by Laura Briggs
I had thought about the conversation with Dean before I typed those words to Helen. I knew from the beginning that I would go meet the editor in London, even if I was afraid. And if I was sure of it, and knew how to make the best of the realities I found myself in, then why hold back my reply?
Tourist tea was underway in the dining room, and Alli was sitting at her favorite window table, dressed in her velvety red traveling togs that looked as old-fashioned as an Edwardian lady's walking suit, sans flower-trimmed bucket hat. She was perusing her little notebook, when I brought a fresh pot of tea, and patted the place across from her after glancing around to make sure that neither Brigette nor Mr. Trelawney was around. I glanced around in the same manner before sitting down.
"I had no idea you were coming here," I said. "You should have emailed me. Honestly, I can't believe you thought I would still be upset."
"I don't email, dearest, remember?" she said. "Alistair Davies eschews all modern forms of communication." She tapped her nose with one finger, her sign of secrecy — of the people present in this room, only she and I knew the truth about her pretend status, and I was one of the rare people on the planet to know her status as the writer existed at all. This as per 'Alistair's' preference for secrecy when it came to his image. Even the pretend version had to keep up appearances, it seemed.
"A letter, then?" I suggested.
"I did think about sending something to warn you, at least," she admitted. "After all, you might not have wanted to face me so soon after — well, the revelation." She lowered her voice a little more.
"I'm glad to see you, though," I answered. "Tremendously. And I'm glad you're staying for a few days, even if you won't be here for the excitement of the comet."
"This place is rather in a tizzy, isn't it?" she said. "I haven't seen so many scientists in one place since I attended a dinner Charlie gave for some chemist turned musician. It was a rather interesting mix of art and maths for one evening."
"Apparently, they have a great deal of catching up to do before the society's celebratory dinner," I said. "I caught a few minutes of one of their lectures and panel chats when I brought in some tea, and I didn't understand even one word of it." Sadly, my knowledge of cosmology and quantum physics could be fit on a single index card if I wrote it all down. "But I do understand the part about the comet being a once-in-a-lifetime event."
"And I shall miss it," sighed Alli. "But I did promise Paige, and I'm a woman of my word. Even if it sometimes seems as if I'm not, given certain pretenses." Embarrassment flared brightly in her cheeks.
"So what's in the little notebook, really?" I asked. It couldn't be ideas for book four, because she wasn't truly Alistair Davies — who, for all I knew, had never jotted so much as one sentence of his fourth novel.
"Oh, just silly little notions of mine," she said, dismissively. "A few shopping lists, reminders of things I need to finish, names and places I want to remember."
"Not ideas for your memoir?" I asked. For among Alli's later confessions, she had told me that she'd been dabbling with the idea of writing her real story, the one about actress Megs Buntly, who eschewed her ordinary background for a colorful life as a small-stage actress in the past. Alistair Davies had even read part of it.
"Perhaps a few, but telling that story is rather like untangling a very large tangle of yarn," she answered. "But what about your book? Do tell me that you haven't let it go after what happened — well, you know what I'm referring to." Her cheeks reddened again, as if the embarrassment behind her blush simply couldn't be dismissed. "I was in earnest about using my contacts to help you, you know."
"I haven't given up. In fact, I've done the opposite," I said. "After I made some revisions, I went forward in the submissions process, and now I'm waiting to find out what the verdict is."
"Taking the hard route," Alli surmised. "Brave of you, but I do feel rather bad. I feel as if the real — well, you know who — would have done something to help your career if he had read that letter, and that I should have done the same. I never should have let you go home in that manner without insisting you let me try."
"You can't do for someone what someone won't let you do," I said. "Besides which, Helen has already seen it and wants me to come to London, so ... so whatever she has to say about it to my face will be its true fate when it comes to Alistair's publisher, at any rate."
