The Secret of Hailey's Comments

by Kristy Tate

  “Oh, Artie, you don’t mean that.” I leaned my head against her shoulder and pulled her tight to my side. “What would I, or O’Toole, or Pinkerton do without you? What about your mom, brothers, Lucy, Frank, Jeff—all the people who love you? What would we do?”

  Artie sniffed and toyed with grass she’d weaved into a long thread. “What will I do now? I sold my condo, my car, even my coffee machine.” Her voice broke when she said, “The academy…”

  “The art supplies?” I asked. “The kiln, the wheels?”

  She shook her head. “All gone.” She threw her twisted grass to the side. It landed at my feet.

  I picked it up, finished the braid, and tucked the ends together, fashioning a crown. I didn’t want to ask, and yet was dying to know what she did with the money.

  “I gave the money to James,” Artie said, “to finance his portfolio.”

  I didn’t say anything, and she continued. “He had borrowed heavily for his Tanzania project. He built hundreds of little junkets and the most amazing kites, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. He was going to float them in the harbor and take photos against Tanzania’s blue sky and sapphire water.” She stopped and took the braid from my hands. “He never got to take the photos. There was a freak storm, and all the junkets, the kites…” her voice trailed away, and I understood why Helen had died. James needed to finance his art.

  I leaned my head against my knees and fought a twinge of guilt. Of course, I’d never kill anyone, let alone my grandmother, to finance anything, especially not my work. But I thought of my anger and frustration at Grammy Hailey over her constant interference and realized that there was more than one way to kill a relationship. You didn’t need to administer fatal nut oil to destroy a love.

  I put my arm around her and lay my head against her shoulder. “Did you know that eagles sometimes lock talons midair? Ned told me about a pair of eagles that remained locked together for as long as eight hours.” I placed the braided wreath of grass in Artie’s hair. “They weren’t mating, they don’t mate in flight.”

  Artie lifted her head from her knees and looked at me questioningly. She’d stopped crying. I looked back at the Dunsmuir house and the thought I’d been toying with became real. I almost hated to vocalize it, to jinx it, as if speaking of it out loud could somehow jeopardize it. “We could lock talons,” I said slowly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Will it work?” Frank had his hands in his pockets jiggling coins. He rocked on the balls of his feet nervously. He had made the mold according to Artie’s directions, and he seemed the most anxious in its success. “How will you get it out without it breaking?”

  I looked up at the sky. We had prayed for clear skies for the days while the plaster dried. The rain gods had heard our prayers, but now that we were about to unveil our work, the clouds had built up an angry, gray formation that hovered over the Sound and threatened to blow onto our beach.

  Artie sat down and began to pull off strips of wood with a hammer and wedge.

  “Now see here,” Frank complained, moving forward.

  Lucy laid a restraining hand on his arm. “They break the mold,” she said. “That’s the only way to get the sign out.”

  Frank sniffed and watched as Artie tore away the wood and straw. The plaster sign lay face down on the grass. Artie slipped off her bandana and used it to brush the sign.

  “Here, help me,” she said, coming to one side of the two-by-six-foot sign.

  I went to the other side, and Jeff, Lucy and Frank took their positions in the center. Together we heaved the sign to the pedestal we had made of stones. Artie and I held the sign in place while the other wedged the stones to create a solid base. When it appeared steady, we stood away admiring our work. The Dunsmuir House, the sign read, An Artist’s Retreat.

  The dark cloud partially blocked out the sun, casting a gray but yellowish light over us. The white, unpainted plaster appeared to glow in the semi-darkness. Thunder broke the silence and lightning flashed. We all began to cheer as the rain fell in fat heavy drops. Artie threw her arms around me. She pressed her face against mine, her tears mingled with the rain. “Thank you,” she said.

  I hugged her back, hard, imagining the children’s summer camps, writer’s conferences, and music festivals that we planned to host. “This deserves a toast!” I said. “Something from the cellar! A bottle of the best!”

  Thunder announced a more pronounced pelting of rain. Artie broke away and ran toward the house. Laughing, we all followed her around the back. Jeff and Frank went to living room to make a fire, and Lucy and Artie went to kitchen to get glasses. I went to the basement to select a bottle of Helen’s homemade wine. I stopped in front of the door that led to the room that held my mother’s self-portrait and pushed the door open.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, wishing that I knew Malley Dunsmuir, wondering if she knew me, if she could see or if she would approve of my plans for the Dunsmuir House. I turned back toward the stairs and the others. I heard their laughter above me. Light streamed through the open door at the top of the stairs, I headed toward it. Thunder shook the house. Lightning cracked: a flash of white, and then the basement turned black. The electricity had gone out. Upstairs Artie shrieked in surprise and the others laughed. I felt my way to the stairs. My eyes adjusted to the gloom as I made my way to the others.

  Lucy lit the candles on the giant candelabra that sat on the dining room table. Jeff had found a package of marshmallows and was twisting wire clothes hangers into marshmallow roasting sticks. Artie sat at the giant piano and played a ragtime tune. Frank, who’d been poking at the fire, straightened and cheered when he saw I had found Nelly’s wine.

