All the Stars in Her Hand

Chapter Six

The phone at the cottage rang steadily, but I ignored it as I pored over my scribbled notes for the love letter story I had been playing with for the past few weeks. A letter from Sidney was tucked in there, and a copy of an old postcard I bought at an antique shop, which had made me think of all the ways to express love in words.

And all the ways we didn”t, too. In the back of my mind, I was thinking of the last note from Dean, which had avoided saying those sentimental things he once expressed to me, in a moment of weakness. What we didn”t tell each other on paper was still between the lines.

People never realize how much of what they say comes out indirectly, even in letters intending to say something else — even love letters. How much of that truth belonged in the story? The truth of human denial?

Today, as the drizzle pecked against the window glass, Sidney sat in the desk”s wooden armchair, staring at the sheet of paper cranked through the scroll bar. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear; a look of concentration that reminded me a little of the portrait of him, only without the emotional fire. Dean”s former desk was now the hub for the Royal ”MM”, whenever it wasn”t in the garden. Which, lately, it had been, because the ringing phone was a distraction.

The painting that his attitude reminded me of in part was still wrapped up in the spare room, along with the unfinished portrait canvas I had found in Dean”s stack. Most of the cottage”s artwork had been sent to London already — now there were boxes of things for charity shops and the church sale, which Sidney boxed up to save Hester or Irene the trouble of coming down to sort. The present didn”t seem like the time to unwrap new artwork and hang it up on the wall.

The phone rang again. I glanced up, listening to the trill for several beats, before it went silent again. I glanced at Sidney, who had a look of bigger resignation clouding his gaze momentarily. He turned back to the page, which had not progressed very far, as if each fresh annoyance broke his concentration.

Journalists and entertainment freelancers had somehow obtained the phone number for Dean”s cottage and had been calling with increasing frequency, trying to wheedle an exclusive with Alistair Davies, promising explosive headlines and exposure to readers and fans across the globe.

It didn”t take a private detective to deduce that Byron Duncan was behind it. Leaking the number was his way of cranking up the pressure — a daily reminder of the fourth novel”s commodity value. So long as Alistair Davies” identity reveal was a public bombshell, they would keep calling, hoping for more. Circling like sharks that smell blood was the more colorful expression which came to mind.

I pointed my nose downwards, burying my mind in my notes again, which seemed more like swimming waves of handwriting on the page and not tidbits of inspiration that would come together to form an outline. I thought if I pretended that the phone was no big deal, that positive thinking would change the room”s atmosphere, and help Sidney relax by proxy. The music of typing might fill the air soon, instead of a jingling phone bell.

Or perhaps we would take the phone off the hook, since the only person of importance who ever called the landline was Mrs. Graves.

Calls continued to come, even as the days passed, so I resorted to unplugging the phone on my half day off, when I decided to try a recipe for vanilla poppyseed cupcakes. I plugged it in again, briefly, during the cooling phase, feeling guilty in case Mrs. Graves needed something important. Since the revelation of Sidney”s real past, however, she had been shy about ringing him to ask for help for various parishioners. As if it was intimidating to request help from a wealthy celebrated author despite knowing he wore shoes with knotted-together laces and ate noodles from a heat-and-serve cup.

That intimidation factor depressed him. That”s why he had never wanted her or anyone else in the village to know, something which was too late to prevent now.

Another call came as Sidney came in, from another number unidentified on the I.D. screen. He lifted the receiver and clicked it down again, then slid the typewriter onto the desk. He sat down on the sofa.

”It smells good,” he said.

”Cupcakes for tea?” I said. ”I thought about being sensible, but the cupboards are a little bare.” Previously, Callum had taken money from the household tin and bought the basic groceries that made meals like shepherd”s pies and pasta easy. It was a trend I probably needed to continue, temporarily.

”Sounds lovely,” he said. He gave me a smile.

I sat down on the couch”s arm, trying not to look at the page cranked through the typewriter”s gears. Keeping with my policy of ”distance only” for the machine and its manuscript. Which, I had not been able to help noticing, had not increased exponentially in size.