"Helen's read it?" said Alli. "I had no idea. And she wishes to see you personally. Perhaps I'm misjudging it, but I do believe that's a good sign." She took my hand and squeezed it excitedly. "Something about it has clearly gained her notice. I always did say it was a good story, didn't I?"
If anyone knew Helen's professional ways, it was Alli, so I accepted this as encouraging news. "I'm meeting her for tea in a couple of days, so I'll know what she has in mind for it then," I answered. "But I've submitted it to as many publishers as I could find who take unagented queries, so this isn't my only chance."
"Of course not," said Alli. "If any of us gave up after our first try, we'd all be in bleak straits, wouldn't we? I remember my first audition — Henry VI. I thought I read my lines beautifully and couldn't understand why the response was so bleak, until I saw a note in the director's casting sheet. 'Voice like a marble pinging in a glass jar,' he had written under my name. I had practically been falsetto at times, and hadn't realized it. I felt dreadfully foolish, but not so much so that I didn't audition straightaway for Caesar and Cleopatra the next week."
I cringed. "I didn't know that about your career," I said. It would have been mortifying to be privy to a harsh professional note like that. Scott had written a few things on my writing class assignments that I knew were undoubtedly nicely-worded versions of scathing remarks in his head.
"Water under the bridge," she said, dismissively.
"I'm glad you didn't quit when you read it." Maybe Megs's career had never brought fame or fortune, but it had created an extremely unique woman with panache.
"I would never dare," she answered, as if quitting were the equivalent of a crime. "Even in that low moment witnessed by you-know-who at my dressing table, I would have undoubtedly dragged myself up after a few days and made the best of any part that offered itself." She smiled, wryly. "The only trouble would have been how few were offered."
Brigette was scanning the dining room now, so I scrambled up and put the chair back where it belonged. "I'll see you later at dinner," I said. "I have to go."
"Do tell me the rest of the details about your book's submission then," she answered, giving my hand a farewell squeeze. Before Brigette could cast her disapproving frown, I took down the next table's request for cream tea with petit fours and made a beeline for the kitchen.
At the kitchen's service window, Janine decorated a flowered cake plate with four dainty little squares dressed with pink fondant roses and set it on the topmost tier of one of the fancy cake plates. While she finished dressing my tray, I sneaked a glance at my emails on my phone in the nearby silver pantry.
Friday will suit quite well, as will the time. I'll see you then, Helen had written. So the date was set for my book's moment of truth. I tried to think of Alli's positive remarks as I set my weekend alarm clock extra early.
My phone piped with a newly-arrived message — but this one wasn't from Helen. Hi, Maisie, it's me. I'll be stopping in Cornwall next week and wondered if you'd like to catch up? Have some coffee for old times' sake? Write me back or call me if you want to meet up — Ronnie.
Really? I hadn't seen my ex since Christmas, when he asked me to be his pretend date for a Twelfth Night-themed yacht party, for we communicated mostly via correspondence, the way you write a sort-of friend once a year to remind them you are still alive and sort of interested in how they are. But since I doubted Ronnie wanted to do anything other than catch up for old times' sake, I decided to say 'yes' to his request. After all, I did still like him, weak-willed as he was when it came to his society family's snooty manners and impossible pressure. I wante
d to be friends with him, if it was actually possible to maintain a friendship with someone who put the first major dent in your heart over broken romance.
"Maisie, your tray is ready," Janine called.
I took sliced lemon to some tourists from Washington who were studying a map app over tea, and a fresh pot of Darjeeling to the mysterious widow alone in the corner, then I was officially done with my shift. I untied my apron's strings and hung it up in the staff closet, which is where I found Molly.
She was sitting deep in her thoughts on the hamper for staff laundry, a pensive expression on her face. Her beloved crossword puzzle was sticking out of her apron pocket, and I could see only blank squares where usually Molly would have worked down and across in her usual fashion.
"Something wrong?" I asked. Molly sighed.
"Oh, Maisie, what am I going to do?" she said, with a groan. "You were there. You heard me talking to him. He must have thought I was a proper fool — or that I was trying to avoid him. How can I face him after that?"