  Thunder again rattled the windows and shook the front door. The wind tore through the window casing and seemed to be accompanying Artie’s playing with a howl. Outside the windows the storm crashed through the trees, broke branches, and sent leaves and twigs dancing through the air. Wyeth went to the front door and whined.

  Artie rolled her eyes. “Nature is howling.”

  Wyeth pressed his nose against the door and scratched it with his front paw.

  “Just a minute,” I told him. “Let me get a coat.” I grabbed a slicker from the front hall closet. The door blew open when I undid the latch. A blast of cold air hit me in the face, but unfazed, Wyeth ran out into the blustery dark, his barking disappearing with his departure. “Wyeth, no!” The wind carried my voice back into the room.

  I stood near the door. A step off the porch meant a step into the storm. I watched the darkness, the swirling wind, and the occasional flash of lightning over the surging Sound. I faintly heard Wyeth’s barking. I leaned against a pillar, willing Wyeth to return, then I noticed a different sort of light, a bobbing light, the type that signals a boat. I pulled my coat across my chest and fastened the buttons.

  It would have to be an emergency if someone was out in this storm. The wind tugged at my hair and the rain spat in my face. Maple leaves whistled by and attached themselves to my legs as I ran toward the boathouse.

  A lone figure emerged and Wyeth circled him with yapping. Surprised, I tried to hide against the tangled, willow moon gate. Lightning flashed again, and I saw the man slip Wyeth some sort of treat. Wyeth shimmied with pleasure. The man stooped down and picked up a large postal bag that he slung over his shoulder, then he headed toward the house. Wyeth caught sight of me and lunged in my direction. I grabbed his collar and watched him chew a large piece of Miss LaRue’s beef jerky. I finally understood the Wyeth and Ryan attraction.

  Ryan looked cold, miserable, and unsure.

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “I bought a boat.”

  “You bought a boat?”

  “An inflatable.” He tried to shrug nonchalantly. “No one would ferry me or rent to me because of the storm. Your Gram asked me to bring you this.” He swung the bag between us. “Letters,” he said, “for you, because on top of not having cell service or a landline, y
ou also don’t have Internet.” The rain fell in streams down his face and seeped in my collar. The rain blew my hair into my face and I tried to hold it out of the way.

  Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out another letter without an envelope. “Please read this one first. It’s the most urgent.”

  I felt him watching as I held the letter in front of me. The wind toyed with it and the rain soaked it. “I can’t read it.”

  “Where are your glasses?”

  I shook my head. “I’m wearing contacts. I can’t read because it’s too dark.”

  “Oh.” He took the letter. “Then let me. I memorized it. Dear Hailey,” he began, “I’m in love with a girl who knows the answer to everything, so how can I admit that when it comes to her I know nothing.”

  He shifted from foot to foot. His eyes watched me intently while I blinked back rain and tears. “No comment?” he said finally, his voice strained. “Aren’t you supposed to have a comment for everything?”

  “Sometimes,” I said slowly, not exactly sure what would happen, “it’s better to kiss than to comment.” I waited for his reaction, biting my lip. His eyes widened in surprise, then he pulled me into his arms and pressed his mouth to mine. Thunder announced another crack of lightning. I held onto Ryan, feeling the heat of his body. I remembered another time when I had thought I would drown in his arms.

  Author’s Note

  The premise of Hailey’s Comments rests on incredible coincidences many readers will find unbelievable, yet the real story surrounding Hailey’s Comments is even more extraordinary.

  After finishing Hailey, I had a goal of querying fifty agents, which I did. A few weeks later the rejection letters were flying in each bringing a blow to my fragile ego. My friends own successful businesses, they teach, run preschools, take in foster children, and I wrote stories no one ever read. Like Emma, I was a discouraged artist.

  Hailey’s Comments takes place on a fictional island in the Pacific Northwest. In my novel the family matriarch, Helen, is murdered by her grandson, James Dunsmuir. I imagined the Dunsmuir home as a stone Victorian mansion, complete with turret and a widow’s walk that overlooks the ocean.

  While vacationing in the Sun Juan Islands with my husband’s family, we visited Craigdarroch Castle in Victoria, BC. Craigdarroch Castle stands high on a hill, but it’s not a castle with ramparts and moat—it’s a stone Victorian mansion complete with turret and a widow’s walk overlooking the ocean. It looks exactly as I’d envisioned my fictional Dunsmuir home.

  When I went upstairs, I read that the home was built by Robert Dunsmuir, and after his death it became the property of his widow, Joan. Joan and her son, James, who shares my villain’s name, had a stormy relationship and were estranged for many years.

  Until that day, I’d never visited Victoria. To my recollection I hadn’t any prior knowledge of the city’s prominent families or of Craigdarroch Castle. I had never seen a picture of the Dunsmuir home, and I’d never heard of the Dunsmuir family. As I stood on the castle’s widow’s walk and watched the ships moving along the water, I felt a hand resting on my shoulder, pressing me forward, urging me to continue writing.

  I apologize to the Dunsmuir family if Hailey’s Comments, although 100% fictional, draws any painful connections to their own lives. I'm sure the real James was a lovely person, and if he had reasons for being estranged from his mother, I'm absolutely sure it's not because he murdered his grandmother.

  I thought about changing the names in my novel but decided against it—it’s just too good of a story not to tell.