by Stacy Gail
Chapter Thirteen
Chandler was ready to drop every technological form of communication into the nearest body of water, change his name and move away. The special edition he’d published was twenty-four hours old, yet he was already sick of fielding calls and emails. If one more person asked him for further details, he was certain he’d tell them to go fuck themselves. There were no more details, because he’d put everything he knew into the special edition. If the townspeople wanted anything more from him, they were shit out of luck. That was yesterday’s news, literally and figuratively. Today he had other fish to fry.
I do think you need to let him know you’re wrapping things up in Texas.
The line from the email Parker had forwarded to him yesterday hit out at him from the corner he kept trying to shove it into. He gave it another mental shove and cussed out loud as he drove the length of dirt track leading to Daisy’s place. Goddamn stupid email. It hadn’t let him rest. It woke him in the wee hours of the morning with the absolute certainty that Parker had already left for her next project. It had been such a concrete certainty in his head that he’d left his own bed to drive to the Nooner, just to make sure her car was still there. He’d thought of knocking on her door, but that sort of thing wasn’t romantic at three in the morning. It was, however, something a stalker would do.
Three in the morning? Checking on her car? Yup. Welcome to Stalkerville.
The hell of it was, he’d always known Parker would leave. It was one of those things that was just...understood. Not to mention there was nothing about her that said small-town life. She was sophisticated, well-traveled. She’d seen more of the world by the time she’d hit puberty than most people saw their entire lives. And she wasn’t done; France’s Loire Valley was waiting for her just as soon as she could get away from here. From the beginning, she’d let him know she had made room in her schedule to take on Thorne Mansion. The project had excited her, but now that it was almost done, at least as far as a conservation architect was supposed to take things, it was time for her to move on. New day, new project.
That was all Bitterthorn represented to her—a project. And she was so good at her job she was already tying it up with her usual, intolerable efficiency. In another handful of days it would be time for her to deal with some demanding asshole marquis guy in France, complete with a romantic chateau that she’d no doubt be in raptures over.
He hated everything about it.
“Welcome to Purple Sage Inn,” Daisy greeted when she swung open the door.
He shot her a withering look as he moved inside. “You’ve moved on to Zane Grey?”
“That was Riders of the Purple Sage, so technically speaking, no. I think I’m going to plant some sage along the drive, so Purple Sage Inn will be appropriate. What isn’t appropriate,” she added, leading him into the whitewashed sunroom where she’d clearly been doing paperwork at a table surrounded by wicker chairs, “is how the damn phone’s been ringing off the hook. Couldn’t you have given me some warning about the special edition?”
“I sent you an email days ago.”
“You did?” She shot an accusing glance at her open laptop, as if it had let her down for not verbally informing her that it might be a good idea to check her inbox. “Crud.”
“That’s why I thought I’d swing by to see how you were doing.” With a long sigh, he folded himself into a chair opposite her, then grimaced when she shoved all the paperwork to one side of the table in one messy pile. That was Daisy—messy but decisive, all rolled into one. “I hadn’t heard from you since I let the family skeletons out of the closet, so I figured you were pissed off at me.”
“Hardly, dude. I’ve been too busy chasing down whether or not I’ve got all the right inspections and permits to open for business now that I’ve settled on a name.”
“So you’re okay with it?”
“Honestly, who gives a crap about what happened a century and a half ago?” She lifted an impatient shoulder, the picture of distraction. “It’s not like it can have any lasting effect on the here and now, right?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I did wonder if this new revelation hooked you on the horns of a personal dilemma.” As she spoke, she reached for a box of vanilla wafers by her chair, shook it noisily at him until he took a handful, then snagged one for herself. “I mean, I can imagine it must have been kind of awkward. Here you are, the editor of the town’s only paper, and the biggest news to hit since Thorne Mansion burned down suddenly appears...and it’s the discovery that our supposedly lily-white heroic ancestor ran a stable of prostitutes.”
Popping a cookie into his mouth, Chandler let the sugary crispiness settle a moment before chewing. “So?”
