All the Stars in Her Hand

Chapter Seven

I cycled down the hill from the hotel bright and early, with a tin of the chef”s gourmet muscadine, grapefruit, and champagne macarons that would better stock Sidney”s teatime cupboard at the cottage than Mrs. Graves”s dried apricot biscuits that he was saving out of loyalty.

I coasted down the rear garden”s path to the gap in the wall, then took the wooded lane that went the roundabout way past Sonia”s old cottage in the woods, where the windmill garden ornament twirled in the breeze despite its rust. The estate agent overseeing the cottage had come to close the shutters for autumn, so the windows looked as if they were eyes closed above a shut mouth. A sleeping house, awaiting the kiss of life from a new tenant to awaken it.

At the head of the lane to Dean”s, I braked to slow my progress, seeing a visitor knocking on the front door. A little red Geo was parked along the front garden, with plates from a car service.

She noticed me, a woman somewhere near the ball park of middle age, in a parka and jeans. ”Is this where Alex Davison lives?” she asked me.

”Are you a friend of his?” My senses pricked. This clearly wasn”t a long-lost relative of Dean”s turning up to collect the last of his personal mementoes.

”No, I”m Dorrie Price fromBooks in E-News,” she said. ”I was hoping for a few quick comments from the writer, if he”s at home.”

”He may be out,” I said, hoping this was true. ”You might have to try back some other time. Like it said in the article, he can be a bit of a wanderer.”

”Do you know him? Maybe I could give you my card?” She searched through her pockets — being a Millennial, I suspected she only carried paper cards for the ”old folks.” ”Just so you can pass the word along. But if you have —”

The door to the cottage opened, Sidney on the other side with a dish towel tossed across his shoulders, and Kip at his heels, emitting the small yaps of suspicious greeting he reserved for strangers.

”Alex Davison?” she said, brightening.

”Yes?” he said, with a furrow of non-recognition in his forehead, but a polite smile of greeting. He did not catch my eye or he would have seen that this was no ordinary visitor.

”Dorrie Price,Books in E-News, London,” she said. ”I wondered if we could have a short chat so I can record your reaction to the recent committee decision to rescind your Pulitzer.”

The smile on Sidney”s face dimmed. ”I”d rather not,” he said. ”Thanks, but I prefer to keep it at a polite ”no comment” status.”

”You must have something to say. Did you agree with the decision, or do you think nationalism”s exclusivity is harmful to the literary community? Did you stage your submission to the prize committee as a publicity stunt?”

”Sorry, we”re finished here.” Sidney let me through the cottage, blocking the way for the reporter to follow with a deft motion of his arm braced in the doorway again. ”Good day.”

”I would really like an exclusive, Mr. Davison. I promise to represent your side fairly, which is more than many of my colleagues will do when —”

He shut the door, muffling the rest of her comment. He leaned against the door and sighed. ”Probably I should have told her the truth,” he said. ”It was their prize to give or take, and I never wanted it.”

”They know that, I expect,” I said. ”There were comments about Helen and the rest of Saxx and Brighton — most of them, anyway — being unaware of who you really were. If anybody was using it as a publicity stunt, it was the chief publisher, but he probably kept quiet just to protect the image.”

I made it sound better than it probably was, although nobody meant any real harm. Sidney never meant for it to go this far.

”She”ll be back, probably,” he said. ”Or she”ll go off and write whatever she wants it to say. I don”t think she really cares how I felt about it, she just wants the ”exclusive” label. Most of them who ring are looking for the same.”

”Some would be fair, you just don”t know which ones they are,” I said. ”We need a guide to honest and unbiased journalists, like a consumer reports review.”

I could see the corners of his mouth twitch upwards on one side. He wasn”t in a very humorous mood, so the smile didn”t take. ”If I wait a half hour or so, this one will go away, because the others did,” he said, tossing the wet towel into a basket of laundry, which Kip was exploring for interesting kitchen-related smells.

”Others?” I said.

”A couple. They were asking similar questions, wanting some comments. I wish they”d stop, but they won”t so long as people are reading about it, as Byron said. If they hadn”t been gifted this address, it wouldn”t have happened.”

”Are you angry at him? It wasn”t fair of him to do it to you, knowing how you felt.” My tone was quiet for this indirect question, about the agent who clearly leaked the information.

”He”s thinking of the books. That”s his job,” said Sidney. His voice was tighter. I thought of Arnold, who was always intensely concerned with my creative wellbeing, and realized that I had been among the lucky authors who had a professional who knew when to withdraw pressure for certain options.

