by Laura Briggs
"I think you still can," I answered. "You could go back to college, become an ornithologist, and travel the world for the Audubon Society."
Ronnie's real passion would come to life photographing rare parrots for National Geographic, or putting together displays on global bird migration patterns for the Smithsonian's natural history museum. Being a professor in the zoology department's bird classes — that would be closer to Ronnie's core self than trading numbers in his father's Brussels office.
"Maybe if I were you," Ronnie said. "This is me we're talking about. In the real world, people don't chase crazy dreams, Maisie."
"I do," I answered.
"You don't live in the real world," he said. "That was the problem when we were still together, wasn't it? We just didn't see things alike at all."
"I think the problem was me being a waitress."
"Well, that, too," Ronnie admitted, looking embarrassed. "But I'm a realist and you're not. That's what I liked about you, then, but — well — you know." He paused.
"But what?"
"It just wouldn't have worked in the end, that's all." He shrugged. "But I'm glad we tried."
"Me, too," I said. I reached to touch Ronnie's arm. "I learned a few things from spending time with you. I mean good things, in a good way."
"Thanks." He blushed. "I guess if I'm going to settle in behind another of Dad's desks, I need to try more new things myself to keep from getting stale. Maybe I need to make some new friends with more diverse interests."
"Like golf? Tennis?" Those would be Sutcliffe-approved hobbies.
"Maybe salsa dancing?"
I arched one eyebrow. "Really?"
"No. I was just throwing that out there," he said. "I have weak ankles, remember?"
I rolled my eyes. "Well, you have me to be your wild and crazy friend in the meantime," I reminded him. "I may not know much about salsa, but I know how to embrace life. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining on us, and people are having a good time everywhere we look."
"That kid is crying over by the token machine."
I gave him an exasperated look. He smiled. "I'm trying, okay?" he said. "Look. It's a beautiful day, I'm out of the office seeing an old friend, and that's a herring gull scuttling over there by that bun somebody dropped, showing off its impressive wing span as it takes flight."
"That's more like it," I said, encouragingly. "Take in a deep breath of that ocean breeze. Look behind us — the view from this spot makes it look like the water just wraps around us, like we're on the deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean. Isn't it fantastic?"
"Okay, sure," he said. He shrugged. "It's fantastic."
I hopped up on the rail's bottom support and stretched into the sun, letting the breeze riffle my hair as I squeezed my gaze tight against the sun glittering like white sparks on the water.
"Maisie, don't do that," Ronnie said. "You don't know, that rail might be loose, those boards are probably ancient."
"Relax, Ronnie," I coaxed. I stretched out my arms, feeling like Kate Winslet, only without the Edwardian costume. "Look at me — I'm flying, Jack!"
"Maisie, quit, will you? People are starting to stare."
If ever an example was needed of why Ronnie and I had been a terrible couple, this moment encapsulated it. I had dated somebody who was trying to snuff this silly moment, when what I had needed was somebody who would put his arms around my waist and play along as my Leonardo DiCaprio.
To make Ronnie happy, I had to jump lightly onto the boardwalk again and keep walking along until the two teenagers who had been giggling at us were no longer in range.
"Happy now?" I asked. He threw his head back and let out a short laugh.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm sorry. I know I embarrassed you," I said. "I forgot how you feel about that kind of thing. See, proof you were right in what you said earlier. We had a terrible balance when we were together. Even as friends, we still do, sometimes. I was always overlooking that fact when we were still close, hoping that it would balance itself out in the end."
His smile was wistful when it came. "Crazy as it seems, I actually miss you embarrassing me the way you used to," he answered. "You were always chatting people up, returning dropped items, petting strange dogs — doing all the things I'd been told never to do. It was kind of impressive ... on an unnerving level, I mean."
"It drove you crazy," I said. "That's what you mean."
"Still does. But it's nice to see it once in awhile, all the same." He huffed out a breath. "It reminds me to keep trying new things, like I was saying. You know, so I don't get stale —"
"— behind one of Morgan's desks," I finished.
