Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

  “I’ve had just a sip. Keep losing my glass.”

  He sat at the table. “What’s the deal with that guy?”

  “You mean Declan?”

  “He seems pretty tightly wound.”

  “Well, it’s a lot to take in.”

  “Who is he to you?”

  She twisted her engagement ring in a circle on her finger. “He’s like family.”

  “Doesn’t seem like he’s thinking of you as his sister.”

  Just be honest. Isn’t that what Patrick had advised? “Roger, I spent a lot of time thinking about things while I was in Paris. And I’m not ready. To marry you.”

  “Ready for what? Marriage? Or being married to me?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Is this about him?” He gestured toward the house.

  “No, of course not. I haven’t seen him in six years. I wasn’t sure I ever would again.”

  “What happened between you?”

  “We were in love. A long time ago. And then he left.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”

  “I never think of him anymore.” She averted her eyes at this blatant lie. She took off the engagement ring and placed it on the table in front of Roger. “Regardless, I need some time to think.” The sunlight against the diamond made a pattern on the table. Inside, the party seemed to be louder than the moment before.

  “I think this is just grief confusing you. It’s understandable, but no reason to make rash choices. It’s common knowledge one should never make major decisions after a loss.”

  She stared at him, shaking her head, swallowing before speaking. “Thank you for that advice, Roger, but my mother was murdered. I really don’t care about advice from some book you read.”

  He slid the ring toward her. “Just put this back on. There’s no reason we have to set a date yet.”

  “I want you to keep it. For now, anyway.”

  “Fine.” He put the ring in his pocket. “I know you’ll come around after a few days. That’s how you are. Kinda impulsive. It’s cute.”

  Again, she stared at him, her hands twitching in her lap. For the second time that day she wanted to smack someone. “I’m the least impulsive person on the planet.”

  He seemed not to hear. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go to France.” He looked up, squinting into the sunlight. “I think I should go. I’ll call you later.” He got up from the table, the chair making a squeaking sound on the patio. “I’m sorry about your mother even though I know she never liked me much.”

  This time, Sutton didn’t bother to lie.

  She sat for several more minutes. The waves crashed below. The party roared inside. Paris seemed as if it had never happened. But it was there that she’d first started to have doubts about Roger. It started at the airport when he dropped her off because she hadn’t felt sad when he left her at the security line, hadn’t felt sincere when she promised to email him every day. No, every part of her had screamed, just let me go, let me be free.

  She put her head down on the table and took in deep breaths, hearing nothing but the rush of blood between her ears. Murdered. Someone had run down her mother in cold blood, had sped away knowing she was dead, had wanted her dead. It was impossible to understand.

  After a few minutes, she rose to her feet and opened the French doors into her mother’s office to avoid seeing any of the guests. Once inside, she found Patrick’s card and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring. “It’s Sutton Mansfield.”

  “Yes, how are you holding up?” His voice sounded gruff. He coughed. It sounded deep in his chest, like the time Declan had pneumonia when they were in high school.

  “I’m all right. Are you feeling sick?”

  There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. “A little rundown, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, well then, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother. I wanted to say goodbye to you but I wasn’t able to find you and I was feeling tired.” He sounded unbearably sad.

  Sutton shivered when she said, “The police think she was murdered. They have a witness.”

  “I know.”

  She couldn’t speak for a moment. The image of the birds flying into the glass came to her again. She closed her eyes.

  “Sutton, are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry. The reason I’m calling is that I thought you might like to come have dinner with us?”

  “When?”

  “Not tomorrow but the next night? What is that, Tuesday? Unless you’re leaving today?” For some reason the thought of him leaving without getting to speak to him further was disheartening.

  “No, I’ll be here for several more days, at least.” It was quiet for a moment. “Sutton, I know it’s none of my business, but are you safe there? I mean, is Declan there with you?”

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  “Do you think it might be wise to hire some security detail? I mean, until the police can sort through things.”

  She shuddered. “Declan is keeping his eye on things but, yes, maybe. I’ll ask him what he thinks.”

  “What do you think?”

  What did she think? Was there an answer? She didn’t think too much about anything, deferring often to her mother’s wise and pragmatic opinion. Perhaps she relied on her too much. And now that her mother was gone, she’d immediately thought to defer to Declan’s judgment. And for months before she left for Paris she’d done the same thing with Roger. “I’m not used to trusting my own instincts or asking myself things I probably should. I hate to admit it, but I’m indecisive and lack courage.”

  “I was the same way when I was young.” He spoke softly. “And it got me into a lot of trouble.”

  “How did you change?”

  “I met someone. A woman, actually, that loved me so completely it made me braver, more sure of everything.”

  She picked up the cord to the shutters and danced the wooden tip on the palm of her hand. “Patrick, my mother didn’t have many friends and I was hoping you could tell me more about her. She never talked about herself much. I used to try and figure things out about her by reading her books. When I asked her things she was sometimes evasive. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  But something about the way he said it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Patrick Waters knew things he wasn’t prepared to tell her. The question was why. “Good. Well, come by Tuesday around six.”

