And I knew better than to ask.
Chapter 81—Nothing but a Lubber Lost
Plant and Silas met me in San Francisco with warm hugs, roses, and a bottle of Dom Perignon. They announced they were taking me down to Silas’s beach house because “we all deserved a vacation.”
On the ride down to Morro Bay, in a champagne-and-jet-lag haze, I longed to spill out the truth about the dire financial situation that had kept me in England. But compared to what Plant and Silas had just been through—a poison-induced heart attack and an accusation of murder—my problems seemed too minor to mention.
Plant had received a stack of mail for me, which I went through as we drove through the Salinas Valley. There were several notes from Valentina, whose cousin had still not been paid. I would have to send off a check as soon as I deposited my advance. There were several more overdue bills, some dog-eared, much-forwarded notes of condolence on my mother’s death—and at the bottom of the stack—something in a business envelope, with an address written in odd, foreign-looking handwriting. It had a New York postmark.
“Dearest Madam,” it said, in the spidery script. “I am having for you a load of furnishings, which you have asked to be reserved in storeroom. The Co-operative Board are not allowing such storage, so I have sent to house of my sister’s husband in Flatbush. You will please to fetch these soon. Sincerely, Habib Amir.”
I squealed so loud that Plant started to pull the car over to the shoulder.
“My doorman,” I explained, urging him to drive on. “He didn’t steal my things. He’s been keeping them for me all this time. I can’t believe it. I have to send him some money and get a van and…” And what? I hadn’t wanted to think about it. What the hell was I going to do? Whether Sherwood published my book or not, it wasn’t going to produce any income for some time, if at all. What was left of my two thousand dollars would barely pay a month’s rent, much less move my furniture—or pay Habib for his extraordinary kindness.
“Maybe you can find a moving company that can bundle your things with a partial load of another New Yorker moving out here,” Silas said. “Lots of easterners retire to the Central Coast.”
I looked out at the rolling, golden hills where plump cattle grazed between lush vineyards and prosperous, Tuscan-style wineries. Ahead was a sign pointing west that said simply, “Beaches.”
“It looks like paradise, but I’m not exactly in a position to retire.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it,” said Silas. He turned around and grinned. “This may be a little soon, but I wondered if you might need a job. The manager of my Morro Bay bookstore is leaving the area, so I’m desperate for somebody. There’s a little cottage in the back. Just a one-bedroom beach house, but you can walk to everything and there’s an ocean view…”
I couldn’t hear any more over my own shouts of joy.
Everything in Morro Bay fell into place with such ease that I could hardly believe I’d been in abject misery just a few weeks before. After about a month of camping in my little cottage, my furniture arrived. Everything was intact, just as I’d packed it. I was putting the Limoges dishes away in the Chippendale cabinet when my new cell phone rang.
It was Davey. “We’ve got your book in galleys,” he said. “I wanted to alert you that we’ll be sending the electronic version today and I’ll need to get any corrections as soon as possible. We want to go to press immediately. Peter’s come through with the cash to get us up and running again.”
I couldn’t believe luck could get this good. “So he sold the Marynia?”
Davey paused. “Not exactly. But he sold some, er, merchandise at a tidy profit.”
I blurted out what I’d suspected all along. “The designer knock-offs? He got hold of that truckload of Bill’s fake bags, didn’t he? He sold them in the Caribbean?”
Davey was silent for a moment. “Must go,” he said. “This is a dodgy connection. Watch for my email.”
I wandered around in a blissed-out fog for two days. When I finished my corrections and sent them off, I went to the liquor store next door and bought a bottle of local wine to celebrate. I sat down to email Plant the good news. A new message sat in my inbox from Davey. No header. No salutation either. I hoped my attachment had got through all right.
But the message said nothing about my manuscript.
“The Marynia has sunk off Jamaica,” it said. “No survivors. We’re all shattered. No idea what will happen now.”
No survivors.
My wine sat in my mouth in a sour puddle. I had to jump up and spit it into the sink, as the memory of an ancient ballad ran through my mind, along with the absurd memory of Peter singing in his off-key tenor about Robin Hood’s adventures as a sailor:
“If I should cast thee over-board/There were nothing but a lubber lost.”
Chapter 82—Coyote Redux
Over the next seven months, I kept hoping to hear that the news of Peter’s death was yet another hoax by the master trickster. But finally I had to accept the truth: this time Peter really was gone.
Davey sent links to the local newspaper reports of the wreck of the Marynia. Three men had been aboard: Peter, Jovan Ratko and a seaman they’d hired in Kingston. The bodies hadn’t been found, but they wouldn’t have been, in that deep water.
His death seemed such a tragic, pointless loss. But nobody seemed to be grieving as acutely as I was. From what Davey wrote in his emails, it sounded as if Sherwood was doing perfectly well without Peter. Insurance on the Marynia had paid off the company’s debts and allowed for necessary repairs on the Maidenette Building. Henry had made Vera and Charlie full partners so he could concentrate on his writing—he was doing the final edit on his Mr. Darcy novel, Fitzwilliam, Aged Five—and the Professor now had two assistant editors for the Major Oak line.
On the day in early December when the store got its first shipment of Good Manners for Bad Times from Swynsby-on-Trent, I decided it was time to let my fantasies of Peter’s resurrection go, and embrace my new life. The small carton from England arrived along with a big shipment of bestsellers, replenishing the store’s inventory for Christmas buying. I unpacked the rest of the shipment first. It included five copies of Gordon Trask’s Home is the Hunter, just out from Knopf, and two boxes with more copies of Fangs of Sherwood Forest—the number one paperback bestseller this week on the USA Today list.
