The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  “So who will get the lighthouse?” asks the mayor.

  “It’s not who will get it, Tom.” Allegra extends her hand to one of the men who’d arrived with her. He steps forward and hands her a sheaf of papers. “It’s who owns it now. The lighthouse and land are held within the Max Dearborne Trust, of which Max Dearborne was the sole trustee.”

  Disbelief falls over me. Another ripple of shock courses through the room.

  “Mr. Dearborne was a dear friend of mine,” Allegra continues, riffling through the papers. “I trusted him implicitly to protect the trust assets, as he did until his death. To my regret, and owing to my own health struggles as well as the rather… overprotective actions of my husband and son”—she eyes Jeremy pointedly—“I’ve only just become aware of Mr. Dearborne’s untimely demise. And I would like to formally announce that the Max Dearborne Trust had one beneficiary, who is now legally entitled to the entire property.”

  She pauses, as if for effect. The crowd shifts impatiently. Tension and curiosity flare. My nerves tighten like overstrung wires.

  “That beneficiary…” Across the room, Allegra’s gaze locks on to mine, “…is Ms. Eve Perrin.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The door to the mayor’s private office closes, blocking out the commotion in the council chambers. I sink into a chair in front of the desk, my knees shaking.

  A whooshing noise fills my ears, but I can’t tell if it’s from the noise outside or the shock wave still ricocheting through me. Flynn stands at my side, his hand secure on my shoulder.

  “Please give me a moment alone with Eve and Flynn.” Allegra turns to the two lawyers and the mayor, who have followed her into the office. “Everything will be explained in due course.”

  The three men return to the chambers. Allegra sits in the chair beside me and touches my arm. “I’m sorry to have shocked you, but I needed to make the announcement publicly so everyone would know. That’s why the lawyers are here as well. I assure you it’s all legally sound.”

  “So your husband and son didn’t know?” Flynn tightens his hand on my shoulder.

  “Jeremy had no idea.” She shakes her head, regret shining in her eyes. “He’s always been so under his father’s thumb, so anxious to please him. If he’d been more independent-minded, I might have explained the situation to him years ago. And of course I hadn’t told my husband. He’d have been furious, not to mention he was always jealous of Max.

  “William had known the lighthouse belonged to my family, but he didn’t have anything to do with it because of the long-term lease agreement we had with the Forestry Department. He started asking more about it when King Financial got into trouble. Bad investments and a stock market crash… well, he lost more than I even realized. And the lease renewal date was approaching, so it was a perfect time for William to push for development.

  “He was conveniently having an affair with an assistant at the law office, which is how he got a hold of the Max Dearborne Trust. This was all during the time I was in the hospital.” Her expression dims. “At one point, I was ill enough that he obtained power of attorney over my estate. He’d wanted to use it to sell the property. Even after I recovered, he did an excellent job putting up a wall between me and the world. I’d thought at the time he was being overprotective, but now I realize he wanted to keep me ignorant.”

  “Of what he was doing?” Flynn asks.

  “Yes. And the fact that he’d found the Dearborne Trust. One clause states that in the event of Eve’s death, the lighthouse goes to her heirs… with the exclusion of one Juliette Perrin. And in the absence of heirs, the property reverts to the King family.”

  Silence falls. The pieces of the puzzle turn and fit slowly into place. If I were out of the picture, William would have complete control of the lighthouse. And he’d intended to use Flynn’s history to get to both of us.

  I feel Allegra’s somber gaze on me.

  “Do you understand?” she asks. “I’d have told you sooner, but I didn’t know Max had died. Neither did William, not until you came to Castille. As for his extreme actions… once he discovered Max was gone, you were the only person standing in his way.”

  I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. The only thing keeping me steady is the weight of Flynn’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Why didn’t Max ever tell me?” I ask.

  “He never wanted to be trustee,” Allegra explains. “But he was the one person I knew would keep the assets safe and secure. He did exactly that. As I know you will as well.”

