Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mother and Grandmother had a long-standing feud. Claire was never able to get details about what started it. All Mother would say was that Grandmother had gone off the deep end; that living alone in the woods had made her crazy. She didn’t want Claire picking up any of her craziness, and had severed ties completely with the old lady after that last visit.

  She wasn’t in favor of Claire’s sudden wish to visit the place.

  “You don’t want to go up there,” Mother said, during a rare phone call. Claire and Mother had seldom been in sync, and now spoke infrequently. Women in Claire’s line, it seemed, were destined for frosty relationships.

  “Why not?” Claire asked. “Grandmother can’t influence me; I’m not a child, and besides, she isn’t even there.”

  “Living there is what made her crazy. She’s been missing for a year. I'm having it torn down.”

  Claire protested, “I remember it as a cozy little house. Just give me a few months—enough to finish my book. Besides, maybe I’ll find something that will tell us where Grandmother disappeared to.”

  “I went up once and looked around and couldn’t find anything,” Mother said. “I don’t know what’s happened to her, but I don’t think she’s still alive.”

  Claire was sorry to think she’d never have a chance to know the old woman, but she was determined to get up to that quiet place in the pines. She'd started a new book that could be a game-changer for her, and Dove Cottage was just the place to get it finished. It lay off a quiet secondary road, an ideal writer’s retreat.

  She ought to have visited Grandmother before her mysterious disappearance, of course. Why had she let her mother deprive her of the relationship they might have had? Since it was too late, and with the Winthrops threatening the cottage, Claire felt the least she could do was hang on to the place. What if Grandmother Grandison returned? She deserved a home to come back to.

  After the call with Mother, Claire hurried to get her ducks in a row in order to get to the cottage before Mother had it razed. What started as a vague longing to see it, to find a connection to the woman who was family, became a conviction. That cottage was not only a link to her lineage, but her best chance of producing a game-saving book.

  And her career definitely needed saving. The bad reviews that followed her last two books, both Regency romances, were overpowering, each one an anchor, strapping her to a loser’s plateau that now she must escape from. One reviewer wrote, “Ms. Channing’s fans may keep her alive, but it certainly isn’t this latest book doing so.” And even her agent warned that if she didn’t turn things around, she’d have to write with a pseudonym. Or self-publish. Claire wanted a contract and a big advance, not the responsibility and headaches of self-publishing. She wanted a blockbuster.

  She’d terminated the lease on her apartment, grabbed Charlie and a few suitcases, and drove up in her silver Capri. She phoned ahead first since the cottage had been empty for so long, arranged for snow to be cleared, and hired a cleaning service, an electrician, and a repairman. Working appliances and an internet connection weren’t optional. On the third day after her arrival with Charlie, Adam called.

  His family was surprised to see someone living in the lonely cottage atop the hill; wouldn’t she like to sell it, seeing as it was surrounded by property—their property? They’d give her more than a fair market price, and who else would ever buy it?

  Claire had been adamant from the start about not selling. Grandmother could be abroad on some pilgrimage, for instance—the old lady did pilgrimages, according to Mother. But also the cottage had instantly felt welcoming and she was already getting in a lot of writing. It wasn't paradise, but had rustic charm. Inside a log-cabin exterior with a quaint red-metal roof was an old-fashioned kitchen that included an ironstone stove and a wide hearth. The cozy living room had a fireplace, as did the main bedroom, and the Winthrops’ lodge was far enough away so she heard nothing of tourists and ski lifts. It was peaceful. It was perfect.

  During her first walk-through, she’d found a cloth table runner in the bottom of a cedar chest. As she admired its lovely gold-and-mint embroidery, Claire had a sudden memory. It wasn’t a runner; it was a shawl, a prayer shawl. Grandmother had found it in Israel on one of her pilgrimages. She called it by a special name which Claire couldn’t remember. It was woven in sturdy white cotton, with a wide embroidered hem on all sides. The shorter ends were tasseled, and included two small doves—or were they lovebirds—meeting in a kiss.

