by Laura Briggs
"Not in so many words, right?" said Molly to Natalie.
"Not unless the reading is very strong," said the medium. "For your friend Bridget, for example, I'm getting a definite sense of recent accomplishment."
"Brigette," corrected the former concierge.
"Is it? I'm sorry," said Natalie. "There was something in the vibrations. I don't know why or what — it made me certain it was Bridget. Yet your name tag quite clearly says otherwise. Silly me." She laughed.
It was Bridget, I was fairly sure, and not just because of the brief look of annoyance on my coworker's face, or the soft traces of her native accent. Maybe it was the old name tag I had found hooked on a jumper in the uniform closet that clued me in. I had long suspected the French spelling was entirely the choice of the hotel concierge's personal tastes.
"And something else," continued Natalie. She raised one hand a little, her eyes closed. "I sense ... a secret desire. Romantic feelings are involved in it somehow. Aren't they?"
Surprisingly, Brigette's face was now a furious shade of scarlet. "I don't know what you mean," she said. "I haven't a crush on anybody. Or romantic feelings towards anybody, or anything of the sort. I'm sure that if I did, I would be perfectly aware of it. You're mistaken, I'm afraid." She fumbled for her pink highlighter and it escaped her grip, falling to the carpet below.
Natalie turned to me, and I held up my hand. "That's not necessary," I said, hastily. "I know myself pretty well, and I'm not quite ready to know about my future." Better safe than sorry, I thought ... just in case my aura was somehow planning to reveal my secret for being here.
"Fair enough," said Natalie. "I should really tidy myself before lunch. The earl's family dresses for nearly every occasion, and I would hate to shame myself before them as Lord Billings' guest by arriving in these togs, wouldn't I?" She moved towards the stairs, leaving us alone.
"You should have let her read you," scolded Molly. "Weren't you curious?"
"Do you really believe she's quite real?" said Brigette, who had finally ceased blushing over the medium's reading of her would-be romantic aura.
Natalie reappeared. "One more thing," she said to Molly. "Cardiff. Something about it is very important to you in the future." She was gone again after this prediction.
A random word that could really mean anything. We three exchanged glances once more, but only Molly looked thrilled by this prediction.
"Cardiff?" repeated Brigette. "As in Wales?"
"Simply amazing, isn't it?" said Molly, with awe. "What do you suppose it means?"
_________________
"Is there anything for Maisie Clark?" I asked. "Or Marjorie Kinnan?" I was joking a little with this last question, although you never know — it was always possible that my pseudonym would somehow receive mail courtesy of some thoughtful fellow employee putting me on a mailing list.
"Let's see. Couple o' things. Here you are, miss." The clerk behind the post office desk handed me a postcard and two envelopes. One had my real name and my mother's address on it, so it was a letter from home — probably asking just how long I planned to explore the UK, and what happened to my plans to find a mentor and return to the quest for the Ink and Inspiration prize.
I hadn't told my mother exactly what happened after I reached Cornwall, so she was in the dark about my real purpose as much as the Penmarrow's staff. As for the postcard, it was from an unusual source: my ex-boyfriend Ronnie, who was wintering with his father in Cabo, apparently. Nice of him to keep in touch — even if the chances that we would ever be a couple again were deader than Dickens's metaphorical door nail.
"By chance, are you cyclin' past the vicarage?" the clerk asked me. "If you're stoppin' by to see your friend, there's a package for him that just arrived today."
"I'll take it," I said, accepting the large, flat parcel wrapped in protective bubble padding and brown paper. Sidney's name was on the address, the return address somewhere in Liverpool.
I tucked it in the basket of Riley's old bicycle beside the copy of my manuscript, then pedaled along the quiet streets of Port Hewer, past the narrow little stone library and the cottage with the cheery scarecrow in its garden. Like many half days off during my weeks at the hotel Penmarrow, I was planning to spend it with the vicarage's unusual caretaker, handyman, and carefree wanderer-at-heart. Whom I had lately promised could read the object I carried with me, bundled together with twine: the stack of papers that represented the late nights and carved-out hours of my time in Cornwall, and a year of imaginings from my literary aspirations beforehand.
