All the Stars in Her Hand

Chapter Three

I went to bed after keeping Sidney company with a book, until fatigue made my head droop over the pages ofMariana, which I chose as light reading — chick lit of bygone days, which had been shelved with books that were collector”s editions on the bottom shelf. I had wondered at it being Dean”s taste for anything but sentimental reasons — the softer side, his fondness for his sisters, as examples — until I found the inscription in the flyleaf, written in Phillip”s hand.

”To Maisie, with my affection, on the occasion of her birthday.”

My eyes misted a little. Clever of him to hide it in plain sight, I thought. As he had more than one aspect of his life. I supposed he wouldn”t mind that I stumbled upon this gift a few weeks early.

By the fourth time, I felt the book slide from my hands into another”s, where it closed. Sidney touched my shoulder. ”Go sleep,” he said.

”You first,” I answered, pretending I was fine. ”I was just resting my eyes.”

”No, you weren”t.” No more than he was fine, reading Dean”s name and personal information over and over on dozens of old bills and medical forms from the drawer.

I slipped off my shoes, tossing Sidney”s clothes onto the chair in his room. I slept with Yo-Yo curled up by my knees, atop the rumpled duvet. It was barely late compared to a night at the theater or the last train between Cornwall and London, but I was tired to the bone, the fatigue of emotion and a long day of keeping up a strong front.

Sidney was exhausted, too, yet I could hear him opening the drawers of the old desk, the squeak of the wood as each one had its turn, until past midnight. A spiritual wanderer in a restless state, I thought as I drifted off, remembering Dean”s words about him on the London train. The ”Tolkien” within was coming to life.

Neither of us would want breakfast, I thought, drifting off. Tea would be enough.

The accordion folder of papers for the solicitor”s office had grown thicker overnight, mostly with pages that weren”t particularly essential to the estate, except for the sake of cancelling online accounts and terminating the cottage”s lease. Sidney had tossed some of the nonessential pieces into the trash already.

I put on the kettle in the kitchen, reaching for the cups in the upper cupboard. As I filled the cream pitcher, I heard the sound of the front door opening.

I recognized Mrs. Graves”s voice in the hall, calling for Sidney. The housekeeper set a basket on the hall table, one which I could already tell was filled with scones which were probably hard as curling stones. The jelly in the jar tucked next to them was some of her neon-green gooseberry preserves.

She turned to Sidney with the look she usually reserved for when Ewan McGregor dug up her flowers, only this injured look went deeper, filled with genuine reproach.

”This was you,” she said.

In her hand was a copy of a newspaper folded, and I knew it must be the same edition that had been in Dean”s mail. ”Isn”t it?” she said, demanding an answer. ”I knew it straightaway when I read it. It”s all over the village now, that you”re the one.” She held up the paper as if it was proof.

Sidney”s expression became somewhat ashamed. He nodded. ”That”s me, I”m afraid.”

”You”re a famous writer?” A tremor of injury was in her voice as well. ”The vicar knew this book. Straightaway when he saw it in the paper. A book that sold lots of copies, hundreds of thousands at least.”

He nodded. Since the truth had come out, neither of us had thought about it reaching to Port Hewer, to people who only knew him as Sidney Daniels, a roving stranger who turned hired handyman.

”And you come from money as well, a proper rich family,” she said. ”That”s what it says in the paper.” In her eyes, the look deepened. Piercing Sidney to the core as well, I knew.

”That part”s true, too,” he said. Quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, just below the scar”s ending. The effect this had on someone who trusted him, that”s what stabbed so deeply.The sin of omission is catching up with him.

”You didn”t tell a soul, all this time?” she said. Her lip trembled.

”I didn”t want anyone to know,” he said. ”I ... made a mistake when I assumed it wouldn”t particularly matter to anyone but myself. I wish I had told you before now, before ... this.” He pointed to the paper. ”I”m sorry. I had no idea that anyone was going to put the story out there.”

”To think I was worried about you, a young man wandering on his own, no home or kin,” she said. ”I thought your mother had a cottage or a flat — to think you could”ve bought the whole village.” I could detect a tiny bit of astonishment beneath the dismay, as if realizing this just now.

She could not have said anything that would have hurt him more. His response was a mixture of a shrug and a shake of his head. ”It isn”t really like that,” he said. ”I promise you. When I came here, I”d already given all of that up — this reporter was finding my past out when I had left it behind me for a reason.”