“What do you mean, so? Don’t tell me you didn’t feel a moment of horror when you found out Declan Senior was a pimp.”
“I was shocked, sure. But once I recovered, I thought it was kind of hilarious.” When she simply stared at him with huge brown eyes, he shrugged. “I probably don’t understand the situation. Both you and Mayor Weems seem to think I should have at least hesitated in printing the truth.”
“Holy cats, the shriveled-up prune and I agree on something? Forget I said anything, I must be in the wrong.” Clearly appalled, Daisy crunched down on a cookie. “In my humble opinion, it’s a healthy response to not give a damn about what happened way back when. It shows we’ve both got a strong sense of who we are now, and it can’t be shaken by where we came from.” Then she scowled. “Wait. Why would Mayor Weems say anything about this situation? It has nothing to do with her. Unless...did she suggest we should hang our heads in shame, that hideous old crone?”
“Whoa, take a breath. Geez.” Chandler popped another cookie into his mouth while his cousin fumed. “I have no clue why the mayor went out of her way to address this issue. For reasons known only to her, she wanted me to bury the story. She even brought you into the conversation, citing concern for all Thorne descendants everywhere who might find this hidden family revelation distressing.”
“Concern? That woman’s having a goddamn ball busting my chops over every last little detail regarding hotelier inspections, codes and permits,” she ranted, gesturing at the pile of papers that suddenly seemed a lot more ominous to Chandler’s eyes. “She even smiled when she told me she’s going to change the fucking building code requirements for next year, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Yet now she’s giving lip service to being concerned for me, just so she can trip you up? That bitch. That...that...bitch.”
His already gloomy mood went black. “She’s hassling you, too?”
“Chandler, when is Mayor Weems not hassling us?” came the wearily resigned reply. “Or anyone or anything tied to us, for that matter? She doesn’t want me to be a success in opening the B and B because my mom’s maiden name was Thorne. She goes into apoplectic seizures every time she thinks about you being the head of the Herald. And there’s still concern in my mind that she could shut down your architect.”
“Parker’s almost done here.” He hated the frigid wasteland that opened up inside him as he forced the words out. But it was a reality he had to start facing—a reality Parker herself was forcing him to face, if that damned email was any indication. “Now that she knows the mansion was designed by some hotshot royal engineer guy from the Victorian era, all that’s left is to make sure the building materials are authentic, and that it’s up to current legal code.”
“That’s great.” When he didn’t respond, she cocked her head. “Isn’t it?”
“Daisy, with all this ancestor stuff coming up, do you ever think about the legacy you’re going to leave behind?”
“Are you serious? I can’t even imagine how life is going to be next week, much less what I’m going to leave behind for my children, or my children’s children.”
“That’s just it. Y
ou don’t have any children. In fact, you don’t have anyone serious in your life to make those children with. Legacy-wise, you’ve got absolutely nothing going for you.”
Her expression darkened ominously. “Gee, just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse. Thanks for the pep talk, cuz. Think I’ll go drown myself in the creek now.”
Oy. What a great guy he was, spreading misery wherever he could. “The creek’s too shallow, and I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What did you mean?”
Exasperated with himself, he groped around for the right words. “Have you ever imagined yourself building a family?”
“Well, sure.” Then she seemed to do a mental back step. “I mean, kind of. There are no specifics, or anything.”
“Specifics?”
“Like a future husband, or at the very least whomever I choose to father my children. I’m not crushing on anyone at the moment, so it’s hard to envision the details.”
His inner vision was chock-full of freckles and unruly red hair. “I see.”
“I do think I’d want him to be blond,” she went on, looking off into space as she obviously set her imagination sailing into the hinterlands. “Kids with his blond hair and my dark eyes would look great, don’t you think? And he’d have to have an epic ass. I know it’s shallow of me, but I’m partial to firmly rounded, muscular—”
“Daisy.”
She blinked, her hands held up descriptively in front of her. She looked like she was holding invisible melons. “What?”
