly.

  My eye moved on slowly, as the mouse skipped ahead from passages about Tam and Janet's decision, and the vows made to each other.

  "If I could ever be free, I would find you," he whispered. "I swear it. But Janet, I will never be." He controlled his voice, but his young features looked older suddenly.

  My highlighter flashed across another sentence I wanted to return to, a paragraph ahead, as Tam and Janet sealed their promise with a kiss, and faced the sentence that had to be carried out before dawn ... the ache all the sharper, the pain and the bittersweet stronger ....

  The bolded paragraph came at the chapter's end, where my cursor hovered, hesitating. He cupped her face with both his hands, gazing intently into her eyes. From the windows high above, she heard a rustling sound, like the wings of birds fluttering. She knew the fairies were gathering there on the night birds they rode. To watch.

  Tam held her face from turning. "Don't look," he whispered. "Look at me only." His eyes held her as firmly as his hand. "If this is what we choose, then nothing else about it must matter but us."

  Was this last bit leading places a bit too racy, I pondered? Smacking of a royal court wedding night in Tudor England, HBO style to the imagination of future readers? I decided to ask Sidney's opinion about the fairies' role in the 'forfeit' before I leaped ahead in the next chapter to Janet's fate on returning to the village. I wanted to make the fairies' plight for forfeit upon Tam and Janet cruel, complex, and compelling on the page— but not sleazy or exploitative to impressionable young readers.

  It was all too rough, still too melodramatic, with not enough of the characters' colors bleeding through, but it was a start. My second novel was at least beginning to take up memory space as a document.

  My mobile's alarm beeped and I switched it off, hastily saving my latest changes and throwing on my server's apron that I had left draped over one of the silver pantry's shelves. There were trays waiting to be served, and Brigette would have a disapproving frown waiting for me if I didn't scurry.

  "Tray to the three gentlemen debating planetary annihilation by meteor," announced Sam, as he placed it in the service window. I collected it with a stifled snort of laughter and carried it through to the main dining room.

  The astronomers had most of the tables and the debates on the cosmos continued outside the ballroom, apparently. One female scientist flew her scone like a UFO over her cake plate in illustration of something during a discussion with her table companions. The three gentlemen debating our fiery doom scarcely noticed the arrival of their teatime sandwiches, but continued on between milk and sugar lumps.

  "Tea tray to the mystery widow, two biscuits, utter surrender of the hotel porters in writing," announced Sam with a grin. "Collect your ten quid from the betting window after hours, please."

  "It was too easy of a wager for me," I answered, as I collected this smaller tray for one. "Is she in her room?"

  "Keeping to her lonely self on the parlor sofa, I expect."

  The widow was at the windows, staring out at the lawn, and scarcely noticed me as I set down the tray and informed her of the fact. I thought she was looking for someone, for there was a crowd of people gathered out there, among them the guest from the near-drowning incident, who was going home today. His well wishers included Riley, who was taking advantage of his hero status by posing for a few snaps with the rescued swimmer and some cute female guests from the beach crowd.

  The Eastern European crowd occupied both chairs and the edges of the ornamental palm urns, where they were swapping photos via mobile phones on wifi — except for the two people sitting on the big fern's pot nearest to the front desk. George had his coffee mug balanced on one knee, both hands occupied with an electronic tablet's photos, which he was showing to an intensely-absorbed Molly with her empty serving tray.

  " — and this is the first photo taken when it came into view of the Russian observatory near Siberia," he was saying. "Those little bits of dust — see them? Those are —"

  Molly had noticed me and gave a slight jump. "Maisie," she said. "Hi." Her cheeks were burning red, a flustered note taking over her tone of voice.

  "Hi, guys," I said. "What's up?" I pretended I didn't notice anything different.

  "Photos of the comet," said George, showing me what looked like a black and white enlargement of dust specks. "I was showing Molly some of the documentation of its orbit, used to track its return to our night sky — it's a limited showing, so you should find a telescope and see it while it's in town," he joked.