The thought of him reading it made me nervous, truth be told. Since I first began The Untold Heart, its only reader had been Professor Scott, who hadn't been the world's biggest fan of period Gothic romance, even without both a touch of steam punk and a heavy dose of literary allusions. For him, Edgar Allan Poe's poetry ended at "The Raven" — and it wasn't supposed to be married to the classic American author's short stories to give Annabel Lee an elaborate personal history. Needless to say, he didn't give odds to the possibility of my novel finding harmony between all of these things and a perfect ending.
A promise was still a promise. Besides, Sidney — even if he never claimed to be the deeply-literary type — would probably be a kind critic who lied with his lips and told the truth with his eyes, thus sparing my dignity and our fragile young friendship...or whatever this was between us.
I cycled past the old church whose stained glass windows overlooked the sleepy burial ground, turning at the opening in the hedge which led to the maintenance shed located behind the vicarage, where Sidney lived as groundskeeper.
Once again, the shed door was closed and locked. I knocked twice, then sighed. Sidney had forgotten that he had asked me to come by. Again.
"He's always going to ask me and never going to remember. Isn't he?" I addressed one of Sidney's dogs, the big shaggy one with definite traces of wolfhound in his lineage. He thumped his tail lazily against the courtyard path's stones.
Since Sidney had forgotten to leave a note, I didn't have the faintest idea what errand he might be on, and I didn't want to chance leaving my manuscript on his doorstep, where just anyone might find it.
"I don't suppose one of you would like to take me to him?" I asked, as I lifted the bicycle's kickstand. As if he had been waiting for this signal, the terrier mix Kip sprang to his feet, wagging his tail. He scurried along beside me, then trotted ahead, in the direction of Sidney's friend Dean's cottage.
The familiar unkempt front garden beds were filled with late-season roses and faded stalks of foxglove. I parked my bike and approached the front door, as Kip flopped over among the flattened tufts of ornamental grass.
I shuffled the package and the manuscript to one side in my arms, and knocked on the door. I could hear the muffled sound of classical music playing within. "It's open," called a voice on the other side, which was unmistakably Sidney's. I lifted the handle and crossed the threshold of Dean's cottage.
The short, narrow hall where Sidney had greeted me the last time I was here was empty except for a Macintosh hanging from a hook and some crookedly-hung framed prints and artwork. In the untidy living room beyond it, the source of the recorded aria I heard from outside, a large canvas was propped on an easel near the windows, the drapes drawn wide open to look out on the wilderness of a garden outside with its tangled high stalks and wild-limbed shrubbery as it permitted the daylight to enter.
On the canvas was a garden scene depicting a woman and two children seated on a blanket, and manicured flower beds brimming with brightly-colored daisies, aster, late summer lilies, and sprays of roses covering the garden walls. Dean's wheelchair was positioned directly before it, with Sidney beside him on a low chair. A palette of mixed paints rested on the wheelchair's arm, fastened around the arm of the disabled man; between Sidney's fingers rested a brush tipped with a shade of lavender, almost touching the canvas.
"A bit more to the right. Lightly, now," said Dean, in the richly-charged
yet blunt voice I remembered from before. "Just there. A bit more and ... perfect. Now, the ochre for the center ...." But here he trailed off, seeing me standing there.
"Sorry to interrupt," I said, apologetically.
"I said 'come in,' didn't I?" said Sidney. "Can't very well answer the door while I'm in the middle of this."
He held up his hands as proof, which were smeared in various shades of purple. The same colors stained the knees of his trousers, his old pullover dark blue jumper, and now the edge of his hair where he tucked the artist's brush like a carpenter's pencil.
Now I put the recollection of Sid saying he 'painted a bit' in its proper context: not that of touching up garden shed exteriors around the village.
He wiped his hands on a rag, then lifted the needle from the record player, bringing the aria to silence. "Sit down," he said to me. "Dean, you remember Maisie. Maisie, you remember Dean. He's been teaching me a bit, not that I'm his ideal student."