”I thought of going into the shops and getting the groceries to make a big pot of beef stew,” I said. ”That would be a couple of meals that you could reheat easily. If I ran, I could probably get the stuff tonight, and maybe do a little of the precooking that Callum”s recipe calls for. I could stay late if you would give me a lift home.”

”Or you could stay,” he answered.

”I think I”d rather pass on a night of couch camping after marinating beef chunks and chopping veg all evening,” I said, hiding my smile.

”No, I meant for longer,” he said. ”Not on the sofa, but with your own room.”

His smile held the proof that he wasn”t joking. I found my own joking attitude was slipping away.

”You mean, give up my attic room and free snacks from the Penmarrow”s kitchen?” I answered, still trying to keep it light, although my voice was a shade quieter. ”Share a sleeping bag with the old boxes of spare toasters and phones?”

”We would get rid of the spare boxes,” he answered. ”We would split the cottage. You would take the spare room, I would keep mine, and we”d share the common space. Put the extra stuff in the master bedroom for storage. We could cook for each other, take turns with the shopping so the cupboards aren”t totally bare. Or I could do that part and let you heat up the soup tins.” The grin teased, briefly, but not meant to convince me it was a joke. ”The prelude to something greater, perhaps. Something permanent.”

Still teasing — but not, at the same time. I could sense something beneath the ripple on the pond of this emotion.

Heat rose beneath my skin. This was a sudden change in topics — me and Sidney beneath the same roof. Not apart with separate spaces.Come live with me and be my love. He wasn”t asking the ultimate question, at least not directly, but my mind flew there. My thoughts scattered in response, leaving me feeling only the heat and a state of emotion.

”I”d be taking up space that isn”t really mine,” I answered, demurring in order to stall for time. This seemed like the most logical argument I could think of that did not have to address the deeper question.

”It could be,” he answered. Being serious now, although saying the opposite of what I had expected. ”You need a place of your own, in case your situation with the hotel changes, so you don”t have to be afraid of being left homeless. I know this isn”t a perfect option, but it”s a beginning. Dean wanted it for you, you know. He thought you might be ready for a space of your own.”

”I don”t know if it would feel like my own,” I said. ”More like ... borrowing his for a time, living in a period of life about to come to a close.” The lease was due to run out at a set time, by which point Sidney would have to empty the rest of the contents so the owner could either lease or sell the property to a new tenant.

”You can make it yours by signing a few papers,” he said. ”Then you can kick me out and it will be yours entirely.” A flash of a grin for this final suggestion.

”And where would you go?” I asked, with a laugh. ”If I”m kicking you out of the home your friend offered you.”

He shrugged. ”Back to the vicarage shed, maybe,” he said. ”If the vicar would take pity on me again. I”ll do it in trade for fixing leaky faucets and patching leaky roofs. Maybe I could make repairs on the baptismal font”s pipes — they”ve been plugged up and corroded for ages, the water comes in drips and drabs.”

I kept my glance away from the manuscript”s drawer in the typewriter box. The stack would not be getting thicker anytime soon, if he was taking apart a water font instead.

I felt his fingers, lightly stroking my arm. ”Stay,” he said. ”You need a place in Cornwall to call your own. You can”t afford what you want most, so this would do in its place. For the sake of real roots.”

”I can stay in the village even as things stand,” I answered. ”The Penmarrow isn”t kicking me out anytime soon.” Despite my dwindling hours, my dwindling part-time shifts on Brigette”s schedule, my space there had not been questioned by management — no one was asking me to pack my bags and move on, at least.

”Then maybe there”s another reason you”d consider a change of residence,” he said.

”Such as?”

On the cusp of explanation, something in his eyes was both soft and intent. It changed the nature of the hazel, the color suddenly intensifying in its green depths. We had come back to the original question, I knew; my hands felt suddenly as if I needed to grasp something, hold something to steady myself, as if the conversation was about to change its direction in the manner of a river making a sudden bend.

The phone rang again, and we both jumped at the sound of it. Sidney leaned over and reached for it, checking the number, then switched it off by pulling the cord from the wall. He let out a sigh.