  I open my eyes. She’s watching me with warmth and a hint of concern.

  “I didn’t tell you when I visited you at the lighthouse because after William’s attempted takeover of my estate, I needed to ensure the legalities were still in place,” she explains. “And they are. The lighthouse belongs to you.”

  “I can’t… I can’t accept this,” I stammer.

  “Of course you can.” She pats my arm. “As the settlor of the trust, I also have the power to revoke it. I intend to use that power. Aside from wanting the land protected, I’ve no interest in it. I don’t believe Jeremy will do anything good with it either.

  “So enough of this nonsense. You can choose to renew the Forestry Department’s lease, or you can find a way to have it all put on one of those national registries. I also suggest you create your own trust to ensure its protection for future heirs.”

  She glances meaningfully from me to Flynn and rises to her feet.

  “Now for heaven’s sake, let’s bring this meeting to an end and get ourselves a good stiff drink. Flynn, you can buy the first round.”

  Over the next few days, the frenzy of excitement and shock rises, then lessens to rippling waves. The lighthouse terrace bustles with people eager to get a glimpse of Castille’s most famous resident. Reporters show up with cameras to try and get a statement from Flynn, but they leave after he gives his only interview to the local high-school newspaper—thereby ending the hope of a national scoop.

  I come to the realization that my ownership of the lighthouse property is a way to keep things as they are. The Forestry Department can continue to lease the land, preserving it for public enjoyment and conservation, and I make plans to submit it for national registry protection.

  A week after the meeting, I stand at the glass of the lighthouse tower, peering down at the tourists roaming the terrace and the secrets wall. Waves break and crash against the rocks at the base of the cliffs.

  “It’s time to leave.”

  I turn as Flynn enters, unbearably beautiful in faded jeans and a flannel shirt that stretches over his broad chest. Though he still moves with care, he’s well on the road to a full recovery.

  “Leave for where?” I ask.

  “Leave here.”

  He indicates the lighthouse and approaches, filling the space in front of me, the breadth of his shoulders blocking my vision of everything except him. He slides his arms around my waist. His delicious scent tickles my nose. A spell washes over me, lulling me into a place of warmth and safety.

  “I’ve been here long enough,” he says. “I don’t want to go from being the strange guy in the lighthouse to the strange famous author in the lighthouse.”

  “So where do you want to go?” I settle my lower body against his, my blood heating.

  “I heard there’s a rundown old house over on Sparrow Lane.” He twists a lock of my hair around his finger, his gaze tender. “A place where a guy might earn his keep by doing some much-needed renovation work.”

  “Really?” My heart begins lifting upward into the clouds. “You want to come live with me?”

  “Live with you.” Flynn kisses my cheek. “Love with you.” He kisses my other cheek. “If you’ll have me.”

  “Of course.” I smile, happiness tumbling through me. “That’s a wonderful plan. But what will we do with the lighthouse?”

  “We’ll think of something together.”

  He eases away from me and goes to
his cluttered desk, the corkboard beside it covered with drawings of mazes, elaborate landscapes, and sketches of me, of Fiamma, in dozens of different guises. He shuffles through the drawings. A crease appears between his eyebrows.

  “When Riley died, I lost half of myself,” he says. “I thought I’d never get it back. That’s why Westley never finds his reflection. I’d never find mine again either.”

  My heart tightens. “I know.”

  “Then a woman named Eve walked into my life.” He picks up a drawing and approaches me again. “And I discovered that she was a mirror, one who reflected everything good in the world, who forced me to confront the person I was and the person I should be. A woman who eased her way right into my heart and filled the empty half of me. The whole of me.”

  He holds up the drawing. It’s a self-portrait, a profile of his strong features and black hair, his gray eyes concentrated on a round mirror. On the other side of the glass is a drawing of me—not Fiamma, not a firebird, not a nymph.

