by Laura Briggs
"They've offered you a new contract?" ventured Mr. Trelawney.
"Nay, not those fools from before. Yank publisher in New York heard about the television people sniffing around, offered me a fortune to sign with them. Six-book series, they want."
"I wish you well, then." Mr. Trelawney shook hands with the gardener.
I was next. "Goodbye, Norman," I said. "I have to tell the truth — I'm still amazed to know the truth about you. Even ... well ... even after finding the typewriter." I didn't tell him what I had really thought at the time, about whose identity I thought he truly possessed.
"Aye," he said. "Everybody always is. That's why I covered it up. Didn't figure on men writing about women's books and being the top, except for that tosser Segal, whose book was painted up as some sort of literary thing." He straightened his tweed jacket. "I'll put on a proper face for it, be a modern man of the times, as they put it — but I hope they're not as big of fools as that agent I sacked, trying to put me in a knit jumper and make me sit with a bunch of candles on a chat show, reading the bloody book aloud."
I heard a snort from Riley, possibly some laughter choked back.
"Best of luck to your new image," I said, shaking his hand with my goodbye. I had a feeling everyone involved was going to need it for this business venture, but somehow I had a feeling that Norman was destined for greater things than myself, too.
He shook hands next with the porters, and with Brigette, who was still short of words. He came to Molly, who gave him a smile as they said goodbye.
"Have you decided what you're going to write about for your new books?" she asked.
"Aye," he said. "Millionaire vampires. They're the big things these days, rich playboys and the undead. I figure it'll be a proper success."
He put on his sunglasses and started the engine of the convertible. Norman's nod of farewell reminded me strongly of his terse one for ordering people off the lawn. He beeped the car's horn twice and lifted his cap in the former crusty gardener's version of a jaunty salute as the little red car sped away towards the village.
We watched him go in silence. Riley cleared his throat. "I'm in the wrong job, clearly," he said.
"You and I both," said Gomez, his fake accent having returned.
"Maybe I'll quit and write rubbish for thousands of quid per book," said Riley. "Blubber about two people snogging with whales spouting fountains against a Caribbean sunset backdrop and raging volcanoes pulsing — if the likes of that grizzled devil can do it, surely a true ladies' man such as I can do it for a living. All I need are a few life studies for inspiration."
He turned to Brigette. "Care to become the model for a voluptuous, ginger-haired heroine in my first novel?" he asked. "I'll have you swept away by a dashing, dark-haired bloke with a bit of reputation as a hero. Capable of besting in an unfair fight any of those shirtless ruffians from Norm's books." He puffed his chest and sucked in his stomach, as if trying to resemble the beefcake heroes on those paperback covers.
Brigette's countenance changed from white to deep scarlet. "You're an — an insensitive cad, Riley Bloom." She found her tongue at last. Turning on heel, she marched back inside the hotel.
"Was it something I said?" Riley asked.
Brigette was vigorously tidying the desk with furniture polish and a fluffy cloth when I entered the foyer. The air scented with a sharp, antiseptic lemon odor that would have driven away any guests that might be in the vicinity and which I assumed was driving away thoughts of Norm being the writer of a beloved romance from her girlhood years, possibly Love's Flaming Fire. A painful reality I could sympathize with partly, thanks to Alli. I started to approach, but something about the rigidity of Brigette's shoulders looked like a warning to all potential sympathizers who dared to approach.
The mysterious widow and the European youth crowd were both gone today, so the only person who could be bothered by the scent was Alli herself. She was sitting on a plush ottoman in the foyer, apparently waiting for something or someone as she perused her little notebook.
When she saw me, she closed it. "What are your plans for the day, o wildflower girl?" she teased.
"Very little," I answered, sitting beside her. "Sonia's guests took sandwiches for their outing, and I don't have to wait on the hotel's guests until late tea, so I should probably polish the newest paragraphs in my book — good karma for writing the next ones. What about you?"