”What reason does a young man have not to speak to his mother for such an age?” she asked, shaking her head. ”Oh, Sidney, I always did know you were in a bit of trouble, but I never expected anything like this. How could you be so silly?”

Sidney touched her shoulder, hesitantly. ”I am truly sorry,” he said. His tone was filled with regret. ”Since the accident, I”ve wished I had told the truth. Secrets aren”t good to keep. Please,” he said, softly. ”Don”t be angry.”

Mrs. Graves looked unsure. Her brows knitting heavily. Worriedly. ”I stopped by to say how very sorry the vicar and I were to hear about that poor young man,” she said, looking away. ”Simply terrible. Nan heard it was a clot of some kind to the lung — pulmonary embolism, she called it.”

”It was.” Sidney”s voice, still quiet.

”Such a tragic thing to happen,” she said. ”I know you were a good friend to him. No one better, I expect.”

”For me it was the same,” he said. I could tell he couldn”t say anything more. So could Mrs. Graves, which melted the reserve in her eyes a little bit. She reached out, laying her hand over his own with a gentle pressure.

”If you need something,” she said, stiffly. ”Even if it”s all true.” On impulse, she kissed his cheek, then retreated towards the door. She looked back. ”That”s from myself as well as the vicar, which is more than you deserve, bless him.”

The door closed behind her, and Sidney sank down on the arm of the couch, a deep sigh escaping him. ”You want to say I told you so, I suspect.” He gave me a rueful glance this time. ”Probably you said something before about the trap that a pretend life creates.”

”Probably I did,” I said. ”But I don”t want to say it now. Or see it written on your face like this.” I sat down beside him, despite the small bit of room left. I offered him a tiny smile of support, rubbing my arm against his.

”I owe everyone a better apology,” he said. When, he didn”t say. Next came the funeral in London, after we gathered the things the solicitor needed. It would have to wait until we came back, when facing the music would inevitably take place.It”s all over the village. Everybody in Port Hewer would have an opinion about the handyman who was the famous writer. Who would ask him to fix a roof now — at least without asking a thousand questions about his past or outright mocking this story to his face?

What if staying had really become unbearable now? The way I had feared when I first learned the truth.

”It was thoughtful of her to bring me some home bakes,” he said. ”I should eat a scone. The best way of repenting.” He reached for the basket.

”You know what Dean would say to that.” I tried to smile again. His comments about her raisin cakes echoed in my mind as Sidney pulled back the cloth covering the gift. ”I”ll take the basket to the vicarage if you want to put those in the kitchen. I have to stop in the village before I go to work.”

”I think most of them will go to the birds,” he said. ”I can”t possibly eat this many in an apology. Or before we leave on Thursday.”

He didn”t open the jar of noxious jam, simply tearing pieces off the dry quickbread, studded with the gravel-like raisins Dean always criticized. ”I promised the family I would come by the earliest train. All the arrangements are made for the funeral ... it”s the waiting that is hardest.”

”If you wanted to go alone at first, I would understand,” I said, softly. I wouldn”t blame him if he wanted to be alone with the Greshams for those first moments, as the only person outside their family circle who could understand their grief completely. ”I can come on a later train with time to spare still.”

He shook his head. ”He would want you to be there,” he answered. ”You have as much reason to grieve as I do.” He chewed a bite from the scone, but I noticed he laid the rest of it aside again.

” — and Iknewthere was something funny about him,” one of the customers in the shop was whispering. ”You know, the vicar is far too trusting about the sort he hires. What if instead of being an eccentric rich man it had been a killer, say?”

”Imagine another famous author being in the village, though. Isn”t that why the hotel gardener ran off? He wrote those romance novels — you know, the one by Dame Daphne Something-or-Other.”

”Iheard there”s a shedload of money from being a writer,” one of the vicar”s neighbors was muttering over the fence to her gossip companion. ”He won some big prize that was taken away in the States.”

”Doesn”t surprise me. His sort gets what”s coming to them, eventually. I always thought people were giving him too much sympathy after the accident. Something wasn”t right about his story all along,Isaid.”

They had never liked Sidney. I wasn”t surprised that they felt his accident was the universe paying back some negative karma. But hearing the others with their mix of skepticism and teasing hurt a bit.

The hotel”s papers included the journal with Mick Simmons”s story, on display in the parlor with a new celebrity mag and a copy of today”s paper. Everybody here probably knew it was Sidney now, whereas only Mr. Trelawney had known before. Then again, it was probably far less shocking to them compared to Norman”s reveal — I was one of the only people here who had ever read the works of Alistair Davies. Excepting, possibly, Mr. Trelawney himself.