  “I’ll bring wine.”

  Her heart thumped and the pain came again. “I wish my mother was here. She did love her red wine.”

  “I’ll bring her favorite.”

  It wasn’t until after she hung up that she wondered—how did he know what her favorite was?

  She sat at her mother’s desk, placing her hands on the keyboard and closing her eyes. If she was in her mother’s favorite place in the world, would she be able to feel her, maybe discern what happened to her? Thinking of Peter’s request, she began to examine the desk. It was bare except for the computer’s large screen and the wireless keyboard and a photo of Declan and her when she was eight or so, building a sand castle. Constance hated clutter.

  There were drawers on both sides of the desk. Sutton opened the right side. Inside was a stack of fresh computer paper. She was about to close it when something shiny caught the light in the back corner of the drawer. She opened it farther and reached back. It was a key, taped to the back of the drawer. It came loose easily with a small tug; she held it in her hand. It was small, like for a desk. But there was no lock that she could see on Constance’s desk, and she couldn’t think of any other desk in the house.

  Sutton opened the top left drawer. It held several pens; some stationery; a set of headphones; a new candle, pumpkin scented.

  She sat for a moment, listening to the sounds of waves crashing on the shore below. Was there a place in the house in which the key might fit? But nothing came to
her.

  Just then, there was a knock on the French doors. She looked over to see Declan standing outside. “You okay?” he mouthed.

  She motioned for him to come inside. “I found something.” She held up the key. “Do you have any idea what this is to?”

  He took it from her, turning it over in the palm of his hand. “It’s to something small, like a drawer in a desk.”

  “That’s what I thought too but I can’t imagine to what. There are no desks but this one. None of the drawers in the kitchens or bedrooms have locks.”

  “So it must be to something in this desk. They sometimes have secret drawers.” He went to the desk and unplugged the keyboard, large screen, and laptop computer and moved them onto the sofa. Behind where the computer screen had been there was a cabinet. Declan opened it, revealing several drawers, none of which had a keyhole. He opened them. They were filled with paperclips, extra pens, and several empty notebooks similar to the one on the desk, filled with Constance’s chicken scratch notes and word count numbers. “The drawers seem short for the width of the desk.” Declan pulled the drawers all the way out. “I was right. Look, there’s something more in there.”

  Sutton peered into the space, squinting. “I can’t see anything but blackness.”

  “I have a light.” Declan reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a switchblade and a small light, no bigger than a quarter. He tossed the knife on the desk.

  “What? You just happen to carry a weapon around?” She picked up the knife, running her finger over the smooth, metal surface, before pushing the lever. The blade popped out. She cut an “S” in the air, the blade catching the sunlight and making a pattern on the desk.

  “I live in Europe. Sometimes I need a knife.”

  “For cutting bread and cheese while frolicking in the Italian countryside?” Her chest ached, thinking of his life. His life without her. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Something like that.” He spoke softly and with the guarded tone he slipped into whenever she asked him something about his life. He shone the light into the space vacated by the drawers. Something shiny glimmered. “Ah ha. We have a keyhole.”

  Without a word, she set down the knife and handed him the key. He put it in the hole and turned. Like magic, the front of the drawer folded down, revealing another drawer. Declan pulled on the knob and a long, skinny drawer slid out. But this drawer did not hold desk supplies like the others. This drawer held a stack of papers.

  Declan set them on the desk. They were clasped with one of those large, black binder clips.

  It was a manuscript.

  The title, in Courier font from a vintage typewriter, said, “The Clockmaker and the Writer.” She’d typed it on her old typewriter, thought Sutton. Why would she do that? She hadn’t used that thing since Sutton was a small child. There was no address at the top or the usual information Constance typically had on her manuscripts.

  Sutton continued to stare at it, like it was a coiled snake. Patrick Waters, the clockmaker.

  “Why would this be hidden?”

  Declan shook his head. “Should we read it?”

  “I don’t know. Is it right? I mean, she clearly didn’t want anyone to read it or it wouldn’t be in here.”

  He lifted the title page. At the sight of the second page, he took in a sharp breath. “Sutton, it’s dedicated to you.”

  She took the page from his outstretched hand. To Sutton, my lottery. “Oh, Dec.”

  He reached for her hand. “Sutton, are you prepared?”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “That there might be secrets in here.”

  “Secrets or answers?”

  “Both.”

  She picked up the manuscript and headed toward the couch. “I’ll start first.” She unclasped the clip and placed the title-page facedown, patting it with the palm of her hand. “I’ll hand them off to you when I’m done.”

  He sat next to her. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  THE BEGINNING

  What would you write if you knew no one would ever read it? Patrick asked me this once. He then, as he was prone to do during my writing tutelage, proceeded to answer his own question.