A gull scuttled past us, and a little boy ran pell-mell in the direction of the fun fair entrance. Ronnie let me feed him another nut from my half-empty packet.
"I still feel bad about the way we broke up," he said. "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly, Maisie."
I shook my head. "I think I knew it was coming," I said.
"Since when?"
"Since the last party at your mom's. I could tell by the way she acted that she told you to break up with me. That look on your face at the diner — I knew what you were going to say before it came out." I emptied the last of the nuts into my hand and tossed the sack into a rubbish bin.
"I guess I was more obvious than I thought," said Ronnie, with chagrin. "But you were okay, right?"
"Of course. If I hadn't been, would we be friends now?" I asked.
"Good point." He smiled. "I just wanted to be sure that I wasn't a ... a bad breaker-upper," he said. "Nobody wants to think they've left relationships in ruins when they're trying to move on. I mean, I am, so I figure you are, too."
"I ... sort of have already," I answered.
"Really?" said Ronnie. "You're dating somebody? How long?"
"It's hard to say," I answered. Smiling, because this sounded silly. "We haven't been official for long, but we've known each other long enough to be sure of it." Being sure deep inside on day one does not count, especially if you're busy resisting it.
"I hope he's a good guy, and not daunted by all the weird stuff," said Ronnie. "Not that it's weird for you," he added, hastily.
I held back my grin because of his embarrassment. "He would have laughed at that scene back at the boardwalk," I said. I moved aside for two young girls joining the queue for ice lollies. "Then he would have jumped up right behind me."
"Good," he said. "And he's —?"
"Perfect," I said. Grappling with words to explain the elusive and irresistible charms that made Sidney 'Sidney' would take more time and words than Ronnie needed or wanted. "I couldn't ask for anything more, and I wouldn't." I didn't want to wax eloquently on Sidney's virtues in front of my ex, many of which would mystify him.
"So you're happy?" he clarified.
"Completely happy." I spun the 'lucky ring' on a post beside the 'guess your future' machine. "Honestly, I wouldn't trade places with anybody on the planet, not even the world's most brilliant and famous writer."
"Andrew Dawson, right?" His brow furrowed with uncertainty as he made this guess.
"Alistair Davies." Ronnie had never made it past chapter ten of A Dark and Glorious House. "But what about you?" I said. "Are you — seeing anybody?"
Ronnie's cheeks reddened. "It's, um, complicated," he said.
"Tell me," I coaxed.
"Well, there is someone," he confessed. "A girl I met at an art show where I was representing the company. She's Dutch," he added. "Her family's friends with some old cronies of Dad's ... she's into modern art. I think we're on the same page. It's more about the spiritual connection for her than any official steps."
"Do you like her?" I asked. I searched his face. "Is it a future love, maybe?"
"Maybe," he said. "I'm hoping to find out. I'm thinking of asking her to come to the swallow's winter retreat observation in Mexico. Couldn't hurt, right?"
"I think it sounds like a great plan," I said. "If s
he can't love you for who you are, there's no future." Ronnie's girl would have to like sparrows beyond mere politeness if she really wanted to be part of his life, spiritually or physically.
"The guy you're seeing. Does he like you for who you are?" Ronnie asked.
I nodded. "He truly does. I was lucky to meet someone who understood me the way he does."
To find someone else who did would be nearly impossible. I would cherish that feeling, and appreciate the one who gave it to me, in hopes that it would last a lifetime regardless of all the rest.
"Good." Ronnie took my hand. I had a sudden feeling that this was our real parting, the one we never had when we first broke apart. I had marched out of the diner, leaving Ronnie cringing miserably over his soup bowl. It would have been hard to say anything mature or understanding after being rejected in that way.
"I wish you the best, Maisie," he said.
I squeezed his hand. "You, too, Ronnie."