In a flash, I thought of her blushing face and George's faint perplexity. "You haven't talked to him since?" I asked, astonished.
"He's been terribly busy, what with the lectures and the papers presented and such," said Molly. "It's been quite easy, since I've been working evenings mostly, which is when he's free. He asked the first night when I would be free, and I made sort of an excuse because I couldn't think of what to say. Why would he want to see me now, after I behaved that way?"
"Molly, don't say that," I answered, gently. "You're being too hard on yourself."
"It all went quite well in my head before I saw him," she said. "And I was so looking forward to it. When I heard about this conference, and I knew he was coming —" Molly's cheeks flared bright red again. "I really did want to seem like the sort of girl he would like to spend time with. Not some silly, babbling thing that runs away when embarrassed."
"George didn't look like he cared," I answered, sitting next to her on an industrial-size box of dusting cloths. "I think he still likes you a lot."
"I hope so," she answered, twisting her apron's ties. "Because I like him. I didn't say so, of course — and he's never said anything or asked — but we wrote a bit. And I was hoping — I mean, since he was coming back to Cornwall, that he —" She stopped here, but I knew what Molly was hoping for.
"You're free tonight, aren't you?" I said.
"I'm finished at five," she answered.
"That's when the conference breaks up for evening tea, right?" I said. "Knowing George, he probably has his telescope at the ready to go stargaze somewhere. And if he happened to run into you at tea, I think he'd probably ask you along."
"So do I," said Molly. "But I'm afraid of embarrassing myself when I see him again."
"Seeing someone for the first time after ages is the hardest part," I said. "The first time I saw my ex-boyfriend after our breakup, it was all I could do to seem normal and not demand to know what he was doing here. But after we found a way to be honest with each other, it wasn't so bad."
"Maybe if I didn't like George, it would be easier."
"Do you like him a lot?" I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, even before Molly nodded.
"Then don't miss the chance to tell him. How often do stargazers gather in Port Hewer to see a comet?"
"Once in a lifetime," Molly answered, with another sigh.
"And a special connection like you feel with him sometimes comes that many times, too," I said. "So take the chance and see him again while he's staying here. You know how you'll feel if you let him go home without even trying." That would leave Molly miserable enough to give up puzzles for ages.
"Can you tell me what to say so I don't make a frightful mess of it again?" she asked. "I tell myself it would help if I knew how he really felt, but then I think it's mostly me knowing how I feel that's the problem."
"He couldn't be as clever as he seems and let someone like you slip from his life. Not without taking the chance to know you better, at least." I could sympathize with Molly's worries, because it's your own feelings that make everything more complicated than necessary. "Try just being friends, and see what happens. If there's more to it, it will start happening on its own."
I was speaking from experience now, for even as Sidney and I protected our friendship's boundaries, the other feelings simply looked for a way to sneak through. When I was pushed to the breaking point at the thought of losing him on every level, I hadn't been able to stop myself from telling him about those feelings.
Of course, that hadn't worked out perfectly in my case, but it wasn't the fault of those feelings. I didn't think Molly would find herself in a situation in which she would both confess her liking him and then fracturing his heart in one go.
"Do you think so?" Molly asked, propping her chin on both hands. I thought she was picturing George at this moment, for her expression had grown very wistful. Maybe she was imagining the look on his face if he shared those feelings with her. I thought she'd probably imagined it a few times since meeting him.
"I do," I answered. "Like I said, missing the chance would hurt more."
"Is that how you felt about things with Sidney?" Molly's glance cut my way. By now, everybody in the village knew I was as crazy about him as I was crazy enough to be trying to make it as a writer. Secrets in Port Hewer could only be kept with extreme dedication, and in very deep dark cellars, whether physical or psychological ones.