”Maybe we should change the number,” he said. ”I wish my mobile had a better signal, so I could simply leave it altogether ... but I don”t want to make Mrs. Graves come by every time she needs something.”

She hadn”t rung his number in several days now, except to say she would be bringing by some of her pear butter — which Dean once referred to as ”swamp mud” when Callum opened a jar of it experimentally. She had not rung to ask for him to look after anyone in the community, the way she formerly did.

”We could switch to a messenger service,” I said. ”She could send Peter on his bicycle.”

Sidney laughed. ”I suppose she could,” he answered.

She wasn”t ready to accept the truth about him. No one was. Except, of course, for the journalists who wanted desperately to know the secrets from that stack of pages in the typewriter”s drawer.

”Think Mrs. Graves would take you back?” I asked.

”I wish.” His smile was somewhat doubtful about this. ”I wish they all would.” He leaned forward, the movement of his hand pushing those shortened curls at the base of his skull into a state of rumpled unruliness.

I reached over and plugged the phone in again. On cue, it began ringing, another unfamiliar number. Giving up, I unplugged the receiver, then put my hand on his shoulder, holding onto a part of him. A reassuring caress, sensing that he didn”t want to talk about any of this.

”Maybe just one night of crashing on the couch wouldn”t hurt,” I said. ”I was wanting to play with that recipe today anyway. It”s long and complicated.”

It was better not to talk about the book or the press, even if I was worried. Maybe he needed some time to process all of these problems on his own.

________________________

”Did you do this?”

Brigette held up a poster advertising a pirate-themed Cornish tour, which named the old timber wreckage under the Port Hewer protective gazebo. The accused — Riley, who was trying to fasten a pair of new cufflinks, scowling as the pin cap slipped. I paused halfway up the stairs to see what this was about, even though today I was the ”pinch hitter” on cleaning staff, called in so Katy could leave her shift early.

”O” course,” he said. ”It”s popular with the tourists, and the local lot make a mint from cream teas and postcards off the late afternoon busload.”

”Perhaps, but it”s absolutely inappropriate to post this on any wall in the main foyer. It”s not in keeping with the dignity of the interior,” she said.

”I know,” he said, scoffing, as if this was obvious to anyone with a brain. ”Taping it to the wall is temporary, since the nice poster display frame won”t be here until next week. There”s no reason to deprive guests of community highlights in the meantime?”

”What?” she said, indignantly.

”The frame is showcase style. It”ll highlight the attraction of the month — very tastefully, I might add,” said Riley. ”Guests will be drawn like flies to honey, and be aware of all the attractions and services we can book for them, among our amenities of comfort.”

”You didn”t ask me about any of this,” protested Brigette.

”What need have I to ask?” he scoffed. ”It”s a poster frame, not new linens for the dining room.”

”Yes, butI”mstill technically the interim hotel manager, at least until Mr. Trelawney”s honeymoon phase ends,” said Brigette. ”All changes should be presented to me in advance, including those of the concierge desk.”

”It”s a poster frame,” said Riley, exasperated. ”Lovely Edwardian with a touch of Art Deco about it. What”s to offend?”

”It”s a technical change to the foyer,” she argued. ”You have to accept that there is a very specific chain of command at the management level. Make an appointment with me to discuss any further ideas you have, do you understand?”

”Fine,” said Riley, without seeming nonplussed. ”Dinner at Maroni”s? Eight-ish? I”ve the loan of my flatmate”s Kia.” A flash of the old grin, like a brief hint of flirtation — but only briefly.

”What?” she repeated, startled.

”What?” He sounded mystified by her tone.

”You have an absolute bloody nerve, Riley,” she said, as her face blushed a deep crimson from just above the starched white collar of her uniform shirt to the roots of her hair. ”How can you think I would accept such an invitation?”

He nodded sagely. ”Drinks at the new little place down the coast, I suppose,” he said. ”I”ll pencil in a table for two for this continued discussion. Say, just after shift?”

”Flustered” was the correct word for Brigette”s attitude. She upset his pencil cup, righted it hastily, then stalked off without saying another word. An excellent way of avoiding looking him in the eyes any longer, perhaps.