"I'm leaving," she answered. "Off to Penzance."
My surprise surely registered on my face. "But you weren't leaving for another two days." She was just missing the first night of the comet's visibility when we had talked about her plans before.
"Change of plans, I'm afraid. First, Paige's niece made arrangements for some sort of outing, then my business arrangements needed to be moved forward — so I decided to let fate decide it for me." She slipped her notebook into her purse. "But I do wish we had more time to chat. I was hoping to show you my book, and hear all about that certain someone I feel was behind your return here."
"Next time, we'll talk about all of those things," I answered. "Maybe if I come to London, we'll have tea."
"When you come to sign your contract and be on the road to fame," said Alli, smiling.
"Perfect." Obviously I would have to plan a meeting a little sooner than an event that might coincide with my turning old and gray, but there was no need to state it.
Alli rose and hugged me. I breathed in her cloud of rose perfume and white tea, which reminded me of her flat in London, with all its theatrical knickknacks and bohemian decor.
She lifted her carpet traveling bag from its spot behind the bench. "I'm going to see him first, you know," she said. "It's only a brief stop on my way down the coast, for a cuppa and a brief chat, the first time in quite awhile. I'm rather interested to see how's he changed."
She didn't have to say who 'he' was, of course, since we both knew full well. Even with time passed, a part of me still felt a spark of curiosity when this subject came up in any conversation.
"You can come with me, if you wish," Alli said.
My breath sucked inwards, hard, with surprise as her words made impact.
"I've told him about you, you see. He gave me permission to bring you when he rang. I could be imagining it, but I think he might even be slightly curious to see you."
Alistair Davies — the Alistair Davies, across from me at a seaside tea table, discussing the secrets of book four. Just a year ago, I had dreamed of it happening. It seemed so long ago, so separated from where I was now, that sometimes I felt as if I remembered it like the plot of a book I had read, then stowed on the top shelf.
It had never crossed my mind that Alli would tell him I existed, or that she would confess any part of her attempts to mentor me. And he had agreed to actually meet the naive young amateur writer who admired his work.
"I'm flattered," I said. I spoke slowly. "Tell him so. But I think I prefer to leave him a mystery."
Alli looked surprised. "I thought you would be eager for the chance," she said. "I know he didn't write that lovely letter, but he is still the author of your favorite novel."
"And always will be," I replied. "Tell me all the secrets of book four that you can — safely — next time I see you."
"Are you sure? Dearest, I'm quite in the earnest about his offer. I'm not exaggerating — well, hardly, anyway," she amended, as if just in case.
"I know you're earnest, and so am I," I replied. "Thank you, even though the answer's the same as before." I hugged her again, to say goodbye before she could ask as to why I had closed the door. I couldn't explain to her that it was better this way, with me in my world and the fantasy of Alistair Davies where he belonged — in the past, tucked away with other things I had learned I didn't need to survive.
The sunshine of afternoon faded to a greyscape world as clouds gathered overhead. I heard the first rumble of an afternoon storm as I hung my apron by the kitchen service door, so I cut through the back gardens to the
wood path, the shortcut to the wooded lanes outside the village, where I brought Dean another bouquet, this one from the hotel's garden.
Dean's cottage was locked up, its windows curtains closed. It was one of the rare occasions when Dean was absent, possibly for a physician's appointment. I knocked to be sure, then laid the flowers in the doorway, feeling the first splash of rain on my head.
As I crossed the field behind the vicarage, the downpour arrived in earnest, with a cold, heavy rain that would drench me to the skin before I ever reached Sidney's rooms. Ducking into the ruins of the old shed, I took refuge from the storm in one of Sidney's many 'thinking spots' he introduced me to over the past year.
I did much of my reflecting here these days also, especially on rainy afternoons like this one, and since I was without a book or my electronic tablet, I sat in the window frame of the stone side of the old building and watched the shower. The view looked out across the blond and green fields of grass that rose and fell like the waves of the ocean that ended their blanket at a cliffs' edge. The trees were bristle blots of dark jade and emerald, reminding me of ones in a painting of a hilltop view hanging in Dean's back passageway.