The hotel”s manager had returned a short time ago from his extended honeymoon, a tour of Italy and Northern Ireland, during which time half the staff held their breath lest he decide to stay in the land of his ancestral heritage and build over the ruins of his family”s prestigious hotel — and the other half held their breath under the newly-instituted reign of Brigette as interim hotel manager.

In the wake of his recent promotion, the former porter Riley had taken to the concierge”s duties with alacrity, and a touch more zeal than Brigette preferred in her consuming ideal of power. He had traded his white coat and black tie for a dapper suit and tie, the ones he had worn to Mr. Trelawney”s wedding, and which he now wore daily to the hotel for his new duties, which thus far consisted mostly of dinner reservations and making tour arrangements for visits to St Michael”s Mount.

He was opening a box with an exacto knife, removing the pieces that would build a new postcard rack that looked like a modern art sculpture. Gomez was helping him slide the plastic off the various shiny metal tubes, with little baggies of hardware on the desk.

He clanged them together. ”Last chance to build a garden wind chime,” he suggested.

”And ruin a thing of beauty?” said Riley, with scorn. ”It”ll be sharp as a tack in the lobby, wait and see.” He unfolded the instructions. ”Let”s see, we need to connect pipes A-5 to C-17 using the hardware pictured in diagram M.”

”Which pipes are the right ones?” Gomez inspected two of varying sizes, slightly different in girth.

”The big ones. No, wait, a big one and a littler one.” Riley turned the instructions upside down. ”Wait — I think the shortest ones” in the little package, as it happens. See? It”ll be a breeze.”

”Says you.” Gomez held the two pipes together. ”Where”s the little tool that puts these together?”

”Use the old screwdriver. The one with the bits that are squiggly from Norman stabbing that old lock on the shed after too many rum coffees.”

I approached the reception desk, the station from which Brigette was watching with more attention than usually directed at either porter, a look faraway and soft in her eyes as Riley connected the rods to the spiral”s base, whistling a little with a look of concentration as he worked.

This fascination was for Riley alone, because when I gently cleared my throat, she jumped, and a deep blush went through her cheek. Immediately, she amended it to a look of disapproval cast in his direction, arms crossed and frown on lips.

”What on earth is he doing?” she said. ”There”s nothing wrong with the postcard rack we already have — it”s sensible and tasteful. Why would anyone want to replace it with some chrome spiral-y thingy?” She squinted at the partly-assembled rack, a narrow look of suspicion for its quality.

”Maybe the artistic value will draw the eye,” I said, trying to reason for the best of things. ”Architects will see a spiral staircase, scientists the human DNA sequence.”

”What?” She glanced at me, sounding perplexed. ”Anyway, he didn”t ask permission from either me or Mr. Trelawney to alter the lobby. We specifically discussed this three weeks ago when he wanted us to rearrange the entryway and make that little ”private seating alcove” or whatever it was. I told him he would have to discuss it at greater length, but he made some joke about not realizing he could make a claim on my attention with a requisite form, or something equally ridiculous.” The blush came and went again, like two pink bud roses.

She realized now that I was probably not standing here to discuss the new display. ”Is there an issue you wished to discuss?” she asked.

”I need to be removed from the schedule on Thursday and Friday,” I said. ”I know I said I wouldn”t take any additional holiday days, but —”

Brigette”s gaze softened. ”Of course,” she said. ”I heard what happened. I”m terribly sorry. It must have been a horrible shock.” A timid sympathy crept into her voice. ”If you want, you may take the rest of the week off. I do have the power to extend the hotel”s grievance policy to cover cases of a non-related loved one”s death.”

”Thank you, but there”s no need,” I said, softly. ”Sidney is packing up the essential papers for London. We can”t pack anything else until after the will is officially read and the family arranges what to do with Dean”s things.”

”I see.” She reached for the schedule. ”If you change your mind, however,” she said, leaving it at that, with a glance that searched for signs that this offer had struck a chord. I offered her a grateful smile instead. It was difficult to explain why it would do no good to sit in the midst of Dean”s home, looking at the unfinished sketch that would have become a painting in time.

”Thank you,” I said. ”Um — I”ll be back soon, so you can leave me on next week”s schedule.”

”Of course. There”s no worry, however, the new staff has been very competently trained over the last weeks of summer,” said Brigette. ”We”re hardly pressed to keep our part-time help busy at this stage.”