  "I'll remember," I said. "I think I have a friend with a telescope who probably wouldn't mind a trek to a field for a little stargazing." I had seen one in Sidney's work shed, a bit of a junk version with a broomstick handle where one of its tripod legs should be, but probably good enough for two amateurs who had limited knowledge of the stars.

  He glanced at Molly. "Are you free that evening?" he asked. "I won't be at the banquet, but setting up observation on the roof for the comet's best time," he said. "You could join me there. We could see it together."

  The color flashed bright in Molly's cheeks and lingered there. "I'd like that," she said. "Only — I'm working until a bit late."

  "That's quite all right," said George. "Best visibility time is after eight, and we can cross our fingers that the bit of cloud cover forecast doesn't arrive until the wee small hours. We'll call it a date, shall we?"

  Molly's face was completely crimson, briefly. "It sounds lovely," she answered.

  His smile was slightly-crooked adorability, which reminded me all over again why she had found him attractive last year, and I suspect it was reminding her of the same. "I suppose I should fetch the others tea," she said, while still blushing. "I'll see you later?"

  "Of course." He smiled again.

  I held my tongue until we were well out of his audible range. "He's as cute as ever," I said.

  "Don't." Molly's embarrassment was at full capacity. "Only — do you think he realized that I really do want to see him that evening? I didn't want to be too bold, but I do want to go."

  "He knows you like him," I said, confidently. "You're not overplaying your hand."

  "I haven't said so, though. He could still be thinking I don't."

  "Has he told you he likes you?" I asked.

  "No. Well ... he said he missed me. And that he was ever so glad we chatted sometimes, because ..." here, Molly paused as if waiting to find out if she was destined to sink through the floorboards first, " ... because he felt we really do understand the world in the same way."

  "Oh, Molly, that's as good as saying he likes you." That was the sort of remark that would melt any girl's heart in the movies, and, cliche as it is, it works the same in the real world more often than not.

  "I thought so. Only I'm never really sure. I suppose it's because I haven't been in many relationships," she confessed. "I suppose if George and I like each other, it will be my first real one."

  "Tray for the private suite upstairs, the younger, chattier version of Maggie Smith," said Sam, placing a full service afternoon tea in the window. "Porters aren't answering the matron Brigette's little bell at the moment, it seems."

  "That's mine," I said, claiming it. Riley must still be posing with the swimsuit crowd.

  "I'm not forgetting you, Molly," said Sam. "Six hazelnut cappuccinos and sweet buns for the fresh young things just in from the Czech Republic."

  I knocked twice on the door before I was bid to enter. Alli was sitting at the desk with a big pile of correspondence, her eyeglasses dangling from their pearly chain. "I was hoping it would be you," she said. "Come, sit — leave the tray on the sitting room table, I'm not quite peckish yet. I have to answer at least two dozen letters before I crave cucumber and watercress."

  Leaving the tray as bid, I sat down on the chair which Alli patted, the one closest to the desk. "Are those this month's letters?"
I asked. Once, my own epistle to Alistair Davies had been among them, with full expectations of being read, laughed at, and tossed as yet another annoying fan/amateur writer's request. Little did I know who by — and how — it would be answered, in circumstances which past me would have believed confined to fiction.

  "More than that, actually," she answered. "Everything since my previous visit. I neglected to have them forwarded to London last time — that was your fault, silly girl. Taking you as a project completely distracted me from my obligations."

  "Sorry," I said. "You can apologize to the real Alistair on my behalf for delaying the response to his devoted fans." There was a tiny bit of flippancy in my tone that must surely be from Sidney's influence.

  Alli capped her pen. "I will when I see him," she answered. "Which will be during this visit, as it happens. It will be the first time in some years, but I suppose it's to discuss book four — and he did promise to read a silly bit of what I've been scribbling on my own. I did tell you that's why I'm here, didn't I? I've quite forgotten now." Her brow wrinkled.