His roguish smile reappeared as he straightened his tie in the mirror. ”Game, set, match,” he said to his reflection, softly.

I shook my head, then pushed away from the hotel banister and finished climbing to the top floor”s landing.

Katy”s cleaning cart, soon to be mine, was at the far end of the hall. Between me and it, to the right, the doors to Mr. Trelawney”s private room stood open as a couple of furniture movers brought in a carved Italian walnut buffet shipped from Lady Val”s former Genoese rooms.

The new Mrs. Trelawney was threading new drapes onto the curtain rods in the living room, standing atop a ladder. As she adjusted the panels and stepped down, she noticed me and smiled.

”They look nice,” I called.

”Thank you. I thought these rooms could use a bit of sprucing,” she answered. ”Bard”s taste is very sensible and traditional, so I suspect it consists mostly of retired cushions and furniture from the suites around us.” She snapped a measuring tape to the pocket of her jeans. ”I”m thinking of new paint for these rooms, maybe something in lavender. What do you think?”

”Brigette has some paint swatches you could borrow, if you want to try a contrast with the wall,” I suggested. What were the odds that lavender was one of the rejected bridesmaids” colors from Brigette”s former wedding plans? Even with Ned”s rejection, I knew she wouldn”t have tossed all of her samples because she was far too prudent.

”I may ask,” mused Lady Val. ”I want these rooms to feel fresh and bright. So the canvases from my days in Genoa will pop against the colors.” She placed her hands on her hips, still holding the measuring tape, as if trying to decide whether to measure the wall square footage or space for a few more pieces of furniture.

Lady Val had let go of her place in Genoa, and resigned from her job at the Genoese museum”s art gallery in order to move to Cornwall. A bold move on her part, but I thought this was her way of making it up to Bard for her family parting them long ago — and acknowledging that after losing one beloved hotel in his past, he shouldn”t have to lose a second one.

I left her measuring the wall which currently held a couple of bookshelves, and found Katy emptying the cart”s mop bucket in the upstairs sink.

”Paper goods are a bit low in the big suites,” she remarked to me, snapping her gum between her teeth. ”That, and linens, so you might want to toss a bit of both on the cart before doing the left side of the hall.”

”Off to a hot date?” I teased.

”Tony”s taking me to a club in Newquay.” Katy checked her lipstick in a compact mirror from her apron pocket. ”I want to change into something a bit more attractive, obviously.”

She clipped it shut. ”Oh, by the way — this is the missing knob from the bedside table in the Moss Suite.” She tossed it to me from her pocket. ”Put it back for me, will you?”

”Sure,” I said. ”Have fun.” I lifted down a box of toilet tissue from the upper shelf of the cleaning cupboard.

”Ta.” Katy departed, already texting her boyfriend and too busy to look up from the screen.

The knob screwed back on with the hardware nut I found in the back of the drawer. I sat down on the edge of the bed”s sage green quilt, gazing at the antique needlepoint wall hanging of wildflowers and green leaves, that looked like a delicate pressed flower arrangement from olden days. It had the sweet, slightly-musty scent of hemp threads and old roses whenever I was hoovering the dust away from its corners.

Was I staying here, out of comfort and loyalty? Was I doing the wrong thing by going upstairs to my attic room, night after night? Maybe there was something better waiting, that I was holding back. A place of my own in the village, or the freedom to follow a path that I was failing to see because I was holding to the complacency and contentment of my return.

Maybe places do become trapped in time, and people fall into the same state of fixed place. Like the furniture and bric-a-brac in these rooms, seldom altered, always a reminder of elegance from its glory days. Grand houses like this one were meant for preserving shadows, but a human life wasn”t meant to do the same. Life was meant for change, not a museum”s case.

I reached into the pocket of my apron. A pencil, my phone, a pass key to the rooms. I knew these items by heart, having touched them so many times. With every change of uniform, only the unique fibers of the garments ever truly changed.