He sighed. “My point is that you’ve never given it a lot of thought, have you? There’s never been a reason to think about it.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
“Maybe I don’t either.” But he knew it wasn’t Thorne Mansion and Declan Senior’s legacy that was making him think about children, or permanence. Or of belonging and rightness, and being complete in a way that the possibility of children became so real in his heart he ached to reach out and touch them.
It was Parker.
* * *
Parker couldn’t put her finger on what was different between her and Chandler, but she was certain there was something...off. From the time they’d decided to become lovers they had spent every night together. It wasn’t something they’d talked about; it had simply evolved to become a sort of ritual. But he hadn’t shown up at the Nooner, and the text message she’d sent him the night before hadn’t been answered until sunrise the next morning. Of course she didn’t expect Chandler to interrupt every aspect of his life simply because they’d fallen into bed together, and she sure as hell didn’t want to come off as some freaky clinging vine. But she’d missed him. Alone in her bed, with sounds of lovers doing what they did at the Nooner, she’d missed the hell out of him.
Her usual pep was MIA the next morning, no doubt due to her almost sleepless night. To give herself a boost, she stopped by Pauline’s on her way to the work site for a latte and a softball-sized, lavishly gooey cinnamon roll. She scooted out of there when she saw the mayor approaching the shop, determined not to make waves when she was feeling oddly uncertain about where she stood with Chandler. Then she shook her head as she walked across the square and ducked into her office. Was this what being in love did to a person’s brain? Before she’d come to Bitterthorn, she’d been a confident, self-assured woman. Now, a handful of weeks later, she was reduced to a twitchy, insecure mess because Chandler hadn’t spent the night with her. What the hell was her malfunction? She didn’t need to rely on someone else for her personal sense of stability, for God’s sake. She was stronger than that.
But she’d be damned if she’d spend another night alone.
As if being sleep-deprived and out of sorts weren’t enough, fate decided she needed more stress. Almost immediately after work got underway, one of the crew informed her that the main generator had blown to the point where they could do nothing but call for a replacement, which would arrive some time after lunch. An hour later a lumber shipment that was the wrong size came in on a flatbed, and she couldn’t seem to get it through the delivery man’s head that she wasn’t about to accept it. All things considered, she was proud she managed to keep her cool, until the driver of the flatbed asked if he could speak to “a man in charge.” That was when she threatened to shove the lumber where the sun didn’t shine, and he’d better get the hell out before she actually did it. Once she’d frightened him away, she marched into her office to harangue just about anyone she could on the lumberyard’s end, only to discover she couldn’t find their phone number. Swearing mightily, she dug through her satchel for her touchscreen tablet when her hand brushed the rough surface of the tin Chandler had given her as a keepsake.
Irritated, she tossed the tin onto the workstation, only to do a double-take when a faint rattle came from within. Hadn’t Chandler told her it was empty? To make sure she wasn’t hearing things, she pried open the lid only to find one side of the tin’s interior was a different color than the other. Angling it toward the light, her heart skipped a beat when she realized there was some sort of yellowed paper stuck to the inside.
“What the hell?” With her irritation vanishing, she searched through the various implements at the workstation and came up with a letter opener with a handle shaped like the Eiffel Tower. After about a minute of careful maneuvering, the paper unglued itself from its resting place and fell out onto the table.
Yellowed with age, the rectangular paper was folded into thirds, and she could see the fine linen threads in the stationery even before she unfolded the two pieces of paper. Precise, razor-straight cursive in indigo stood out clearly, and the name Thorne hit her eyes before she knew what to expect.
To Whom It May Concern,
If you are reading this, it assuredly means the “eternal” greatness of Thorne Mansion is no more. I do hope the Thorne family lives on, and that the loss or demolition of the mansion is indeed not a loss at all, but rather a bright and hopeful step toward a future of which I can only dream.
