by Eloise Alden
“Hopefully, your grandmother won’t expect you to search for Gracey in all of them.”
Murphy sat up. “Gracey Michaels? The actress?”
“Actress?” Trent echoed.
“Yeah, there was an actress in town who left with the Rose Arbor theater troupe about three months ago. Half of the men in Seattle are in love with her. Turns out, she was acting under an alias, Rachelle Ryan. I managed to find out her real name was Gracey Michaels. Do you know her?”
“If it’s the same woman, she’s my cousin. She’s small and brunette?”
The man chuckled. “Her hair changed color pert near every week. But she was small…” He let out a long sigh. “I would do anything to catch up with her.”
“So would my grandmother,” Trent said.
A rider galloped past, kicking up blackened dust. He had his hat pulled low, but Verity recognized Trent’s stallion. She squeezed Trent’s arm and pointed out the window.
“Miles!” Trent called.
Miles’ head twisted around, and he sharply reined Sysonby when he caught Verity’s gaze. “Sneed,” he said by way of greeting.
“I beg your pardon,” Verity said.
“Donovan Sneed,” Miles repeated. “Minnie has eloped with Donovan Sneed.”
Trent’s lips quirked into a smile. “Sneed’s a good man.”
Verity sank against the coach’s cushion and let relief wash through her. Minnie would be safe with Sneed.
And hopefully all was well with Gracey, too. Of course, being an actress wasn’t the noblest of professions, but it was much better than being pressed into prostitution, which is what they had feared.
“Do you think if I caught up with the Rose Arbor Acting Troupe, I’d find my cousin?” Trent asked Murphy.
“I’d lay money on it,” Murphy said.
“How about a ranch?” Trent muttered.
BETTE
Rose Arbor, Washington
As I’d hoped, the house was quiet and dark. Standing on the sidewalk, I watch the black windows for moving shadows. All looks still. Recently mulched flowerbeds, pruned rose bushes and tiny crocuses sending shoots up from the soil--someone, most likely a hired gardener, was maintaining the landscaping. I was grateful, for Dot’s sake.
Why hadn’t she told me she and Odious hadn’t divorced? And why hadn’t they? Expense, maybe? If Odious could maintain a wife and mistress without either complaining, then I could see why he wouldn’t bother. But, what about the honey with the tiger striped hair--wouldn’t she want a commitment? And what about Dot--wouldn’t she like the freedom to move on?
Move on, a phrase only used by people who are so comfortably entrenched in their own lives that they don’t want to be made uncomfortable by someone else’s grief.
I shift the box from one hip to the next, trying to find a reasonable escape plan if needed. I didn’t want another run-in with Odious. Since he’s Dot’s executor I owe him a copy of the story. I just don’t know how to give it to him. I can’t just leave the box of letters and journals on the doorstep, although, they’d be somewhat protected from the weather beneath the porch. I consider the back door with a scowl, trapped by my lies.
I’d already denied any financial dealings with Dot, which was silly. Why had I done that? That’s the problem with lying, it almost always ends in humiliation. I remember when Dot had said she’d made the Key Lime pie that she brought to Margie’s bridal shower. After all the pie had been served there on the bottom of the tin, stamped in capital letters, was PAULINE’S PIES. Anyone else could have claimed to have reused the tin, but when Margie had asked for the recipe, Dot’s face had flamed red-- almost as if she had the capital letters LIAR stamped across her forehead.
The box grows heavy in my arms and I determine to take it to the back door. Dot had usually left the mudroom door unlocked, maybe Odious did the same. I pause at the garage, thinking. It’d be safe from the weather in there, but not necessarily safe from rodents. I could put it in the Mercedes, but what if an alarm went off? Pushing open the picket gate, I make my way through Dot’s kitchen garden. The herbs and vegetables had been replanted, which surprises me. Someone must have taken the time with seeds or seedlings; most hired gardeners like to mow and go, not tend vegetables.
I climb the back step, my heart pounding. I decide to set it on the bench in the mudroom where it’ll be safe. Odious will eventually find it and perhaps wonder, but he won’t have a reason to suspect me.
It hurts to leave Verity. I’d grown close to her. She’d become my mentor, of sorts. I’d come to realize that although we were generations and millions of circumstances apart, we were similar in one important way. We were two women trying to rebuild a life when the one we’d always known was gone. Standing on the porch, I’m overwhelmed by the knowledge that Verity had once stood on this very step. She and Trent had shared a marriage on this land. They had created a life together, but only after Verity had been brave enough to forge a life of her own making.
And while it’s true that I don’t bake pies or make candy, my life can be just as sweet. I can be alone and not be lonely. I can leave Verity here for her family to find.
The screen door screeches when I pull it open. It doesn’t matter, I reassure myself. I’m too far from any neighbors to hear and no one’s at home. I open the kitchen door with a click and come face to face with the stunning blond.
She’d been pulling on a pair of bright blue plastic clogs but straightens when she sees me. Her mouth opens in surprise.
Startled, I almost drop the box. “So sorry,” I gasp.
The girl blinks. “That’s okay. You’re a friend of my mom’s, right?”
“Your mom?”