  The shawl had hung in a glass case on the wall like a museum tapestry on Claire’s last visit. The glass must have broken, for the case was gone. She draped the fabric over the brow of the sofa where she’d see it as she worked at the kitchen table, and the memory bubbled up: a tallit, that's what Grandmother called it.

  She added a log to the blaze in the fireplace. She’d need more logs eventually but Grandmother’s front porch was stacked with two cribs of seasoned wood. If the old lady hadn’t planned on being back for winter, she certainly had left enough firewood. She peeked out a window as she moved her laptop to the kitchen nook. Maine days were short in winter. She appreciated the falling snow, light as dust today, but sparkling upon the ground and trees in shafts of fading sunlight.

  Well. St. John and Clarissa Andrews were waiting. It was time for Clarissa to apologize to St. John for the dangerous coach caper. Clarissa really was sorry and would begin to mend her ways. And St. John would have a change of heart towards her. By the end of the book he’d propose to Clarissa and they’d live happily ever after.

  That was the plan, the outline she’d labored over for this new book which she called Forever, Lately. Later, when it all fell apart, Claire would wonder how she’d stumbled upon real people to inhabit her story. If she’d known they were real, she might have known, too, that they wouldn’t ever do as she planned.

  But some characters in books are really real.

  Dodie Smith

  CHAPTER 3

  1816 London

  St. John happened to be looking toward the entrance during a public ball the following week when Miss Clarissa Andrews appeared. Her daringly low décolletage emphasized an ample bosom and slim waist; any lower and it would be fit only for a Cyprian’s ball. A Grecian headdress of net and olive leaves adorned her black locks, and around her neck lay a ponderous necklace with a large wooden cross against white flesh and cleavage.

  Miss Margaret trailed in behind her, every bit the shy, awkward girl of fifteen. Where Clarissa was curvaceous, Margaret was straight; where Clarissa had mounds of allure, Margaret was flat. Though she received little attention, her saving grace was that she required none. As soon as the pair entered, Margaret scampered to a wall at the back of the room and took a seat. Her only ambition was to watch.

  Clarissa was quickly taken in hand by a matronly dame who had an available first son. A baronet’s daughter, Miss Andrews was known for a large dowry which made her of interest to mammas with sons to marry off.

  Clarissa had little interest in the woman or her son, however. Instead, her gaze swept the room until it alighted upon St. John. She underwent a change in demeanour. First there was relief, but this was shortly followed by the insolent, confident look she wore whenever she felt challenged by anyone. And St. John was a prodigious challenge.

  Despite many admirers, she wanted only him. And this season she must win him, for he was finally wife-hunting. He was about to turn thirty-four and had apparently made a vow to some venerable deceased relation to be married by that age and see to the business of begetting an heir. Even better, St. John’s rakish days were behind him. He used to be too dangerous for Clarissa. Though she wasn’t entirely proper herself, she could scarcely afford a man who might not follow an impropriety with an offer. But St. John had changed, “got religion,” so they said. He no longer went about using women—even those who wouldn’t mind being used—but was every bit as good-looking and rich as when he did.

  Julian turned away from Miss Andrews's gaze. What once mig
ht have appealed to him in her, the daring gowns and brazen manners, he now disliked. Even more, he despised her hoaxes, what she called larks. A woman wasn’t supposed to chase a man, though the anger he’d felt last week when her coach had nearly run him down had dissipated into a feeling more akin to pity. St. John wasn’t malicious. But he had no wish to fall into old temptations or to raise false hopes. When he saw her searching the room, he knew from experience she was seeking him out. She would dangle around him and plague him if he let her. He must not let her.