As I pushed the cart past the Trelawney rooms, I encountered the hotel”s true manager uncrating some of the artwork from Lady Val”s personal collection, holding up a medium-size canvas of modern Asian art, a mix of familiar cherry blossom motif and streaks and lines that suggested the petals were shooting away like stars. Still without his suit, wearing a handsome Shetland pullover and — dare I believe it — work boots with his trousers? I had not seen him so casual since the long pandemic summer, when he trimmed the hotel”s lawn with the antiquated push mower.

I slowed. ”Is that one famous?” I asked.

”Twentieth-century Japanese art,” he answered. ”The artist titled it ”Spring in the Heart of the Wind.” Valerie suggested it might look nice in my office, and I find I agree.”

”It would add a splash of color to that mostly black-and-white photo wall,” I answered. ”If there”s room.”

A faint smile. ”Very thoughtfully suggested,” he answered. ”I”ll keep it in mind.” He placed the canvas back in the crate with the others. ”You possess an artistic eye, it would seem.”

”More likely a brain looking for distraction,” I answered. ”This is one of those days where I”m getting lost in my head.”

”That would be the hallmark of your work, I believe,” he said.

”Only if the hotel guests want nose tissues left on their toilet paper holders by mistake,” I joked.

He looked amused. ”I referred to your writing, Miss Clark,” he answered. ”Your imagination stretches its bounds in search of opportunities in the great unknown, which can be harnessed by a storyteller”s power. I believe you would put it something like that, if one asked you to describe it.”

”Something like that,” I answered. I smiled, and pushed the cart on, glancing behind me once to see him removing another canvas, this one evidently one of Lady Val”s favorites, judging by the excited look on her face as they admired it together.

Tucked into the window seat at my shift”s end, a piece of paper lay on my lap. Brigette kept printed forms on the rack in the housekeeping office, known as ”letters of two weeks” intent” — notices to quit, in short.

My pencil was handy in my apron”s pocket. There were only a few blanks to fill out, explaining the reasons for notice, and the date one would be leaving the hotel”s employment, after which point I would hand it to Mr. Trelawney for the third time in my Cornish hotel experience.

My hand reached into my pocket, but took out my phone and switched on my email app. My agent Arnold”s assistant had sent me the recent data crunch on my indie book”s latest figures, as well as the quarterly payment estimated for the two books published with Sunshadow — a courtesy that Arnold wielded as a heavy hint to choose a flat in London to call home over any other residency.

Good numbers in the beginning. Great numbers developing as my book climbed the charts, by the standards of most writers, who knew that the industry is fickle and windows must be chosen over doors sometimes as the point of entry for one”s work. Fantastic numbers now that I had been to the moon and back with my first bestseller — and that was without the check I had been paid by a Hollywood studio for the film rights toThe Celestine Man.

It was ridiculous for me to still be working here, in the eyes of anybody else. Probably in the eyes of Mr. Trelawney, too, who knew I was beyond the need of a paycheck from the hotel. I was taking up space that could be offered to someone in need of a job — I might as well be an eccentric working for free if I wanted to stay on. Love for this place, for its experience, blinded me to reason when it came to the crossroads at hand.

”GREEN LIT means GO, Maisie, in Hollywood speak — the studio reps are excited about this project!”I could almost hear Arnold”s chipper tone in the footnotes of his email to which the sales spreadsheet was attached.”Do you want to visit the set during filming, as if any author would answer ”no”? Email me ASAP and I”ll start chatting about possible times.”

My thumb swiped, closing the message blank, and I slipped the phone back in my pocket. I lifted my gaze, looking out towards the fragment of deep sea blue in the distance, that tiny bit of the view that had once inspired the mythic Alistair Davies. Not the real one. Somehow, without seeing it, the air and water of this place had already been in his blood, awakening with the sunrise the day his motorcycle ran out of petrol by the shore. How he had known this place”s essence already without seeing it was one of those mysteries that only someone affected in the same way can understand.

Carefully, my pencil filled out the blanks, one by one. The one for the date of last day”s employment was left blank, the last one awaiting words. I paused here, hesitating. The tip of the lead left a little mark on the line”s empty whiteness.

