by Laura Briggs
I thought of Ronnie's nocturnal bird observations in the past, then thought of his upcoming visit. Were there rare nesting pairs of some species close by, the reason for his stopping in Cornwall? I banished this idea, but it was hard to believe Ronnie would ever pause just to be sociable. After all, he accepted the invitation to the masked ball last Christmas as an excuse to observe the winter feeding habits of native water birds.
"Are you going to the village party?" Sonia asked me, as she fastened the comet in place.
"I don't know." Sidney had suggested we might view the comet together, and I liked the idea of stargazing with him in a field. "Are you?"
"I have an appointment with my solicitor that day, so I highly doubt it," she answered. "But I do hope it's a lovely view. My mother observed Halley's Comet once. She used to joke that it was clearly a grand spectacle since it had been worthy of Elizabeth I's attention. In her own dry manner of putting things, that is." She held out her hand for another piece of plaster.
"Is there anything to eat around here?" This question didn't come from me, but from the girl in the doorway, in a disheveled t-shirt and jogging trousers, blond hair pulled into a mussed ponytail. "I'm starving."
Sonia and I exchanged glances. "Cold chicken and cheese in the fridge and some bread in the box under the cupboard," Sonia answered. "Help yourself to a bit of it."
"Thanks." With a yawn, the girl disappeared through the passageway as we watched her leave.
"The vampire waketh," Sonia whispered dramatically. I managed to choke back my snort of laughter.
I had promised to collect a tin of breakfast tea and some marmalade to restock Sonia's cupboards, so I decided to make good on it by taking the long way to the hotel by route of the village. The crossroads of Sonia's wooded lane connected to a shady street of domestic tranquility a short distance from the vicarage where Sidney's shed was located. Its gate was propped open, and I could see past the trimmed hedges to where his pack of mongrels lay snoozing, but the door to the work shed was closed and the jeep was gone.
My ring tone for home sounded, much to my surprise, since reception was generally spotty in this neighborhood. I answered it. "Hi, Mom."
"Are you working?"
"Walking," I answered. "I'm on my way there, but I have a few errands first."
"Not hopping on a jet for some far-off location?"
"Ha, ha," I answered, sarcastically. "That's almost as funny as the first time you used it."
"Can you blame me?"
"No," I answered ruefully. "My behavior deserves some questions from a mom's perspective, so who am I to judge?" Leaping from California to Cornwall, then bouncing to Paris and London and back, without warning and without any clear concept of whether I was staying or going each time — I deserved to be ribbed over my compass's rogue needle.
"So is there any news about your book? I've been dying to ask, but I wanted to give it some time, since these things don't happen overnight."
"Let's see. Two rejections, two replies of silence. Three to go." I didn't count Arnold in the mix as a distant hope, and I had kept Helen's offer a secret for fear of getting someone else's hopes up.
"Fingers crossed?"
"Always. But I know that my novel's destiny may be a slush pile, so I'm preparing myself."
"Your novel, maybe. But you — never." My mother's confidence was that of my stout defender, which I had appreciated more than once when life delivered an inevitable kick. I would probably be needing it soon, when the last email arrived and I was facing my next decision about the book's fate.
"Thanks, Mom." I scuffed my sneaker along a rough pavement edge at the curb crossing.
"Any big plans this week?" she asked. "Are you going to view the comet? You're in one of the best places for it, if the map I saw on the news was accurate."
"I think I might," I answered.
"With Sidney, I assume?" The emphasis was entirely my mom's, now that I had mentioned him often enough to arouse that special 'boy watch' radar.
"Probably," I answered, being coy.
"I need to know more about him if I'm going to give him the mom stamp of approval."
"You didn't give that to my last boyfriend, and you met him in the flesh once," I answered.
"He didn't deserve it. Besides, this one is different. I can tell already, and before you say anything, remember that I've known you since you were a single cell organism."
"All right, I'll compile a dossier on him during my free afternoon, after I come back from Newquay."