“I recognize you from the funeral. And you played at the wake. Show tunes, which seemed inappropriate given the occasion, but so right for my mom.”
“Your mom,” I repeat.
“Yes. She was always so glam and Hollywood. I thought that you must have been a really good friend for you to know what she would have liked.”
“Your mother?” The surprise is so large it’s rendered me stupid, incapable of stringing together complete sentences.
A flash of pain crosses the girl’s cheeks and she says in a small voice, “She’d never mentioned me.”
It isn’t a question, but I wish I could give an answer that wouldn’t hurt her. The girl squares her shoulders as if bracing for an impact. “It’s okay. We hadn’t spoken in five years…” She looks up and I see her red eyes.
I swallow hard, trying to understand Dot. I can’t imagine having a daughter and not even speaking to her at the end. “Goodness. Five years, that was when your parents divorced.”
She blinks. “I’m afraid that was my fault, too.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that.” I think back to all of Dot’s slanted humor, her ribald comments about Odious and his female menagerie. She’d never even hinted at having a daughter.
She shrugs. “It’s true. She wouldn’t…she couldn’t… She said she’d never speak to me again if I kept Henry.”
“Henry?” The little blond boy.
“My son. I was only seventeen, you see. Unmarried.”
“Dot had a grandson?” I put out a hand to steady myself and my box slips. I can’t imagine having a beautiful little boy in my life and not wanting to know him. To hold him, to read him stories, take him to the park, the zoo, and to share with him and introduce him to the amazing world God had created. How could Dot have turned her back on her daughter and her grandson?
The girl laughs and it sounds harsh. “I sometimes wondered what bothered Mom more, my lack of judgment, or the fact she was old enough to be a grandmother.”
She stands and catches the box as it slips from my arms. “What’s this?”
“It’s the journals and letters of your great-great-grandmother, Verity Faye.” I stammer, realizing that family had been important enough to Dot for her to want to have a personal history of her grandmo
ther, but not important enough to forgive her daughter. Pride, I realize, remembering Odious’ evaluation.
“I’m a genealogist,” I say, liking the word and warming to its definition. “Dot hired me to write your ancestors’ story.” I hold up the leather-bound book and enjoy a swell of satisfaction.
“Oh, well, then you’ll need to speak to my dad. He’s taking care of my mom’s finances.” She takes the book and thumbs through it, stopping at the photographs.
“Oh, I don’t want to be paid.”
She looks pained. “Are you sure? This must have taken a great deal of time.” Taking the box from my arms, she says, “I insist you speak with my dad.” She disappears into the house, clearly expecting me to follow.
“I can’t stay,” I say and back out the door. I stop in the kitchen garden, my foot smashing a tiny basil plant. The crushed leaves emit a potent odor reminding me of Verity asking Trent to kiss her. Until now, I’d hated that part of the story. At that point, I’d considered Verity silly and I’d put down the journal for a number of days. She hadn’t been in love with Trent, she just needed to hide her face. Surely there’d been easier, simpler ways to do so, less messy, less complicated and emotionally impactful. But then, she hadn’t expected to be emotionally impacted by a kiss.
The screen door squeaks back open. “My dad really wants to see you.”
I open my mouth to make an excuse.
“He pretty much begged--” She pauses and then hurriedly adds, “He’d come down here himself, but he broke his leg yesterday.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“He was rescuing Henry’s kite from a tree. I’m afraid he’s lying on the couch, restless and cranky. You’d be doing us both a huge favor.”
I sniff and slowly walk back up the path, realizing that I have the history clasped to my chest. Blinking, I wonder. I’d thought I’d given it to the girl.
She holds the door open and I slip inside. She leads the way to the front room where Errol’s propped up on a heap of pillows on the sofa. He smiles when he sees me. “I knew you were hiding something!”
I hold up my hand. “Mr. Michaels—”
“Mrs. Michaels—” My name sounds wrong and intimate coming from him.
“Would you like to hear a story?” Sitting down in a wing back chair, I pull the glasses from my pocket. Babette, who’d been dozing at the foot of the sofa, comes to lay on my feet like a furry foot warmer. I decide to read until the end.
“New York City’s night noises seeped through the wall chinks and window: the jingle of horse harnesses, the stomping of hooves, the mournful howl of a dog, but one noise, a noise that didn't belong, jarred Verity awake.”
#
Epilogue
December 1889
My darling Minnie,
You cannot imagine our relief and delight to receive your letter. Felicitations to you and Donovan! We can’t wait to see you and hear of your adventures. While it’s true that Miles continues to huff—
“I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again, but what do you think?” Chloe held up two swatches of satin, one yellow, one peach.
Verity poised the quill above her letter, tipped her head, smiled, and said, “You’ll be beautiful in either. Did you ask Miles?”
“He said neither,” Chloe frowned at the fabric. “His exact words were nothing at all.”
Verity laughed. “That would make for a memorable ceremony.”
“And it’d be undoubtedly chilly.”
“And yet steamy.”