Time passed, though I felt as if it stood still, and only the wind and the rain moved as the storm rolled overhead, dripping water through the leaky thatch above. My mind had grown still as my eyes watched a small piece of the world work through its own restless abandon.
The short, hoarse bark of Kip echoed in the stone corner. He bounded inside, snuffling the weathered boards that sided the rest of the shed for insect and rodent activity, sneezing the sawdust of wood rot in return. It didn't take long for Sidney to appear behind him, his canvas coat wet across its shoulders, along with an old knapsack he used to carry books, tools, and various other necessities from time to time.
He dropped it on a dry spot by some old flattened straw, then came to rest his elbows on the part of the frame where my feet were. "I thought I might find you here," he said. "I saw the flowers at Dean's, and could think of only one person who would leave them."
"Where is he today?" I asked.
"Doctor's appointment, I should imagine. He didn't tell me. I've been busy since this morning. But Callum was driving the van with the wheelchair ramp today."
I drew my feet up close and folded my knees upright under my paisley skirt, arms around them. "Alli left today," I said. "Did I tell you she was staying here? My 'fake' Alistair Davies?"
"You didn't," he answered. He pulled himself up in the window, as Kip sniffed the soles of his work boots, which were muddy from the fields. "Did she spill any further secrets that enlightened you?" A wicked glint in his eye when he glanced my way.
"She didn't," I answered, with a faint grin. "We talked of strictly personal subjects only."
The rain pattered steadily in the barn's puddle. Kip lapped at it, then shook the rain drip from his coat. I watched the mist rising, the fog hiding the view in the distance from my eyes.
"She offered to let me meet him today," I said. "Alistair Davies. She was having tea with him not far from here."
Sidney glanced at me intently, then looked away.
"Why didn't you go?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I didn't need to."
"Need to?" he said. "That's a strange way of putting it."
"Only if you think of it in strictly sensible terms," I answered, hiding my smile. "I found what I was looking for, so I've decided not to look to any other place or person. That includes Alistair Davies, as brilliant as he may be." I met Sidney's gaze.
His smile twitched at one corner of his mouth. "You're quite sure a professional opinion wouldn't suit you this time?"
"Somehow I think it would pale by comparison," I answered. "Besides, it's the only right choice for a storyteller who's decided to rely on their own wits and instincts. I might have a relapse in the presence of genius and be begging him to read my book." I grinned openly to prove it was a joke. The crinkles at the corner of Sidney's eyes were proof of the smile winning its battle to emerge.
"Still. Your chance to meet the author who brought you here," said Sidney. "I would have thought you'd be curious, at least."
"Curious, yes," I said. "But we all are sometimes about things we decide we don't have to know, right?" I rested my chin on my knees. Tea with the famous author probably couldn't come close to equaling this rainy afternoon in Sidney's company anyway.
Sidney touched me, one finger soft as it traced my skin. "Do you think you'll change your mind and regret it tomorrow?" he asked.
"If I do, it won't be an unbearable pain. I still love his books. I still want to read the fourth one if it ever comes. But I think my time with Alli broke me of the belief that he could ever be the picture in my head," I answered. "It wouldn't be fair to expect him to live up to it, and I don't think he'll be disappointed that he didn't meet me."
"How do you know?" Sidney replied. "He might have found you clever and unique. He might have thought you were fascinating as a person and a novelist."
"Nobody finds me fascinating. Weird or eccentric, maybe."
"I did, so why wouldn't he?" Sidney said. "He's human."
"Do you really think I could captivate Alistair Davies to the point he'd want to read my book?" I lifted one eyebrow in challenge.
"We'll never know, will we?" His finger traveled from my knee to my ankle, then turned back, which is where it met with my own hand and became interlaced with my fingers. We watched the storm abate outside, the world still gray as the rain became a mist over the grassy meadows.