Sales of Fangs had taken off in my store as soon as it came out two weeks ago. I couldn’t tell if my customers were as intrigued by the idea of a gay werewolf Robin Hood as they were by reading the work of an alleged poisoner on trial for her life. But the book deal Rosalee had made soon after her arrest was proving to be a fantastic business move on the part of her new publishers—and her lawyers—who had rushed it into print almost as soon as the news of her arrest was out. Plant reported recently that Variety had announced a Fangs film deal in the works, with Robert Pattinson attached to the project.
But poor Rosalee was likely to spend the rest of her life in prison.
At least she’d get access to health care.
Once I’d processed the other books from the new order, I opened the little box from Swynsby-on-Trent and took out a copy of Good Manners for Bad Times. Tom’s silver tray design—in embossed, metallic silver—was as elegant as I’d remembered. I caressed the thin volume, wondering if it had been worth all the pain. I unfolded the packing slip and found a letter in Vera’s neat handwriting.
The note was a couple of pages long. I decided to take it to lunch so I could read it in private. Anything from Sherwood tended to make me emotional, even now. I went to my favorite café—a little spot with outdoor tables overlooking the bay—and ordered the smoked albacore taco and tea with milk. I still drank my tea British style. I took the letter from my pocket and smoothed it open.
“As you can imagine,” Vera wrote. “The big pre-publication order of Good Manners for Bad Times from Ryder’s Bookstores has our whole office celebrating. The Professor is sending review copies to al
l his old University friends, including people at the Times and the Guardian, so you should be getting some well-placed publicity.”
“We hope you can make your way here for the official launch in April. Brenda says she’ll have a nice room waiting for you, and wants you to know the Merry Miller no longer has karaoke. And we now have another incentive for you to come—a wedding! The Professor and Meggy will be married at Old St. Mary’s on May the first. That’s the day after her divorce will be final. We couldn’t be happier. We’re debating whether Much should do the honors as ring bearer.”
She went on to tell of her household news, and said that Charlie and his family were doing splendidly. Dorie was expecting again.
“Davey, Liam and Tom send their love. I’m sure they’ve filled you in via e-mail about their goings-on. Liam is seeing a nice girl from the local chip shop, and Tom and Davey are the same as ever.”
Fog was moving in, and the December wind felt chilly through my light jacket, but I didn’t want to move. I loved Morro Bay in the winter, after the tourists left and it became a blue-collar fishing town again. This was a moment I wanted to savor: I was a published writer again. A new chapter in my life was beginning.
A seagull perched on the chair opposite and eyed the remains of my taco. I tossed it a bit of tortilla as I looked out at the sea and wished it didn’t always make me think of Peter. I would have loved to share this moment with him. My eyes started to moisten, but I stopped myself. I’d shed enough tears for Peter Sherwood, or whoever he was.
I had a good life here. My job paid very little, but the low rent Silas charged for the cottage allowed me to feel prosperous. He was a great boss, and seemed to be a good partner for Plant now they’d worked out some of their issues.
I needed to start looking for a little romance, too. Lots of nice-looking men in this surfer/fisherman town. I looked out at the fishing boat chugging away from the dock and saw a tall, lanky fisherman waving at me. I waved back. He threw off the hood of his sweatshirt—it would be a green one—revealing long, blond hair. He blew me a kiss.
I returned the kiss, telling myself that sudden thrill didn’t come from the man’s resemblance to Peter.
But back at the store, things weren’t so peaceful.
“Where have you been?” said Dana, the Cuesta College student who came in on weekday mornings. “Some guy was here looking for you. He waited nearly an hour, but he said his boat was sailing and he had to go.”
I shrugged, determined not to lose my good mood.
“Probably some local writer with a self-published novel. Half our customers seem to have them.”
Dana gave change to the customer at the register.
“No. This wasn’t store business. He said he got this address from your ex-husband.”
She turned to the next person in line. It was busy for a weekday—a good omen for the holiday season.
I opened the second register to help another waiting customer.
“He mentioned my ex-husband? Probably a reporter wanting a story about Jonathan—some ‘lo how the mighty have fallen’ piece.”
“He didn’t look like a reporter. He looked more like a fisherman—dressed in jeans and a hoodie.”
“A dark green hooded sweatshirt?” I thought of the man on the boat.
“Yeah. It might have been green. He was kind of a hottie—for an older guy. He said he met your ex in a waterfront bar in Bangkok.”
So the man who had waved was one of Jonathan’s drinking buddies. Just as well I missed him.
When the rush died down, Dana reached under the desk for something.
“He left you this—that fisherman guy.” She handed me an envelope.
Inside was a greeting card—one of the cards by a Native American artist whose works we sold here in the store.
It pictured a coyote, howling at the moon.
I opened the card with trembling fingers. The message inside was unsigned.
“Congratulations on your new book, Duchess,” it said. “Glad to hear the lads got it sorted. I hope you and I can toast your success the next time I’m in town.”
My knees got rubbery. I clung to the register for balance.
“Jeez. I don’t think he paid for that card,” Dana said. “I never rang it up. Something about that guy made me kind of lose track.”
“I suppose he imagined we’re rich, and since he’s obviously poor at the moment, he thought it was all right to steal from us.” I wished I could keep myself from grinning.
Dana looked puzzled. “What is he, some kind of Robin Hood?”
I nodded. “Yes. Some kind of Robin Hood. I don’t know if he’s the good kind or the bad kind.” I put four dollars into the register to pay for the card. “But I’ll make sure he pays me when I see him again.”
*********end*********
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 27