  He’d been near ready to act the gentleman and ask a young woman, a noted wallflower, to stand up with him; but Miss Andrews gave him pause. Clarissa had the unfortunate habit of giving the cut direct to any lady he took to the floor. St. John had reprimanded her for this social injustice more than once, but Miss Andrews made it utterly clear that he was the cause of the lady’s misfortune. If he had not insisted upon dancing, there would be no need for her to give the cut. This only deepened his conviction that she was a vixen of the first water, a female scoundrel, for she would snub an inferior and think nothing of it. Woman, thy name is frailty.

  From the corner of his eye he saw her extricating herself from the clutches of the ambitious mamma, and making her way toward him. Mr. Timbrell, an acquaintance he’d been speaking to, said, “Do not look now, but I believe ’tis my brother’s keeper coming this way.”

  “Your brother may keep her,” Julian answered smoothly, “for I never shall.”

  Mr. Timbrell smiled but said, “She is a most determined lady where you are concerned. I know it plagues you Julian, but I shouldn't complain if she were to set her cap at me.”

  “Only tell her your fortune has doubled, and I have no doubt she may.”

  “When she knows of your family obligation—that you must wed this year? If I were as rich as Croesus she’d not look away from you.”

  Clarissa arrived. The men bowed politely.

  “Beware, Miss Andrews,” Mr. Timbrell said, as she finished a curtsey. “St. John is in a nasty turn of temper; I warn you.” He gave a mischievous grin to Julian and sauntered off.

  Clarissa studied him. “Are you indeed in a nasty temper? May I know why?”

  “Is not your presence enough to warrant it?” he asked in a low tone to spare her embarrassment. Clarissa produced a delicate ladies’ fan with a hand-painted Chinese design on it, and started fanning herself.

  “Dear me, do not say you are still cross over that lark the other night.”

  “Very well, I shall not say it.”

  She fanned more rapidly. “My dear sir, if you tire of my pranks, as you fashion my behaviour, then why not offer for me and settle it? I should obey you with all my heart as your wife. I will no longer endanger anyone’s life, including yours, and I shall make a very proper wife to you.”

  St. John stared at her. He knew Clarissa was brazen, but—an outright offer! A woman, to a man! “Miss Andrews—for once you nearly render me speechless. I am too astonished, indeed, to make any reply at all. Excuse me.”

  Her countenance dropped at his last words, and with the merest hint of a bow, St. John turned and walked away.

  A bonny lass I will confess, is pleasant to the e'e,

  But without some better qualities she's no a lass for me.

  Robert Burns

  CHAPTER 4

  Dove Cottage

  Note to self: If characters are going to change from what the writer envisioned, they must do so early on in the writing.

  “You are a terrible flirt, and you didn’t say the right thing to St. John,” Claire said to her laptop. Clarissa was supposed to apologize, not propose marriage. Claire felt as though she’d watched the scene unfold more than written it.

  Charlie had been resting placidly at her feet, but he sat up, peered at Claire, and whimpered.

  “You need to go out, don’t you?” Claire asked, setting his tail wagging. By the time she got to the door, he was frantic with excitement. When she opened it, he whooshed out like a north wind.

  Wrapped in coat, hat and gloves, she got ready to follow the dog but spied the tallit lying over the brow of the sofa. Why not? It would add some warmth. She circled it loosely around her shoulders as she stepped onto the porch. Then she trailed after Charlie who was scampering ahead, joyful as a child.

  There was a frozen top layer to the snow, making it crunch with each step. She took in the beauty of snow-encased pines, the quiet of a world blanketed in white and felt deeply grateful to her grandmother. She hoped the old woman was off on one of her pilgrimages in some corner of the world, and that nothing dire had happened to her. For living in the cottage gave Claire no clues as to the mystery of where she’d gone off to. In fact, Claire found suitcases in the closet of the spare bedroom—surely if the old lady had planned on a sojourn she’d have needed her luggage! It troubled Claire.