"Sylvia Isles found you fascinating when I described you to her once," I said. "She said she knew a boy once who was just like you. She said he was unforgettable."
"That hardly sounds like me," he said. He was actually blushing.
"It sounds exactly like you," I answered. "Scarily so." I smiled broadly, knowing Sidney was at the perfect angle to see it, while his blush was simply a rose-colored flash in the corner of my vision.
Penmarrow's dining room was packed tightly with guests for late tea, the astronomers being hungry after a long day of discussing observatory technology. Wild mushroom souffles and veal chops with spinach and grilled tomatoes were flying out of the kitchen like the proverbial saucers from space, and excited talk of the banquet and the comet viewing was the topic of almost every table, excepting the European tourists talking about a zip line adventure up the coast.
"I heard there's a storm building offshore tomorrow night," said Katy, who was sitting in the silver pantry, texting her boyfriend between serving plates. "Everybody on the green will be squinting at clouds instead of stars. What a waste of time."
"George says that it will probably clear in time to see the comet," defended Molly.
"Oh, well, George is a weather expert, I reckon," smirked Katy. Molly's cheeks burned red.
"I hope it's a beautiful night, so nobody's disappointed," I said. "Even if I probably have to spend the best hour for sightseeing clearing away plates of pesto and penne."
"You'll be lucky, because everybody else will be getting wet in the rain," said Katy, not looking away from her screen, which was pinging like mad. Her smirk became a giggle for something her boyfriend wrote. I rolled my eyes, gave Molly a supportive smile, then collected a plate of Italian rustic casserole for my next table.
"Did you hear the rumor in the village that a famous author was here a couple of days ago?" one guest was asking another, as I placed their order before them.
"I heard it was that romance writer. You know, the one who wrote Eternally Yours?"
"I loved that novel when I was in my twenties."
Sam placed the next order in the window. "Veal and spinach, tomatoes on the side, risotto held with chips as a substitute," he said. "And there's something for the guest wanting a light salad and a cuppa."
This guest was the beautiful widow, sitting alone at a table for two near the window. She was gazing outside as I set her plate and teacup on the table, and I gave her
a smile as I collected her menu.
She spoke. "You know the young man who saved the drowning swimmer," she said. "I saw you with him on the beach that day. " Her voice was quiet and elegant, carried more by presence than volume.
"I know the men who rescued him, yes," I said, surprised that she had begun conversation, since she was so reserved.
"Not the one who works at the hotel," she said.
"You mean Sidney." Of course, since he was the one rescuer who hadn't been posing with guests for selfies since the accident.
"Yes, him," she said. "He lives in this village?"
"He does," I said. "I'm friends with him. He works as a local groundskeeper. It was just good luck or Divine fate that he happened to be on the rocks that day."
She reached into her bag and withdrew a small, square-shape box tied with twine. "Would you be so kind as to give him something for me?" she asked, holding it out to me. "I'll be leaving shortly, but I wish him to have this."
The hollow eyes in that beautiful face had a certain pleading, despite the posh dignity which had frosted both the porters, but I could see why they had both been struck by her initially — that certain sense of mystery enhancing her charms.
"Of course," I said. "I'd be happy to do it." I accepted it, tucking it into my apron pocket. I was touched by the gesture — the first given to any of the swimmer's rescuers, as far as I knew. The event had brought out a streak of kindness in nearly everybody who had heard about it so far.
"Thank you," she said. She retreated into her shell again, although I felt her watching me as I walked away. Her island must be a lonely one, I thought.
Sidney should be flattered — even Riley's posturing as a hero hadn't earned him much more except free drinks at the nearby pub, and not so much as a glance from the much-admired lady.
"Mushroom souffle, French asparagus to the side," Sam announced, putting the plate in the window. "I'll be glad when Cameron comes back from holiday to serve front line duty. We're seeing too much of each other these days, Maisie."