However, offering up lofty dreams for future generations of Thornes is not the reason for this landlocked message in a bottle. I’m writing this because of the past—my past, to be precise. If you are of my lineage, it is also your past of which I speak. The events that happened long ago have become a weighty burden for me to bear, perhaps because I am now the only one who knows my secret. Or perhaps it is a case of acknowledging my own mortality. I feel I must share, even in this small way, the truth of the blood flowing in my aging veins.
I was born seven months after my parents, Declan Sr. and Temperance, were married. By all accounts, this was quite the scandal. However, my parents were wealthy and powerful, but even more importantly, they were kind. As such, friends and neighbors looked the other way. Of course, small-minded gossipmongers enjoyed trotting out the dubious arithmetic of my birth date, but for the most part it was accepted that “accidents happen.”
Sadly, I was no accident. Moreover, I am not the true son of Declan Senior. I am his nephew.
The events leading to my creation began when Declan’s sister, Adelia, all but fifteen, insisted on traveling from Boston to stay with her beloved brother. Like many people who had suffered through the vagaries of The War Between the States, young Addie was dazzled by the romantic tales emanating from the Wild West. She brought herself to Texas, only to land fresh off the train straight into the clutches of Louisa Weems, the matron of a boardinghouse known for its ill-repute.
Parker blinked and reread the name to make sure her brain wasn’t pulling a fast one. Weems? Holy crap. Of all the names in Bitterthorn that could have been tied to the madam known as Miss Louisa, that was the last one she would have expected.
I am positive my existence comes from Louisa wishing to wound my father. Purportedly theirs was an uneasy relationship, rooted in the very house where Louisa plied her unsavory
trade. My father, intent on winning my mother’s hand in marriage, was determined to cut ties to Louisa and turn that property into a respectable hotel. This infuriated Louisa. It was my father’s belief that in retaliation she struck at him in the worst way imaginable—by absconding with young Addie, dulling her wits with laudanum for weeks, and giving her over to a man whom destiny had already marked. The man was of royal nobility, the cousin to an archduke, and certain to be recognized in any royal court throughout Europe. I speak of none other than the official translator to His Imperial Majesty Ferdinand Maximilian of the House of Habsberg, his cousin, Margrave Leopold VII. Of course, as history now tells us, Leopold was executed with his cousin two years after my birth by the Republicans of Mexico.
“No freaking way.” Parker wasn’t aware of speaking until she heard her own voice. Having been in the palace in which Maximilian and Leopold grew up, she vaguely knew the story of the naïve archduke who had been duped into trying to forge a European monarchy in Mexico. But almost no one in the world supported the move, including the United States. Ultimately even his own family and backers—the least of whom being Napoleon III—begged him to abdicate and come home. But Ferdinand had stuck to his guns. Which was ironic, since the Mexican people eventually trussed him and his cousin up in front of a firing squad for daring to try and rule them.
Leopold had been in the area hoping to woo Thorne financial support Maximilian’s way. Upon hearing that my father dreamed of building a fortress in the new frontier, Leopold even brought over his family’s favored engineer, who had just completed Miramare Castle, again trying to curry Thorne favor. But my father was a cagey man. To be sure, he took advantage of having the brilliant engineer Carl Junker in his midst, but he paid for every bit of it up front and owed Leopold nothing.
All too soon, however, Leopold found himself beholden to Declan Thorne.
No one knows how Leopold came to be lured to Louisa’s brothel. Nor can I fathom how a man of merit—a married man of breeding, class and superior education—might lie with a young maiden clearly not in possession of her faculties. Perhaps Louisa had befuddled the margrave’s sensibilities, as well. All I know is what I was told on my eighteenth birthday by my dear parents (for I must call Declan Sr. and Temperance my parents, as that is what they were to me). Louisa Weems informed my father that she had chosen to give him “a gift.” This gift was to ensure that Leopold, and through him Maximilian, would feel indebted to the Thornes after the deflowering of young Addie, and would therefore offer up whatever influence they had at that time. Of course, my father didn’t believe that cock-and-bull story. He went to his grave convinced the monstrous Louisa had acted out of malice. I believe he was right.