"You've shown improvement," answered Dean, dryly. As Sidney detached the palette from the wheelchair's arm, his friend inched his motorized wheelchair backwards with a finger's touch on a lever, moving away from the canvas. It was then I realized that Dean's arms were almost as inoperable as his legs seemed to be.
"Sidney's been kindly giving me a hand with my canvas, since I clearly have some issues wielding a brush," he continued. "How do you think it looks?"
"I think it looks incredible," I said. "Is it from memory?" The detail was lifelike, especially for the three people depicted near the center.
"Not originally," said Dean. "I cheat. This is an unfinished canvas from some time ago." He settled his chair in a position which faced both me and Sidney, who was moving the easel into the corner of the room.
"I ... uh ... brought you the manuscript we talked about," I said to Sidney. I wasn't sure I wanted to add a third party to this presentation, but it couldn't be helped at the moment. "Fair warning, it's not much. It's not complete, and what I've written thus far is pretty rough ... I'm having some trouble with the middle part, as you'll clearly see. Not to mention the conflicts with the heroine, which I'm still working out..."
I was holding the manuscript in a death grip between both my hands, which I didn't realize until now. It had crinkled one corner of Sidney's postal package also.
"May I?" Sidney held out his hands. One corner of his mouth tugged in the direction of his oft-devilish grin, but I felt slightly relieved by it right now. I let him take the bundle of papers I held out, Sidney placing it on his lap. He pulled aside the twine.
"The Untold Heart," he read from the cover page. "I like it already."
Now that smile was exercising its infuriating powers. "Please, be serious, all right?" I said. "I haven't let anybody see it until now, remember? You're the first. So be critical ... just ... don't be too cruel."
"You have my word," said Sidney. I heard a short laugh from Dean.
"You're entrusting your firstborn work to Sidney's opinion?" he said. "Are you sure that decision is wise? His taste is a bit eccentric, you know. Given that he's —"
"It's not. Not really," said Sidney, in protest. Dean received a sharp glance from his friend, whose mischievous look had dimmed momentarily.
Dean picked up on this hint, apparently, and mollified his tone. "Then again, it's also true that he's awfully well read — at least compared to the rest of the village," he amended. "You could do worse in that respect. I've even loaned him a book from time to time." His eyes glanced in the general direction of the many shelves which filled the neighboring wall, and which were crammed full of any number of modern and antique hardbound books.
"Are you well read?" I asked Sidney. "Not that it matters. Not everybody who loves books loves all the great novels that were ever written."
"I don't love them all, no," he answered. "Just enough of them to make me sound clever in conversation." His face didn't reveal if this statement was true or just for the purpose of teasing me — and if it was false, if it meant he read everything or nothing at all. "But for your book I'll make an exception."
I remembered the scrap of paper I found in his pocket on the day I met him, a random page from Eliot's Daniel Deronda — a treasured possession or merely a piece of trash among the penny nails and bits of twine? "I'm so flattered," I replied, sarcastically.
His lips twisted slightly in reply — in the end, they formed a smile which had tried to hold itself back, but couldn't manage it.
"Oh — this is also yours," I said, holding out the package from the post office. "I guess I should have given it to you first."
"Finally — I've been waiting for this for a week," exclaimed Sidney, tearing into the paper. "Pristine. As promised. That's fantastic." From it, he lifted an album cover to a vinyl record. Ella Fitzgerald was on its cover, Ella Sings the Blues swirling across it.
"Shall we give it a whirl?" he asked. "With your permission to give Purcell a rest, of course," he added to Dean, whose faint head motion was a nod of assent, apparently, for Sidney lifted the record from the turn table and swapped it for the one from the sleeve in his hand. After a snapping, static-y noise, the song 'I Can't Get Started With You' began playing.
"That's more like it," he said, leaving the album cover on the table. "I mean no offense to the great composers," he amended.
A short laugh from Dean. "Classical has never been your favorite cup of tea, has it?" he replied. "Or are you just a sucker for modern prose about love?"