  Just me, wearing yoga pants and a sweater, seated cross-legged amidst stacks of fairytale books, my reddish hair loose around my shoulders. And in the sky above me, the air around me… flowers bursting into life, flourishing plants, whirling stars like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Whimsical teapots, a dog named Ghost, Ramshackle Manor lit up in the woods like a fairy castle.

  “I don’t see emptiness in the mirror anymore,” Flynn says. “Because I know you’re right there, waiting for me on the other side.”

  “Oh my God.” With my sleeve, I wipe the tears spilling from my eyes. “I’m losing track of all the poetic things you’ve said to me.”

  “I never thought I’d have a happy ending, Eve.” He sets the drawing down and rests his palm against the side of my neck, a sense of wonder rising to his eyes. “Never believed in them. But you… you make everything possible. I love you.”

  “I love you, Flynn.” I press my hand to his cheek. “Because of you, I believe in fairy tales again.”

  He smiles his beautiful smile, his gray eyes glowing from within. A powerful, sweet energy courses between us, like a dozen tiny comets. He puts his hand under my chin, angling my face. A thousand heartbeats pass in the instant before he lowers his mouth to mine.

  Sensations explode inside me, fireworks streaming colors through my veins. He strokes his lips gently over mine at first, then with increasing pressure, urging me to open my mouth. I curl my hands around his arms, part my lips, let him inside.

  The kiss softens me like cotton candy, marshmallows, melting candlewax. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, drinking in the taste and feel of him. He urges me closer, grasping my hips, fitting my body against his. All the parts of the world begin turning smoothly in place like clockwork.

  We fall into each other so easily, like a slippage of time. I’m flooded with gratitude and hope—for him, for us, for all that is to come. Even if he doesn’t see it yet, he’s already done an immense amount of good with his stories. He still has so much to give.

  The world needs more proof that we can escape complicated mazes, reach the other side of an impenetrable forest, defeat monsters and ogres. We need to know that puzzles can be solved, hidden things can be found, and that riddles have answers.

  We need the courage and faith of a ten-year-old child, the unbreakable bond between old friends, the belief in fairy godparents. We need to find our way home, even when home is not where we expected it to be. We need to be reminded that a loyal dog will stay by your side through the most difficult of journeys. We need more admissions of love.

  And we need to know that a happy ending is more than a kiss, an embrace, a promise. It’s loving the person who will struggle through the darkness with you, who believes in your strength, who sees the light you thought had been extinguished. It’s conquering fears, making sacrifices, finding both peace and wild storms in your togetherness.

  If you have all of that, there is no ending after all. Only an infinite thread of happy beginnings.

  EPILOGUE

  Six months later

  The frozen Maine winter quiets the storm. Flynn and I move out of the lighthouse and into Ramshackle Manor, where Ghost commandeers both a chair in front of the fireplace and much of Flynn’s attention. We make plans for repairs and an eventual renovation that will honor both the architecture and heritage of the house.

  The Forestry Department renews their property lease, allocating a greater budget for care and maintenance. William King is sentenced to ten years in prison, though the town’s disgust with him does not transfer to either Allegra or Jeremy. Nevertheless, Jeremy leaves Castille for the first time in his life, taking a job with a Philadelphia finance company.

  The Jabberwocky Bookstore hosts Riley Flynn’s first-ever book signing, which lasts all day with throngs of people flocking in from neighboring towns to meet the famous, once-reclusive author. Flynn’s agent calls with news about movie rights offers for both the Mirror Mirror books and the upcoming Fiamma, scheduled for publication next fall.

  We visit Allegra King regularly—or at least, when she’s available given her busy schedule. Several months ago, she accepted the chairperson position of the new Castille Arts Center committee.

  She’s taken full charge of the development of the center, which will be built on the site of an abandoned paper mill factory just outside of town. With plans for two theaters as well as art galleries, studios, classrooms, and rehearsal space, the Arts Center is intended to both showcase and inspire creativity in all forms.