She posted the schedule on the board outside her office again, and glanced over her shoulder at me. ”If you”ll go and change, you can take over the upstairs duties from Katy. Her shift is ending at the top of the hour.”

”I”ll go find her,” I promised, and went upstairs with the bag containing the supplies for my weekend in London, including some black thread to re-stitch the hem in my black dress so I could wear it to the funeral. I would have to find my most-sensible shrug to wear with it, even if Dean would have told me to defy convention by wearing a colorful one. Even if it was festooned with pompoms or yarn animals, probably.

I came down again from my third-floor room in uniform, and found Katy with her cleaning cart finishing up in the Coral Suite. I took over, bringing the latest bundle of sheets into the laundry bag, and pushing the cart to the end of the hall, outside the door of the former Alistair Davies suite.

Its doors were open at present, and the hotel”s owner and manager, Mr. Trelawney, was taking measurements by the windows. Through which, I could see the view of the sea which supposedly inspired the author as he wrote many of his novels” key chapters — a story which I now knew to be fictitious, except for the single fact of the real author”s love for this place. But that fact had not yet been realized, because he didn”t know this was what he was searching for until he ran out of petrol and saw the sunrise from a nearby beach.

Once, I had held this spot in esteem, like a literary pilgrimage site. Now, as it was customarily empty, except for large family parties or very particular businessmen as guests, I was seeing it in use for the first time in months.

”What is all this for?” Decorator swatches and paint chips littered the table where Megs — as Alli — had typically eaten her room service. On the desk where the old ”Magic Margins” typewriter used to sit, a box now held some of the decorative knickknacks that were customary to each room”s individuality.

The manager looked down at me from his painter”s stool. ”This suite is overdue for a touchup, I think,” he answered. ”Time to freshen its quarters, and repurpose it, given that it is no longer on permanent reserve. I am considering its future as a pet-friendly zone — as per one of Mr. Bloom”s novel suggestions. It is removed enough from the ventilation of the neighboring rooms to avoid the issue of allergy complaints.”

”Sounds very considerate,” I answered. A touch of irony, the space once dedicated to the mythic author, repurposed as a pet lover”s haven, as if in honor of the real author”s affinity for animals. ”So I suppose those would be samples of eco-friendly, easy-to-clean paint.”

”That is correct.” He snapped his tape measure closed and stepped down. ”I am surprised to see you here, Miss Clark,” he said. ”Given circumstances.” In that stoic gaze, a touch of sympathy.

I cast my eyes downward to the rug, keeping my emotions in a state of professional check. ”I know, but I felt I preferred being here today,” I said. ”Brigette knows. I explained to her, and she”s arranged for me to be excused for the funeral.”

”You don”t owe the hotel, Miss Clark,” he said. ”Not duty, nor anything else, even in the name of loyalty, in case you have misguided notions about matters these days.”

”Don”t worry, I know I”m not indispensable or anything like that,” I answered. What I mistook for amusement in the manager”s eyes was something else, far more observant and perceptive. I hoped it perceived this as a joke on my part.

”Are you quite sure?” This was a joke on his part, I decided, in the manager”s fashion of dry humor. ”Regardless, I thought you might prefer time away, if only to avoid the general gossip in circulation.”

”Sidney.” I felt my cheeks burn. ”It”s true, there”s gossip since word leaked out. Obviously, I don”t blame the hotel for the journalist being here...as someone reminded us only recently, it was bound to happen someday.” I felt a bit stupid for bringing it up, realizing Mr. Trelawney might think I was blaming him.

”I have been the keeper of a great many secrets, as you know — most of which still remain such, fortunately, for the sake of my reputation. Therefore, I am in an excellent position to know that secrets can”t be kept forever,” he answered, with his usual sagacity. ”They eventually tunnel their way to the light, regardless of how deeply we conceal them. They insist on defining what parts of human nature they conceal, whether good or bad. Even yours.”

”I don”t think I have any secrets,” I answered, almost with a laugh.

”That makes you a very remarkable exception,” he answered. ”In comparison to the state of affairs when we first became acquainted.”

Another blush caught up with me, for this very pointed reference to my past lies. Those secrets had been shed more gradually than I anticipated, to the point that I was no longer sure at what point the rest of staff stopped referring to me by my original false name — or realized I wasn”t Canadian.