  Whatever is too dark to tell, too scandalous to utter, too callous to those you love—this is what you must write of. And the secrets you keep, the observations you stifle, these above all else must be let loose, arranged in neat sentences, because the truth of your writing is there in the murky, complex details. Always. To tell the truth, he added. It is your only job.

  He was like that, sure of himself. I dismissed it then, this question. Of course I would write the truth, I answered. And I do not care if everyone reads it. I want the world to read it. How bold I was! It was easy, this truth telling, I thought. Oh yes, my words came out unhindered, boldly splashed upon the blank page. But I was young then, and ambitious. I had no secrets.

  I am old now. I have secrets. So many secrets. They’re piled one on top of the other like the words I chase and wrangle. They want to suffocate me.

  I now know the answer to this question.

  “What would you write of if no one ever sees it?”

  I would write of Patrick.

  “I would write of you.”

  ***

  I must begin at my beginnings.

  There was the little town of Legley Bay, on the northwest Oregon coast, and my mother and father, and my best friend Louise and her mother, Aggie, and my high school sweetheart, Miller, and chasing words in my slanted attic room. This was my small, contained world. These were my loves. For twenty-four years this was all I knew.

  My professional writing career began in high school, when I convinced Mitchel Reed, owner of the Legley Bay Legend, to hire me to work for him after school. At first I simply assisted Mr. Reed by using my typing skills, honed on my mother’s manual typewriter I’d found years earlier collecting dust in the attic, abandoned when she’d married my father after attending secretarial school. But I quickly proved my writing talent when Mr. Reed’s one and only reporter abruptly quit to run off with the town’s married librarian. He needed coverage of Legley Bay’s Oyster Festival. “Could you handle it?” he asked me. I boldly accepted. “Now, it’s one of the biggest events of the year,” he said. “Don’t let me down.”

  I agreed and went away, triumphant, my reporter’s pen in hand. I attended the festival with new eyes, different than the year before when I was merely a participant. Now I was a reporter. I must see with reporter’s eyes. I sampled oysters, I interviewed townspeople, I jotted down descriptions of the weather and booths. That night, I wrote my first article under the slant of my attic room roof, typing long into the night. The next day I presented it to Mr. Reed, with, I admit, more than a little nervousness. He used a red pen to slash sentences and superfluous words. “Succinct, Miss Mansfield. You must be more succinct. But you can write. I’ll give you that.”

  After that, he let me start writing at least one article a week and then two. After a time, he sent me to cover all the local events and happenings and personal interest stories—what he called the heart of any small town paper. “I hate all this people stuff, Miss M. It’s all yours.”

  When I graduated from high school, I left for the University of Oregon, where I majored in Journalism, but returned summers to work for Mr. Reed. He was the first person to tell me I could write. He was also the first person to tell me I had no future in journalism. “You’re not a reporter, Miss M.,” he said one day after reading an article I’d written about an abandoned baby left at the town’s Catholic church.

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Because this article made me cry. Because you don’t stick to the facts.”

  “But I did.”

  “You most certainly did not.” He picked up my typed story. “Here’s the perfect example. ‘One can only imagine the desperation this young mother must have felt in order to do something as heart wrenching as abandoning her own child. We
have no choice but to salute her brave choice rather than condemn it. This little baby will have a chance now to be adopted into a family of better stability and means. She’s given the adoptive parents a great gift.’” He looked up at me, waving the paper in the air. “You’re a writer, sweetheart, but not a journalist. But this thing you do—make your readers laugh and cry and cringe, hell even old crusty editors like me with a dead heart—that’s a real writer. Don’t waste it in journalism. Focus on those stories you’re always scribbling in your notebook.”

  “But how will I make a living?”

  “There’s a place for you on any small town newspaper, just like there is here. Keep writing these heartfelt columns and I’ll keep printing them. Write your stories at night and one day you’ll have a novel.”

  So I returned to college that autumn and changed my major from Journalism to English with a minor in Creative Writing. I continued to work for Mr. Reed after I graduated, living with my parents in their ramshackle bungalow in the middle of town and writing my first novel in the middle of the night as he suggested. During my few moments of leisure, I spent time with Miller Byrd, my high school sweetheart, double dating with my best friend Louise and her fiancé Tim Ball. At night, I wrote. It was then I was most alive.

  Two years passed, as they do, without our notice, until one day you wake and think, is this all there is? I was restless. I wanted to see more of the country. I wanted to live a little in order to write a lot. Just shy of my twenty-fourth birthday, I asked Mr. Reed to help me find something at another paper, preferably someplace far away, which he reluctantly did, reaching out to an old classmate, John Teller, who was the editor-in-chief of the paper in Greeley, Vermont. John hired me without meeting me after reading examples of my work. Could I be in Greeley by April? Yes, yes, I can, I answered without hesitation. Louise and Tim were to be married at the end of March, only two weeks away. I could leave after the wedding.

  Vermont! I said the word over and over in my head, hugging a pillow on my narrow bed next to the slanted wall. Now my life would begin, I thought. Finally.

  But first I would have to tell those who loved me. I’m leaving.