____________________
The astronomers were packed in the ballroom for a discussion on a prize-winning paper on black holes as I dusted the Penmarrow's staircase rails, taking over for one of the maids out sick. Brigette was lining up her highlighters in their box as if they were soldiers falling into rank, while Molly hummed a pop love song under her breath as she hoovered the parlor's carpet, a morning rain shower dappling its windows.
"There's a big car coming up the drive," Molly announced, pausing in mid sweep.
Brigette tucked the pink highlighter in its slot. "Probably the businessman who reserved the Forest Suite."
"Not that sort of car. I mean a luxury one, with tinted windows. A limousine."
She had our attention now, and out of curiosity, we all three went to the dining room windows, which afforded a view of the car park. A chauffer stationed beneath an umbrella opened the rear door of the car and a man in a business suit emerged underneath the canopy.
"Stations, everyone," Brigette ordered. Briskly, she retreated behind the front desk before the visitor arrived.
Up close, the visitor was at the well-seasoned stage of life, sporting the 'scruffy' business look that denotes either rebels, top dogs, or non-mainstream industry in the business world. For a moment, I imagined this power player was the new hotel owner come to sniff out his domain. His smile killed the ruthless dog-eat-dog theory, however. It was pasted-on friendliness, barely masking his puppy-dog eagerness instead.
He laid a card in front of Brigette. "Rufus Howard of Arch Entertainment, to see Mr. Trelawney," he said.
"Is he expecting you?" Brigette asked.
"I should hope so. We have an extremely important matter to discuss." He glanced around, as if expecting Mr. Trelawney to materialize for their meeting right now. It was not the appraising attitude of a hotel mogul for his newest acquisition. But I recognized his name already from the envelope delivered to Mr. Trelawney — the one the solicitor forwarded from a film and television producer.
Brigette studied the card he handed her. "One moment," she said. She dialed what I assumed was the manager's office, and hung up after a brief conversation. "He would like to speak with you in his office," she said. "Gomez will show you the way."
After they had gone through to the manager's private stair, Molly picked up the business card. "Arch Entertainment — are they a proper film company, do you think?"
"I haven't any idea," said Brigette. "I really seldom have time to watch telly these days."
"You don't suppose a famous director bought the hotel? Maybe it's going to be a site for making films and we'll all be dismissed," she said, woefully.
"Or turned into extras," I suggested, trying to lighten the mood.
"I'm sure that isn't the case. Mr. Trelawney has business with all sorts of famous people, usually about perfectly-ordinary things like reserving rooms or hosting events." Brigette's eye lingered on the business card before she placed it in the front desk's contact box under 'e' for entertainment."
Molly returned to hoovering, and I returned to dusting rails and polishing the woodwork. I had discreetly looked up the entertainment company on my phone while out of Brigette's sight behind the big fern. An international partnership by that name had produced several popular subscription miniseries and sagas for television. I recognized a historical royal scandal series that everybody was downloading digitally, and a sexy thriller about crime in the fashion design world.
I pocketed my phone quickly and wiped away the dirt that had splashed on the pot's rim, just in case Brigette should appear.
Maybe they were here looking for a famous author. What if Frank's secretive client had been an entertainment mogul trying to persuade a reclusive author to sell the rights to his novels? What if — but I stopped myself from letting the specter from the past surge to life, as hard as it was to prevent.
As Molly unwound the hoover's cord again and plugged it in at the desk, I swept some stray leaves the ficus had shed on the marble floor. "I wonder if famous people are planning to stay here," she said. "Do famous people ever buy hotels?"
"I suppose they do if they find a good opportunity," I suggested. "Maybe if they're an enterprising businessperson?"
"I think the suggestion is completely ridiculous," said Brigette.
The manager clearing his throat in the foyer had the power of a thunderclap, all three of us jumping slightly. "If you would be so good as to switch off the hoover, Molly," he said. Its motor died to a low growl.