  "You didn't." A faint shiver, a shadow of its former self, passed through me for the idea of the real Alistair Davies being somewhere close by. "Is he coming here, or are you meeting him elsewhere?"

  "We're lunching not far from here, if I remember correctly." Alli consulted her little Chinese silk notebook, failing to locate this particular entry after thumbing through its pages. "Some little out of the way spot he chose. At any rate, it will be before I'm off to meet with Paige, so I intend to have these letters finished and posted, so he doesn't think I'm neglecting my end of the bargain."

  She slit the next envelope with a paper knife. "Of course, you'll be on bookshelves before either myself or Alistair if the stars favor your lovely novel soon. You must be quite excited by the prospect."

  "Of course," I said.

  I hadn't told Alli that Helen had rejected my novel. She'd hear it soon enough, and I didn't want to bear personally the disappointing news that her prediction was wrong. "But there's plenty of time for it to happen, so I'm probably better off concentrating on my next book," I continued. "Taking the process step by step as it comes." Rejection by rejection, I thought, for however long it took to exhaust my first list of submissions.

  One more publisher was already past its 'respond by' deadline for manuscript interest without a reply.

  "I expect you'll savor the moment when it comes also," said Alli. "Do tell me right away when it happens — I'll send you a gift, or throw a party for you. Would it be a bit unlikely for Alistair Davies to give a 'just published' party for a young writer?" She pondered this as she unfolded the next letter. "I'll have to host it incognito, I suppose."

  I plucked a bit of red yarn from the chair's arm, evidence of Alli's pashmina shawl thrown across it recently. "What is the real Alistair like?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?" she asked in return, as she lifted a fresh sheet of stationery from its box.

  "Physically. Personally." I was thinking of Norman the gardener's grizzled, crusty self. Since discovering the typewriter in the greenhouse, I had been wondering if the 'secret' the gardener was said to possess was the same as the reclusive author's. I couldn't shed the idea, though I had tried several times since that fateful encounter.

  I hated to ask this question of Alli, but I needed to know — just to know how wrong I had been all along, if for no other reason.

  Alli looked slightly apologetic. "I'm afraid I can't divulge anything very personal," she said. "It's very hush-hush, those are the terms of our contract, as you are aware. He simply doesn't like for people to know."

  "Why doesn't he, do you think?" I asked. That was where the answer lay, I imagined. Crusty old Norman didn't like people all that much, judging by his interaction with the human race.

  "I suspect trouble and tragedy of a personal nature," she answered, gently. "If one was to guess. At the time, he told me he had a reputation to protect, and I accepted him at his word, which seemed perfectly true, but I always suspected there was something more to it. Perhaps the answer is in the stories — it generally is for writers, I've been told."

  I wondered what tragedy or trouble would plague a man like Norman. "Do you think he had something to hide?" I asked. I had no idea where I was going with this notion.

  "I really haven't the foggiest, dear girl. He seemed perfectly normal, but I do believe there was some discontent beneath — whether for being the writer or being whatever he really was. I thought perhaps that's why he stopped meeting with me. But the impression of unhappiness would be stronger over distance, I suppose."

  "Maybe the books weren't his own?" It was a joke, but it would almost be a relief to think there was one more secret author at work here than to imagine Norman hunched over the Royal MM typewriter in his dingy gardening hat, an oath and a cigarette dangling from his lips as he squinted at a newborn passage from A Dark and Glorious House.

  "Do remember, you are talking to a woman who possesses a rather exaggerated view of the world," laughed Alli. "Put anything, no matter how fantastical, in suitable terms, and the artist in me will bring it to life in reality." She signed her name — or, rather, Alistair's — with a flourish at the bottom of a short note.

  "I suppose it would be against the rules to describe him," I ventured. This was beyond Alistair's boundaries, I was certain.