For a brief time afterwards, I stood at the windows at the third floor”s landing view of the sea. I tugged at the apron”s strap around my neck, slowly untangling it from a lock of my hair which had become caught in its buckle. Below me, in the suite of the former author, all the vestiges of Alli”s career were coming down. I supposed the striped drapes and summer lace panels would be replaced by claw-proof fabrics, the carpet replaced by one with microfibers that repel fur and dander.

Probably in a few weeks, it would feel like walking into a completely different room than the one where I startled Alli on a fateful spring afternoon, and stumbled into her secret identity by accident.

Was it true, I wondered, that I had no secrets left? Was there nothing locked away inside me, some part that wanted to come to the light and reveal a part of me I had yet to embrace? I was not sure how I would know. Was there a symptom that would tell one when they were hiding something significant?

It felt strange to think about, so I stopped. It seemed silly to think about in comparison to what I had revealed in my time here, from my real name to my real dream, as if it wasn”t worth thinking about.

Tourists downstairs were checking in at the desk, and Riley was demonstrating his charm by offering the kids one of the hotel”s new courtesy souvenir frisbee discs with the hotel logo, a sign that he had already swayed Mr. Trelawney with one idea. Across the way at the front desk, I could see Brigette watching with her brow knitting low — torn between possible admiration and staunch disapproval, I could tell.

Her strange behavior not at all surprising. Ever since the kiss, the situation had bordered on the precarious, denying the essence of romantic attraction whilst resisting the porter”s newfound role in the hotel. It wasn”t something that one kiss — or one broken engagement — would change overnight. As when pulling out the first essential brick in a jinga tower, the fortress would require a few other key nudges to collapse.

Brigette didn”t renew her offer to mark me off for the rest of the week, but I didn”t want to refuse a second time. After my dining room shift on Wednesday, I went upstairs to pack my things, and set my alarm for early Thursday morning, when I walked to Dean”s cottage before sunrise.

Sidney was feeding the motley crew and Yo-Yo, and filling the water dispenser at the kitchen sink. His bags were packed, sitting in the hallway, along with the packet of papers meant for the solicitor. This morning”s early mail had already been sorted into two piles on the hall, the pile of unimportant things and the two notices from the bank and the London antique shop which sold Dean the vintage hi-fi.

”I”ll be ready in a moment,” he said, as he put his teacup in the sink. ”Do you want a cup before we leave? The kettle”s warm.” He shut the kitchen window.

I shook my head. ”Go ahead and rinse it. I”ll get your coat for you,” I said. Sidney”s best one, the one that reminded me every time that he was still well-born Alex in addition to the bohemian Sidney, was draped over the chair by the desk, along with a silk burgundy stripe tie that I knew Adele had given him as a Christmas gift.

The cigar box was on the desk, the one which contained Dean”s most personal and sentimental souvenirs from throughout his life. I lifted the lid on postcards, sea shells, and folded papers that I had glimpsed many times before. The little metal Snoopy in his car, which had spent the better part of two decades in a treasure chest on the grounds of Lewiston.

The little Father Christmas lay atop the pile, in his faded little red coat with a threadbare bottlebrush tree. I lifted it out, and slipped it into my shoulder bag”s pocket, then closed the box.

I helped Sidney tie his tie, carefully knotting it Windsor-fashion, something I had learned from the internet. He met my glance, and we exchanged smiles, faintly — ones that carried anxiety and resolve for today.

”Are you ready?” he asked me.

”If you are,” I replied. ”I”ll help you lock up.” I switched off the desk lamp. ”Are we taking the bike?”

He laughed, but only once. ”I don”t have any other transport, I”m afraid,” he said. ”Callum”s coming by. He can”t come to the service, but he offered to take us to the station. His way of saying goodbye.”

”That was nice of him,” I said. Callum would feel bad about not being able to say a proper farewell, even though he already knew the nature of loss in his role as a carer. He was one of Dean”s first nurses in Cornwall, I knew. The only one he could bear, if his allusions were to be believed, at least in comparison to his former nurse Nancy, who had been bossy and overly-opinionated about his choices.

”He”ll be here any minute.” Sidney tucked today”s bills into the packet. He noticed the article I had been reading the other day, now lying atop the magazines.

I saw the edge of something hard and sad come into his gaze, but only for a moment. Outside the cottage, the beep of a car horn — Callum had arrived.

Sidney reached over and slid the journal into the rubbish bin, atop the junk mail from today. He switched out the lamp on the side table. ”Let”s go,” he said.