  Ahead, Charlie barked and took off around a bend in the trees as though chasing a bird. She went in his direction and soon heard him. Growling. Her heart dropped as she wondered if he’d encountered a coyote. A bear wouldn’t be around in midwinter, would it? She turned the bend and caught a flash of dark fur—or was it fabric?—behind a dense, bare bush. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Charlie!” she gasped.

  But Charlie’s tail now wagged furiously, but low, as though he was torn between being happy or suspicious of whatever it was beyond Claire’s sight. He barked, then whimpered, then scampered around and returned to the spot. Claire stood there, half terrified, ready to turn and run, but feeling protective of her dog.

  “C’mon, Charlie!” she called. And then a man stepped out from behind the bush as he stroked Charlie, now in full wag, behind the ears, with gloved hands. But not snow gloves. No, they were buff leather, perfectly in keeping with what a Regency gentleman might wear—as was the rest of his costume! Claire froze.

  Was she seeing things? She shook her head and blinked, but he remained. From the side, as he seemed not to see her and gave his attention only to the dog, she suddenly realized it was St. John! Her idea of St. John, anyway. It couldn't be him, really; he was fictional! He wore hunting boots and pantaloons, a double-breasted coat and beaver hat. He held a riding whip in one hand, and a beautiful cravat peeked out above his coat. Claire’s legs went weak. This had to be a joke. But why hadn’t he seen her?

  “Charlie!” Her voice sounded weak. St. John seemed oblivious to her presence. Charlie was too busy enjoying his attention to pay any heed to Claire, so she turned and hurried back to the house. She felt spooked and confused, and twice checked to see if the man was following, but he wasn’t.

  She rushed into the house, slammed the door behind her and locked it as fast as her fumbling hands could manage. Quickly she grabbed her cell phone and dialed 911. She heard Charlie yelp on the porch—she’d locked him out! She peeked out warily, but the dog was alone. Seeing nobody, she opened the door just enough to let him in and then hurried to lock it again. She stood behind a curtain at the window while waiting for 911 to answer, her heart still pounding in her throat.

  Outside she saw only a wintry landscape, snowcapped trees and bushes, and a weak sun beginning to set. The man was nowhere in sight.

  Imagination does not breed insanity.

  What breeds insanity is reason.

  G.K. Chesterton

  CHAPTER 5

  Adam Winthrop put his hands in his coat pockets and studied Claire. “You sure you want to stay alone out here? We have a great guest bedroom.” Smiling, he added, “It’ll give you a chance to meet the whole family—we are your neighbors, you know.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, her tone clipped. “I must have been imagining things.” Claire was miffed that the local sheriff had called Adam of all people, to meet him at the cottage. Apparently, the Winthrops were tight with the sheriff, who knew they wanted to buy the place. Did he consider that justification to bring Adam along? Or was it that the Winthrops were rich and brought in the lion’s share of tourist dollars to the area? E
ither way, it ruffled Claire that she had to meet her foe under this circumstance. Both men thought she’d imagined the incident.

  They’d gone over the place slowly and carefully, especially around the bush where Claire had seen the man. She couldn’t explain why there was nothing but paw prints in the snow: no footprints, and no fresh snow that might have covered them. She told how Charlie had reacted.

  Sheriff Levin pushed his hat back. “Probably saw a rabbit, ma’am.”

  Claire had seen a man. And there weren’t any rabbit tracks in the snow. Note to self: Sheriff Levin is useless.

  With assurances that she could call anytime, and after exchanging a knowing nod at Adam, the officer was off.

  Adam stuck his hand out. “I’m glad we finally got to meet. If I’d known how pretty you are, I wouldn’t have waited this long.”

  Claire wasn’t glad, but she shook his hand. With Adam’s blonde hair, long, lean face, and blue eyes, he could have come from Norway, but she saw only one thing in those eyes: a determination to oust her from the cottage. And calling her pretty wasn’t going to win him any favor, for the last thing Claire wanted was a relationship. If she’d learned anything from Mother, it was that men were not dependable. Career came first. Claire couldn't even remember her father, who had left before she was three.