"Can't I be both?" Sidney answered. "Maisie," he said, holding out his hand. I let him pull me to my feet and against him, even though it seemed a little silly this time. But a second later, I was leaning into him like before, when it was the two of us on the beach this past summer — only this time, moving in slow steps to the rhythm of a song instead of making the mistake of beginning a kiss.
"This is what people can't do to the average composition by Wagner," he pointed out to Dean. "Whereas this song just invites people into its rhythm." He glanced at me. "You're a good dancer," he said.
"You're not so bad yourself," I answered. I hadn't really noticed, because being close to Sidney required definite concentration to keep my thoughts casual. One of my hands was lying on his chest, the other in his hold; Sidney's right hand was resting lightly on the small of my back. It was enough to create romantic electricity if I didn't make an effort to focus on innocuous details in the room, like the glint of sunlight on the canvas's fresh paint, or the little skips in the LP's revolutions.
"Hold tight," Sidney advised me. Without further warning, he dipped me dramatically towards the carpet, and I couldn't help the little shriek of surprise from my lips.
"Sidney!" I said, as he righted me again.
"Sorry," he apologized.
"There — that's the true reason you listen to the tripe-ridden love fantasies of a bygone decade," said Dean, with a snort. "And even then you spoil it by being silly."
"Doesn't everybody?" said Sidney. "Give me some credit for taste, at least. Those songs are hardly any more dead than Mozart's. Good love songs never die, but live on like the great arias. 'Dream a Little Dream,' 'I Remember You' —"
"All good records," I contributed.
"Thank you," Sidney replied. "It's nice to have agreement on this subject for a change."
"If only I had your sentimental nature," said Dean. With sarcasm.
"You need exposure for appreciation," said Sidney. "You wouldn't give that Norah Jones record I brought you a decent chance. Deserving of appreciation for the greatness of her original material, which is worthy of standing up with the classics I named before, and the beauty she gives a song like —"
"Like the one I remembered from the hotel the other night," I was saying, dreamily — because my mind really couldn't help going back there, while in this moment. "The one I like so much —"
" — 'The Nearness of You," finished Sidney at the same moment as me.
We both paused here, feeling a mutual awkwardness. Mine wa
s mostly for daring to bring up the summer evening on the hotel beach. His, I thought, was for the fact we were both thinking of the same thing at the same time, albeit for different reasons and in separate conversations. He broke into a sheepish smile, while I tried not to blush too fiercely and to renew my effort to notice the sparrows in the wild garden.
"Anyone fancy a cup of tea?" asked Sidney, softly. "I thought I would put on the kettle." He released his hold on me. "Let Dean have a turn at spinning you about the room."
"How would I do that, pray tell?" asked Dean, with an eyebrow quirking upwards.
"You've got wheels, and a zero point turn on that device, don't you?" Sidney replied. "Make use of it, for once." He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and I turned to face the only person left in the room, my afternoon host.
Not surprisingly, Dean didn't show interest in the idea of taking me for a spin. "I don't dance," he said. "Never did. Two left feet, as the saying goes."
I offered him a smile, but his look of thoughtful scrutiny remained intact. I sank down in the armchair across from him, and racked my brain for a good topic of conversation. I couldn't quite tell what he thought of me, although I had the distinct impression more than once that Dean wasn't inclined to like me.
As if sensing my thoughts, he spoke first. "I should dislike you, since Sid will undoubtedly end by liking you better than I," he said.
I felt shocked — and confused. "What do you mean?" I said. "Are you — is he —?"
"I wasn't referring to the romantic sense, no." Dean sounded faintly amused. "In that quarter, rest assured that you have the advantage. I spoke purely of friendship."
"Oh. Not that I was implying —" I began, then decided it would be better to simply drop this subject. "Are you and Sidney good friends?" I asked, at last.
"Very," he answered. "You could say that he is the best friend I have now. I don't have many of them. By choice, before you begin pitying me," he added.
"I wasn't pitying you," I answered, defensively.