"Exactly how I felt," I answered. I knew now I wouldn't have traded that chance for a hundred safer ones. I hoped fervently that it turned out George felt the same when it came to the pursuit of a Cornish maid — and it hadn't been dampened by absence and the limitations on feelings expressed in electronic messages.
Catching up for an afternoon would be nice. I should have some free time, so email me the where and when, Ronnie. See you then. Maisie. I hit the 'send' button.
____________________
Lately, my alarm clock had been set extra early to allow me time for my first experimental chapters of the Tam Lin novel. A second alarm alerted me to the early breakfast hour at which Sonia's enthusiastic hikers had requested one-minute eggs, toast, marmalade, and tea before setting off on their latest outing — this time inland, to a trail near Bodmin Moor. The photographer wanted hers on a tray outside her door, nothing perishable.
Wrestling with Tam Lin's conflicted motivations and Janet's complex feelings at four in the morning left me restless and hungry by the time the breakfast bell sounded. The cure for the latter came when I sneaked a muffin and some local honey while fixing the tea tray, but the cure for the first one could only be had in Sidney's company, as he ran errands for Mrs. Graves in the village. Only Kip was with him, sniffing the bicycle tires parked outside the greengrocer's, searching for dropped bits of candy in the pavement's cracks.
The sun was bright and golden, and the window display of pink-hued apples put me in mind of my first Cornish Halloween or St. Allan's Day, among what felt like a dozen names for both the saint and his rechristened pagan holiday. Some of those apples were in Sidney's sack of purchases, along with the ingredients for Mrs. Graves's questionable treacle pudding.
I scratched Kip's ears to keep him from leaping madly to the height of my waist for attention. Sidney grinned as he tucked his things into his bicycle's basket.
"You left Kip outside," I said.
"He's been banned from entry. Too much interest in the sweets, sadly," he answered. "Unless they happen to be part of one of Mrs. Graves's desserts, which is the only time he won't so much as sniff one."
He pushed the bicycle along as we walked. "I thought you were writing today," he said.
"I finished before breakfast. Besides, I was getting stuck, so I need some fresh air and time to think," I said. "There's a lot of delicate issues and mixed-up motivations in a story like that."
"Are you confident in it?" he asked. "That's the main point. Anybody who's confident about their task has ten ti
mes the odds of finishing it. You'll untangle problems like untangling knots, loosening the clutch and nudging the string back into place one bit at a time."
"Is that how you solve your problems?" I asked.
"Me? Of course not. I sweep them into the nearest cupboard and close the door." That glint of mischief kindled in his eyes. "But if I did solve them, that's how I would do it. Once you get a few bits free, the rest of the snarl tends to come easily, until it's practically undoing itself for you. Tam will solve his own problems if you coax him just a little."
"Coaxing wasn't the issue in his story, it was the lack of choice," I answered, saucily. A faint blush crossed Sidney's face, and mine too, for by accident I had stumbled into a reference to another outing, one that involved a scandalous Lady Marverly paperback and some heated passions of our own being stirred.
He recovered himself a little. "I meant you should try delving into his character instead of the plot," he suggested. "The better you know him, the easier your story will flow, right?"
"Hypothetically," I said. "I've thought about diving deeper into some classic stories of captured heroes and castaway types. Go to the lending library's van and dust off the old Kidnapped and Robinson Crusoe. Maybe Kim or Gulliver's Travels."
"I had a large illustrated copy of that when I was young," said Sidney. He shook his head. "It never was to my taste."
"Really? I thought you loved adventure and travel tales. Dean talked about the two of you with your childhood dreams of far-off places and a giant atlas." One of the rare things I knew about Sidney's past, his unlikely childhood friendship with a boy from a more privileged background.
"Too much politic in Gulliver's adventures," he answered. "I much preferred adventure for the sake of adventure. Captains Courageous was more to my taste."
"Mark Twain," I guessed. "Huck Finn, the Connecticut Yankee visiting King Arthur's court, the prince and the pauper switching places. If you read American writers when you were a boy, that is."