"I will need you to assemble Penmarrow's on-duty staff in the foyer within the half hour, Miss O' Brien," he said. "The entire staff, if you please. I will address a matter of importance shortly."
"Of course," she said. "Right away, Mr. Trelawney. Gomez, Maisie, go and fetch everyone from the outside premises. Molly, fetch Katy and Tamara. I'll call the laundry room."
"What do you suppose is the matter?" Molly sounded anxious. "Do you think we're in trouble? Do you think he's going to make an announcement?"
"Maybe." I remembered my internal prediction for the contents of the official solicitor's notice, but this didn't fit at all, obviously. Assembling the hotel staff, among whom Frank had suspected someone important was hiding at one time — had it been a regular everyday employee all along?
I couldn't help my heart racing a little as I helped round up Riley the porter, who was smoking in the back garden, and located the surly gardener arranging a bouquet in his shed. Speculations ran rampant in my head like so many frightened mice in a small room. Was this really the revelation I had imagined would never come after disappointment's first strike?
I returned with Riley to find the foyer was buzzing with anticipation. The passageway to the dining room was packed by kitchen and wait staff, while the main staff gathered by the desk, with gossip and speculation thick around us. The chef's staff were whispering anxiously in a cluster; the two Scandinavian laundresses were chatting in hushed tones by the palms. Tamara the new maid smothered a yawn behind one hand.
"What's this about?" asked Katy, lazily, as she buffed her nails. "I'm supposed to be taking a tray to the merry widow's suite."
"And I'm supposed to be changing the car's tire. But what is life if it has no interruptions?" Gomez's false Portuguese accent was mirthless for this joke.
"Don't know what this bloody fuss is about," muttered Norman, who was stalking in from the veranda with the front desk's bouquet.
The visitor from earlier followed Mr. Trelawney through the adjoining hall and into the foyer, scanning the roomful of people expectantly, as if looking for someone among the crowd. I heard someone whispering the words 'hotel sold' in hushed tones behind me. The manager cleared his throat for attention and the whispers and muttering died.
"I have been informed by this gentleman, a Mr. Howard of film and television, that he has been seeking for some time to locate an individual he believes to be part of the Penmarrow's staff. Until recently, he had been unaware of both their true identity and their location, and it was with considerable effort that he tr
aced them here, since they have taken considerable effort on their own part to hide."
Everyone was listening. My pulse raced, for I knew that I was right.
"I have, therefore, agreed to allow him the opportunity to address the person," Mr. Trelawney continued, "whom he believes to be the object of his search, in a manner that will leave it to their own discretion if they wish to be known."
The producer stepped forward. "I've been waiting a long time for this meeting," he said, voice brimming with excitement. He was gazing only at someone among the hotel's maintenance staff, taking a deep breath before addressing them. "Lady Diane Marverly, I presume?"
I heard a faint gasp from Molly when this name was uttered. Katy and I glanced at each other, and Brigette glanced at Molly, with most everyone present seemingly confused.
At last, a voice spoke up.
"Ye found me at last," Norman declared grimly.
Mouths dropped open. A pin could have dropped audibly, in the manner of Katy's nail file now clattering to the floor. There was a thud behind the front desk — Brigette had fainted away, sending Riley scrambling over the desk to revive her.
"Blimey," said Gomez, forgetting to use his accent.
____________________
As Brigette recovered in the kitchen, I brought a tea tray to the producer and the gardener, seated in the empty dining room. Norman looked surly, arms crossed, his trouser cuffs shedding a little potting soil on the carpet.
"You have no idea how hard it was to find you," Howard was saying. "The publisher refused for two years to divulge any information about you as per the contractual agreement, and since you own the media rights exclusively, they had no real interest in being helpful."
"Sugar?" I asked him. My head was still spinning from this revelation, so my question was purely an attempt to grasp reality.
"No, thank you," he answered, and turned to the gardener again. "If you had only still had an agent, it would have been so much easier. Your former one refused to even talk to us."