Chloe sighed, turned on her heel and left the library, still contemplating the fabric swatches. Verity tucked her feet under her skirts, nestled against the cushions of the bay window seat, and watched the snow settle over the distant mountains. The fat flakes lazily fell as if confident in their ability to slowly but surely blanket the valley floor. In the pasture, the horses stood nuzzling each other; their breath rose in warm puffs of fog. Beyond the pasture, loomed the rooftop of what would soon be her new home. Sometimes, she closed her eyes and imagined that she could hear Trent and the rhythm of his hammer as he built the house where their children would be born.
In the summer, they’d been married beneath the gnarled old apple tree that would eventually sit outside their sitting room window. Someday, she would watch her children playing in the tree and swinging in the branches. She placed her hand on her belly and felt the tiny life moving. Picking up her pen, she continued her letter.
I do so hope you’ll be here when the baby arrives in the spring. You know how lovely the ranch is when the trees are in blossom and all the flowers in bloom. Trent’s cousin, Gracey, has promised to return from her European tour and bring her new husband with her. Grandmomma Hester is thrilled.
“Verity?” Trent stood in the doorway. “I have something for you, darling.”
She unfolded herself from the cushions. “What is it?”
“Come and see.”
A smile played around his lips. In the kitchen, Hester scolded the cook. Chloe fretted over her trousseau in the room above them. It was only after noon. Christmas, the proper day for gift giving, was only a few days away. Suspicion tinged her voice. “What do you have?”
Trent took her hand and pulled her close. “Mistletoe,” he said, just before he made proper use of it.
THE END
* Henry Van Dyke, Gone From My Sight,
If you enjoyed Verity and the Villain (and I hope you did!) please recommend it to your friends and consider leaving a review on Amazon and other online booksellers. Also, you may enjoy:
Gracey and the Gambler
Available on Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VGMZZ8J
Reeling with grief and self-doubts, Addison never suspects her life is about to change when a stranger gifts her a manuscript and asks her to rewrite the ending.
When Gracey refused to bend to the dictates of New York’s high society, her mortified parents shipped her off to the Wilds of Washington territory. But Gracey, itching for adventure has no intention to stay in the dreary soggy backwater known as Seattle. When the opportunity comes to join a traveling theater troupe, Gracey sets out to create the life she deserves. And finds much more adventure than even she desired or dreamed of.
As Addison reads of Gracey's rebellion, she confronts the dark corners in her own life and faces her faulty perceptions about herself and those she loves. Addison realizes she must not only rewrite Gracey’s story, but also her own.
Portions of Gracey and the Gambler were formally known as Rewriting Rita.
CHAPTER 1
Addison sat on a bench in the Maritime Park, unaware of the flotsam of people passing her by. Barking sea lions jostled and jockeyed for position on the nearby pier, much like the pedestrians around her. A young man sitting at the adjacent sidewalk café unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants, and squeezed a hypodermic needle into his left buttock, but even this did little more than tickle her attention.
An elderly woman carrying a leather satchel with a large golden lock sat beside Addison. Kicking off her shoes, the woman let out a sigh, propped on ankle on her knee and massaged her toes.
“I can always tell when it’s about to rain,” she said. “Arthritis. I didn’t used to believe in achy joints predicting the weather, just like I used to think that people claimed to have motion sickness just so they could sit in the front seat.” The woman slid Addison a glance from under her lashes, probably to see if Addison was paying attention.
Addison thought about moving to another bench, but that would take energy and gumption—two things she currently lacked.
“You’re probably too young to have arthritis. How about motion sickness?”
Addison pulled herself out of her funk long enough to glance at the elderly woman. She wore a velvet patchwork skirt, a silk blouse, and a string of pearls around her neck. The sharp sea breeze toyed with her silver curls and had turned her pale cheeks pink. She exuded a friendly curiosity that made Addison want to crawl un
der the bench and roll into a ball. But because it would be rude to say nothing, she squeezed out a syllable. “No.”
“No what?”
Addison took a deep breath and blew it out through her nose. “No, I don’t get motion sickness.”
“That’s good.” The woman smiled as if Addison had just informed her the Giants had won the World Series. “Then perhaps you would like to go whale watching.” She fumbled in her satchel and pulled out two glossy blue and red tickets. “I bought them for me and my grandson, but circumstances have changed and that’s no longer possible.” She paused. “He’s a lawyer,” she added with more exasperation than pride.
Addison opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t find the words. The mid-spring sun, so often hidden behind clouds in Northern California, warmed her skin. Not even the weather could offer an excuse. After a moment, she came up with, “Isn’t there someone else you’d like to go with?”
“No. Landon is my only family, other than my sister Erma. No one likes her. And all my friends are dead.” She said this without a trace of sadness. “It’s nature’s way of punishing me for hanging around so long—I had to watch all my friends die.”
Addison’s lips twitched. An hour ago, she hadn’t thought she’d ever smile again, and here she was, chatting with a stranger. “Sure. I’ll go whale watching with you. When is it?”
The woman let out a long sigh. “You’re a lovely girl. I used to look like you once—willowy with long red hair. Now, of course, I’m gray and more Monterey pine than willow. I hope this won’t offend you, but I no longer wish to go.”
“But you look nothing like a Monterey pine. They’re all twisted and weather beaten.”
“My point.”