”Youcan”tbe serious about hosting a ghost walk.” Brigette”s voice rose, floating nearer with the accompanying sound of her sensible kitten heels on the stair.

”Why not? Tourists love it,” argued Riley, who must be right behind her. ”That bird the daft old bugger hired to read the cards at his birthday party was keen enough on the place, she”d probably come back and do it again for hire.”

”Have you any idea how much it would cost to hire a famous psychic like Natalie Norridge to give a private reading?” Brigette asked. ”We book events for other people, we don”t organize them hither and yon, Riley.”

”Ha! The ice sculpting competition — what was that, pray tell?”

I folded the form and put it into my apron pocket before they reached the same landing as myself, undoubtedly on their way to conference with Mr. Trelawney on one of the many bumps in the new management”s infrastructure.

Brigette was flushed again, a mixture of sparring energy and — possibly — something else of a more personal nature heating her emotions, whereas Riley had the look of a man who was confident he could win the war even if the battles were held in minefields. Being in Brigette”s wheelhouse hadn”t fazed him at all, whereas only a fool failed to see that it was discomfiting — and intriguing — her, to have a sparring partner who might actually best her from time to time.

Ned had never been much of a challenge for her emotionally, nor interested in trying to see through that attitude of rigid perfection to her well-hidden romantic side. I thought it could explain why her ring finger ended up bare once again, at least that”s what I would tell Molly next time we spoke, since she had twigged it perfectly.

Listening to the heat of their argument carry down the hall, to the private passageway to Mr. Trelawney”s office, it was almost like I was witnessing her prescience. I felt a sharp pain of brevity for an absence I still felt in this place.

People come and go. Molly herself said so once, with a sigh. As if the Penmarrow was a vast sea, with a world beneath its surface that rolled objects into the deep for a time, washed others onto unexpected shores. Its waves keeping afloat a regatta of colorful boats and party barges, which was the only part that outsiders ever noticed and marveled over — never seeing the hidden depths. Only the lucky ones like me escaped that limitation.

I was marked off the schedule for tomorrow — replaced by the new maid Faith, who was a Trinidadian waitress whose dining room rapport had her rolling in tips. Gomez and Yuri were both marked for half shifts on a day that I knew shared its shift with a key football match.

”Did you read it in the papers lately? About the handyman from the vicarage being famous?” At the local grocery shop, Tilda was sacking the purchases of the customer at the counter when she asked this question. ”There was an article just yesterday, all about his time at uni, with loads of dons declining comment and the like. Old students who said he was quite brainy — some sort of genius.”

”Idid. Who would have thought it? Whatever it is he wrote, it was something that sold like mad —well, maybe not like Harry Potter”s stories — and his were meant for mature readers, obviously,” she added.

They chuckled. ”Imagine him. Fixing the drains at Mamie”s house like he was a plumber on the cheap.”

”Do you think the vicar knew and simply pretended?”

”I heard he hadn”t a clue. Poor thing. Myra”s still getting over it.”

”I wish now I had talked to that strange young man who kept asking me questions that day I was in my garden. I wouldn”t want to say anything in the way of gossip, of course, but maybe he would have told me what on earth this was about.”

”Maybe you”ll have another chance. I heard someone from one of the papers rang Myra to ask her to spill the inside story of his time here only recently. Proper cash offer.”

”Bet she gave them a proper telling off.” They both chuckled.

I left the shop without the pasta shells I had stopped in to buy, but with an unsettled feeling left inside me by this latest bit of gossip running around the village. Sidney”s eccentricity was front and center in the village spotlight, in such a way that I wasn”t so sure that Mrs. Graves would be ringing ever again to ask for help with leaky roof tiles for elderly villagers. At least she was annoyed with the journalists ringing the vicarage, which meant she still cared about him.

Nothing about this story was going to vanish quickly, so we would have to brace ourselves for further stories to circulate, and maybe more. I could not help but note the journalists were widening their pool.

The world felt as if it was a pot on slow simmer. I felt as if it was building steam, ready to overboil and leave us with a dangerous mess to clean.