"You didn't mention this upcoming trip before." A tiny hint of suspicion in my mom's voice. "Is this some place special?"
"Relax, I'm not going there permanently, just taking a quick day trip," I said, skipping the fact I was seeing the ex who failed to secure her approval.
"That's what you said last time. And the time before, Maisie."
"Oops, gotta go. Bye Mom." I disconnected the call before she could remind me of the time before that, whatever it was.
Port Hewer was also getting into the spirit of the comet's arrival, with silvery party flags decorating windows, and paper star lanterns suspended above the high street. 'Comet cakes' were now available, according to the sign outside the bakery, which was where I found Molly with a basket full of the hotel's mail.
"I've heard the cakes are studded with currants, and not as good as the date scones," I said.
"They're decent — I've had one already. But the tea shop down the coast is doing the same thing, only theirs are petit fours with little marzipan stars," she said. "Comets are everywhere you go."
We walked along together, since we were going the same way, stopping long enough for me to collect Sonia's pantry supplies and for Molly to collect a new crossword puzzle book from the tobacco shop's magazine stand.
"So are you going?" I asked her.
"Where?" she asked, though she was blushing already.
"Where else?" I teased. "Are you watching the comet with George, of course."
"He invited me, so I suppose so," she answered, pretending to be busy unraveling some stray fibers on the basket's handle.
"What about afterwards?"
"I don't know. I suppose ... I suppose something might happen. We might ... go on a proper date. But he's never said he likes me, you know. We've only been friends." She shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't think of me as anything else."
"Friends is the best place to start," I said. "But I don't think you have to worry about George's feelings. You'll notice he didn't invite me to share his telescope also."
"You said you had plans. He wouldn't ask you to break them," said Molly. "That wouldn't be polite, would it?"
"Molly, do you really think he was even planning to ask if I'd said I had no plans that night?" I arched one eyebrow. Molly wavered.
"No," she admitted, her smile growing rueful. "I don't suppose he planned to." She tucked back a stray thread of hair, escaped from her ribbon's knot. "But I don't know if it means he thinks of me as more than a friend ... even though I wish... well, you know." She sighed, and left it unfinished. We had had this conversation this past Christmas, when she first confessed to finding him attractive.
"Don't let him leave without telling him how you feel," I said. "I said it before, and I know it sounds crazy, and it honestly is. But you'll regret it if you don't ever find out for sure, Molly. I speak from experience on this one." I never could have borne leaving Cornwall and Sidney if I had kept those feelings to myself. As hard as it was to fear rejection afterwards, it was still easier to endure than those pent-up emotions.
"I know," she said. "Honestly, Maisie, I want to. I'm just —" she paused.
"Terrified," I said.
"Exactly." Molly's smile was sadder. "That's the word that suits me."
Even though I wanted to tell her it wouldn't last, that was far too close to lying for my taste these days, besides which, I knew Molly was smart enough to recognize nonsense from me as just that — nonsense. How could one avoid fe
ar of something so unpredictable as the human reaction?
"Here is the mail, Brigette," said Molly, delivering her basket at the front desk.
"Where's Riley? I assigned him to collect and sort the post today," said Brigette, with consternation. "Gomez, where is the second porter on duty?" From the hotel's Latin lover, she received a shrug of his shoulders in reply.
"I'll do it," said Molly.
"I'll help," I said. I hoped Riley's hero status wasn't being treated as a license to sleep late or shove off more of his duties. Brigette's concern for his life probably didn't translate into blanket forgiveness. "It won't take very long."
She pursed her lips. "The guest and room list is under the task schedule, and the post forward list is by the computer. Don't make a mistake, though I should probably count it against Riley, to be fair."
There were letters to Alistair Davies, bundled together from the local post office and forwarded here, and a couple of envelopes legitimately posted to Alli herself. I tucked all of these in her room slot instead of putting them in Mr. Trelawney's pile, which was the instruction for the author's mail generally, according to the forwarding sheet.