  "Indeed it would be." Alli looked thoughtful. "Although I haven't seen him in some time, so he may have changed a good deal. He'll certainly look older ... and I wouldn't be surprised if whatever has kept him so distanced in latter years doesn't show itself in certain ways. One always thinks the color in a voice will be part of the physical palette." She opened another letter. "I thought his color took on hues of sadness after a certain point, whenever we spoke on the phone."

  I let the subject go at this point. I couldn't begin to guess at what secret Alli detected in the real-life Alistair, be it dual life or tragic event; and possible connections to the hotel gardener made it a mystery well beyond my fathoming. The only thing tragic about Norman seemed to be his lack of cheer and people skills, and it seemed silly, imagining Norman abandoning a brilliant, successful career to prune roses.

  "You said you brought part of your book with you," I said to Alli. "I don't suppose I would be allowed a peek also?"

  "Don't be silly," she answered, with a scoff. "I wouldn't deny myself a chance to show it off, even if it's as dreadful as I fear. I need a writer's eyes."

  "You know a hundred better writers than me, even without counting Alistair Davies." Alli was friends with members of the most elite literary and artists society on the planet, which was how I gained the privilege of dinner in their secret hideaway once.

  "But I can't show it to anyone in the Thinker's Society," protested Alli. "Half of them think of me as the author of some obscure but undoubtedly brilliant book, and the other half know me as Alistair — not one of them could possibly be allowed to read the work of humble Megs Buntly."

  "Point taken," I said. "Then I would love to join the secret society privy to her memoirs, which will be far more covert and exclusive than any meeting of the Thinker's guild."

  "I do love the way you put it," said Alli, with a chuckle. She capped her pen and laid it atop the stack of finished letters. "Now, however, I should divulge all the news you've missed since leaving London. Sylvia read to us from her unfinished manuscript this past week at Charlie's dinner."

  "No! Was it as brilliant as the first one?" My jaw dropped open. Sylvia Isles had been my favorite among Alli's famous friends, both personally and artistically.

  "Even better. Wait until you hear the allegory involving the egret's nest." Alli settled herself for a long chat, clearly enjoying this rehash of the society's meeting, once again neglecting the correspondence on the desk, from fans who had no idea that the Alistair Davies who wrote back was as fictitious as his novel's characters. I certainly didn't when that letter fired my determination to change my destiny.


  Now I wondered what I would have done if I had learned the truth at the beginning.

  ____________________

  "I know it doesn't quite resemble a real comet, but I thought it was a noble attempt nonetheless," Sonia said, as she tied a piece of fishing line to her creation and let it dangle in demonstration.

  It was only a large foam ball covered in aluminum foil, its tail made from Christmas tinsel and starry silver gift twine, but it looked decorative enough for its place of honor above the picture window, which was strung with silver party flags.

  "It definitely has the spirit of one," I ventured, and did not admit to having seen the real thing in George's copies of the unromantic observatory photos.

  "That's exactly the word I need," said Sonia. "Hand me a bit of that sticking plaster and I'll secure it." She climbed the stepladder. "Did you see the splendid little planetary lights that I purchased?"

  "The ones on the counter? They're adorable," I answered, as I peeled off a piece of tape. One of our backpackers passed through with his knapsack and walking stick, fitting one of Sonia's leftover scones in his mouth.

  "A comet? How clever," he said. "Getting into the spirit of the thing, are we?"

  "I feel it's really the least one can do for something that only comes once in life," she answered. "Unlike love, marriage, or taxes."

  Our guest laughed. "Well put," he said. "Will you be hosting a stargazing party?"

  "Only with star-shaped sandwiches at tea," answered Sonia, as she tucked the silver streamers into more flattering waves. "But the village is hosting an informal one on the green near the old village hall, with a bonfire planned."

  "Splendid," he said. "We'll have to pop by if we return from Penzance in time."

  "Where are you going now?" I asked.

  "We're walking that delightful trail along the coast," he said. "This time, we plan to make an evening of it, and perhaps experience nature nocturnally. I have high hopes of testing my camera's new infra-red lens. Cheerio, lasses." He swallowed the last bite of scone and departed.