  Only Allegra knows the founding money for the Castille Arts Center is coming from the sale of Riley Flynn’s original artwork, which I’ve been marketing through both New York galleries and online sites. Though we still need to do a great deal of fundraising before the Arts Center can come to life, Flynn’s drawings and paintings are selling for more than either of us expected. With the profits, the Arts Center planning is already ahead of schedule.

  I stay in touch with Graham, who informs me that David Landry was terminated from UCLA and is scheduled for trial to face the sexual harassment and rape charges. The news is gratifying and carries the hope that justice will be served, though I find no pleasure in the destruction he left in his wake or in my invisible bond with the other women he’d violated.

  I receive a letter from several members of the UC board of regents—not exactly an apology, but a concession that perhaps the “series of events” leading to my termination could have been more thoroughly investigated.

  Flynn hires a team of IT experts and lawyers to scour the internet and send take-down notices for any sites still displaying the explicit pictures of me. While I know they likely won’t be eradicated, the effort significantly decreases their visibility. The search results for my name now display articles about the Castille Lighthouse, the Riley Flynn artwork, and my recent art history research.

  I spend most of winter and spring working on my Maria Wood book, exchanging information with Graham and several other professors who have expressed interest in my findings. I’ve been invited to give two guest lectures—at Dartmouth and the University of Pennsylvania—and two graduate students have contacted me to ask if I’d be interested in serving as an adjunct advisor on their theses.

  I’m still searching for Maria Wood’s true identity, which Allegra insinuated has something to do with my own ancestry. When I consider I might be related through Max—and even through brilliant Juliette Perrin, crusher of glass ceilings—to a powerful, provocative artist who subverted convention and created a whole new aesthetic… how can I not hope that her wild, creative energy runs through my blood?

  It’s now my first spring in Maine. Fresh leaves pop from tree branches, flowers burst into colorful bloom, and the woodlands hum with birdsong.

  After parking my car, I walk up the winding pathway. The lighthouse sits atop the cliff as sedate and calm as ever, a guardian of the sea. We’d closed it up for the winter, and the curtains and shutters are all drawn.

  I cross the terrac
e and stand at the top of the trail sloping down to border the ocean. In the distance, the massive boulder is silhouetted against the gray, late-afternoon sky.

  Lifting my arms, I stretch upward. My whole body fills with fresh air and determination.

  Go!

  I run down the hill. My sneakers thump on the hardened soil. My lungs expand. The trail is deserted, leaving me alone with the sky, the ocean, the pale circle of sun burning through the fog.

  I keep running. My leg muscles start to ache, protesting the impact of the earth after several months on a treadmill. Salty air courses through my blood. My breath puffs out faster, harder. I squint at the boulder. Still far, but closer than it was.

  The mechanics of my body take over. All thought disappears. My chest burns. My heart hammers. My thighs strain with protest.

  I don’t stop. Won’t. I run and run and…

  …fly past the three-mile boulder with a resounding “whoop!” of victory.

  I slow to a heaving, gasping halt, bending to catch my breath. I did it. When my heartbeat calms, I straighten and do a little victory dance before starting back over the trail.

  Next goal? Five miles. I am unstoppable now.

  Digging a key out of my track pants pocket, I climb up the hill and unlock the lighthouse door. Memories wash over me the instant I step inside.

  The air is musty, though I detect the faint scents of Assam and Darjeeling tea. Uncle Max’s collection lines the walls of the workroom, the books shelved and cataloged, the paintings on display. All the fairy tales waiting to be retold.

  The workroom isn’t big enough to house the entire collection, and a number of books and artwork are still awaiting their final place. We have plans for all of it, Flynn and I.

  When he returns from his editorial meeting in New York—any minute now, thankfully—we’ll start planning the creation of the Max Dearborne Fairy Tale Library, an international resource for students, writers, scholars, artists, and anyone who wants to learn more about the rich heritage of enchantment woven through fairy tales.