"What do you think this one means?" Molly lifted a thick envelope addressed to the hotel, care of Mr. Trelawney. It had a solicitor's firm printed on the outside.
I dropped Alli's latest letter and leaned closer. "It looks like something official," I said.
She sucked in her breath. "Do you think someone has bought the hotel?"
I hadn't thought of that. When the hotel's wealthy owner Ms. Claypool had decided to sell, she had undoubtedly listed it with some elite property management group, who probably had a solicitor whose duty it was to inform the hotel's manager of any change of ownership.
"I suppose if it's something important, he'll inform staff," I said. "Probably at the next meeting." We would all be sitting there, bored and expecting a discussion on the banquet's flowers, only to have a bomb dropped among us, metaphorically speaking. Would the new owner keep Mr. Trelawney as manager? Would they sack less-than-reliable staff like Norman and Riley?
Reluctantly, Molly placed it in the manager's pile. We continued sorting, trying not to think about it. But when the mind is occupied with putting business mail in boxes and the occasional overnight delivery package, there's plenty of time for speculation.
A small envelope at the bottom of the pile was my last one to sort. It was addressed to the manager also, and its return address belonged to a production company. Not theatrical, but film.
I wondered what they wanted. To book a few dozen rooms for a famous cast filming along the coast? I could imagine all sorts of things, given the chance.
One detail on the envelope caught my eye because of its familiarity. I recognized it, I thought, from some correspondence somebody else had received — it was the 'care of' part below the production company's name, belonging to a solicitor's office I suspected belonged to a swankier part of London. My memory could be deceiving me, but I thought it might be the same solicitor which had sent a letter to Frank a few weeks ago.
Frank Morton, private eye — the very one who had taken down my dignity a peg or two when I let him persuade me to help find his client's elusive quarry. Whoever it was, he was convinced the hotel was the key to their hiding place in Cornwall, and I hadn't been able to resist imagining that said quarry was the elusive, reclusive author who kept a private suite here and forwarded his fan mail for Alli to collect.
Had Frank found the answer? Was this solicitor his London contact, and the production company his client, the one who had been trying to find an elusive person on staff at the hotel? My thoughts were building a crazy castle based on an envelope and the coincidence, as if any of these things were proof of the private detective's success.
Frank Morton was not a particularly good memory from my return to Cornwall, and his mission one I shouldn't revisit for a variety of reasons. I pitched the envelope into Mr. Trelawney's pile without finishing that crazy tower in my head.
____________________
Ronnie's reply text had given me the address to a seaside boardwalk along Newquay's coast, the sort of spot where tourists feed the gulls and children beg for rides from a little amusement park across the way, where carousel music roared to life every ten minutes. He was waiting by a lamppost, reading texts on his phone as the sea wind played havoc with his short and tidy haircut.
On a day this beautiful, I wished he would pocket his phone, buy some chestnuts from the cart by the rail, and feed a few to some of those unwelcome pigeons scuttling along behind sightseers. Ronnie wasn't the type who ever did those things, however. Birds were the limit of his sightseeing endeavors — his only real passion, except for trying to please his overbearing businessman father.
"Ronnie," I called, waving at him. He looked up, slightly bewildered, then saw me and waved back. I hoped the text he was reading wasn't from his father. Morgan Sutcliffe was no fan of mine, and would think Ronnie was wasting a perfectly good day in the fresh air that should be spent making money.
We greeted each other with the usual pleasantries, and Ronnie gave me a kiss on the cheek. He tucked his phone in his pocket, and declined my offer to buy him some roasted nuts at the street cart.
"Are you sure? They're delicious," I coaxed. "Try one." I held it out to his lips, but he waved it away.
"I'm not a fan of peanuts. All that salt and shell," he answered.
"These are chestnuts. They're an English staple. You're thinking of the circus," I said. I tucked my fingers into the sack and pulled out another one, as Ronnie squinted towards the ocean.
"I never liked it, either. Clowns are weird, aren't they?"
I shook my head. I did a poor job of hiding my smile, which Ronnie spotted right away.
"I'm doing it again, aren't I?" he said. "Sorry, Maisie. It's just how I am." His eyes brightened as a nondescript brown bird landed on a nearby rubbish bin momentarily.
"Is it a rare species?" I asked.
"No, it's just outside its typical migration pattern," he said. "See, the — wait, you don't care about this, do you?" he interrupted himself. "You asked to be polite, not hear about its life cycle."
"I was never uninterested in your hobby, I just wanted to talk about things besides it," I said. "What does it matter now? We're just friends, we can talk about anything either of us wants, because we don't have to find a daily balance." I held out my packet. "Are you sure you won't try one?"
Defeated, Ronnie accepted one from the paper sack. "I guess I have the past on the brain," he said. "I've been in Brussels a year now. I work every day for Dad's company, I spend weekends driving up to this little nature preserve. Now Dad's making talk of me transferring to the new firm in Montreal, a sort of promotion. It makes you stop and think. You know, about life, the future, things like that." He crunched the nut between his teeth. "Do you think about what you're doing?"
"Of course," I said. "I uprooted my life, too." More than a year ago, I had packed up my life in transition to spend 'a couple of weeks' in Port Hewer, and never gone back home.
"You're happy with things, right?" he said.
I fished another nut from my sack. "Absolutely," I said. "Things couldn't be better. Well, they could, obviously, but you know what I mean. I don't have to be rich or famous to be happy."
"You're probably feeling settled in, too. Done chasing opportunities, even for the great American novel," Ronnie continued. "We all finally settle, don't we? Figure out what life's limits and expectations will be."
I was feeling suspicious now. "What's with all these generalizations about my life?" I asked, wrinkling my forehead. "I thought we were talking about yours, but now you sound like my mom."
The awkward pause came from Ronnie's side of the conversation. "She might've called me a couple of weeks ago," he admitted.
"What?!"
"She was concerned, so she called me. She only wanted to know if I'd talked with you any time recently, and if I thought y
ou were okay. No big deal," he said. "It's not like she knows anybody else here she can ask, right?"
"I'm so sorry. I'll talk to her, because she shouldn't be calling my ex-boyfriend because she thinks I'm keeping secrets from her," I answered. I couldn't believe she had done this — she'd barely been able to chat politely with Ronnie for more than ten minutes when we were dating, much less confide in him.
"She's just afraid you keep leaping around the globe because you're looking for something you think you're missing, that's all."
"I'm not," I protested.
"Not leaping around or not missing something?"
"Either. Both," I corrected. "I'm really fine. I know what I'm looking for, and I don't have to leap anywhere in particular to find it, so I'm staying here. Leaving wasn't a mistake ... it was just a lesson in what I most wanted." I was slow in selecting another chestnut. "I was glad I went, but I'm more glad to be back."
"Here?"
"Yes, here. Where else? I'm not going back to California right now. And I don't want to be in London, even for the glamour. I'm happy where I am, and I'd like to stay here as long as I can."
"You sound sure of yourself, when you put it like that," said Ronnie, albeit doubtfully. "I don't know if it would sell me if I were your mom, but since I'm not, I have to go by my impression."
"I still can't believe she called you like that. I'm so, so sorry, Ronnie." I shook my head. "I'll tell her to call me next time she's worried, and not my ex boyfriend. You don't need to be worried about my crazy life, because you have your own. Which is good, I hope?" I added, to change the subject.
"Oh, you know." Ronnie leaned against the boardwalk's railing. "It's like I said, it's settling into its groove."
"Settled doesn't sound like satisfied," I remarked, leaning against it, too.
"Well, it's fine, mostly." He shook his head. "Now and then I kind of wonder if I should've done something different, but I think 'mostly good' is what people generally expect from life. Plus, it would be too late to change lanes now, wouldn't it?" He laughed.