Byron could afford to do the same — even more so than Arnold. He had a stable of top-tier writers, and Alistair Davies was among the top of the heap, who didn”t need to prove anything at this stage, only that he could still produce a novel worth reading. He didn”t care about the money, just a chance to start anew.

The knocking continued a few more minutes, then it was silent. I peered out the window through a tiny crack in the curtains, watching as the little hired Geo drove away. How many others had come, I now wondered, although I didn”t ask. I noticed the phone was ringing less frequently, possibly because they were coming in person now.

Then I noticed the phone was disconnected. I guess even Mrs. Graves was not reason enough for him to fight it any longer.

How long would it go on? When would they get bored? After enough of the secret had been dredged from the pond”s mire, rewritten and recast in various shades of exposure? I knew there were parts he was afraid of having touched — like the feud with Adele, and the painful stories from his family”s past.

That”s what his mother hated about his choice from the beginning, that it made his life a public property, and those of the people around him by proxy. It shared their deepest pain with others. Decorum and society reputation were damageable properties in the wrong hands, rendered vulnerable when humanized.

”Are you working today?” I looked at the desk, just barely. The typewriter had pages underneath its frame, and others held by the paperweight shaped like an egg. An untidy atmosphere, but I did not sense creativity in it. It had the look of neglect and haphazard focus, unlike when Dean”s desk was still covered in neat stacks of bills and clipped coupons, with all the typing in the garden and the manuscript still being tucked carefully in its drawer at the end of the day.

”Maybe. I was tidying things first. The cottage is a bit more neglected with only me here. You keep the cupboards from being totally bare, however.” He flashed me a grin, briefly. ”Anyway, I don”t want it to be too dusty and grimy when I give back the keys, so I need to finish boxing Dean”s things. Drive some of them to the charity shop.”

”Maybe Mrs. Graves could use more of them for the church charity sale,” I said, as I took the tin into the cupboards. The dishes hadn”t been boxed up yet, only the special pudding tin in a box, with a note addressed to Irene.

”I saved the best clothes for her to take, when I cleaned the closet, and the good linens,” said Sidney. ”I could always send the kitchen appliances when the lease agreement ends.” He entered, reaching for the sink”s drain plug to let out the water that had been used to wash a lonely plate and cup. ”I think she”ll still be on speaking terms with me by then.” He paused. ”Some of the art supplies — new ones — I”d like to find a use for them with someone who would appreciate the gift.”

”Since I”m here, I can help,” I said. ”Tell me what to clean, what to box.” I dried the dishes and put them away in the same cupboard as always, then turned to him with my best helpful attitude as a big hint to put me to work.

He glanced around. ”The spare room”s boxes need moved into the kitchen, so I can send them off to charity,” he said. ”You could help me with that, if you like.”

”Sounds perfect,” I said.

”Watch for Yo-Yo. She”s taken to hiding in them. Somehow I don”t think the charity centre would be thrilled by a live donation.” The cat was currently hiding under a pile of newspapers awaiting recycling, merely a swishing tabby tail.

”I”ll grab some of these for packing materials,” I said, picking them up — that sent the kitten racing down the next passageway, with Kip barking at the excitement from the forbidden sofa”s cushions.

The topmost story was the one about the literary community”s comments on the Davies” shocker. I crumpled it up first.

The stories about his true identity kept coming, filling up the newspapers delivered to the hotel, leaving me privy to the headlines as I cleared away stray periodicals from the parlor each morning, subbing for Tamara on holiday.

”From Books Clubs to Fan Boards, Readers React to the Davies” Reveal.” Reactionary stories were popular now, along with speculation about why he had concealed his identity. ”Author”s Secrecy a Mystery Unexplained.” ”What Other Secrets Did Elusive Author Keep?”

I tossed them into the recycling bin, even though hotel policy stated that newspapers were to be recycled only every three days. Someone had taken a photograph of Sidney from a distance in the cottage garden. His expression looked wary and furtive, but I thought I was reading my own emotions into the image.

”Did you read the story about that famous author who was so elusive — Alistair Davies, was it?” The tourist who ordered the chef salad for lunch was chatting with her dinner companion as I filled their water goblets. ”According to the papers, he lives somewhere in this village.”

”No, really? I read his book once. It was good. But I always pictured him as older.”

”Me, too. Maybe it”s all a hoax. Perhaps we should go look for him and see for ourselves.” They both giggled.

”He”s very dishy, isn”t he?”

My face was burning hot at this point, but neither of them noticed. I put on my waitressing smile again, the one Sidney had said made me brilliant at putting guests at ease, and moved on to my next table.

”I can”t believe someone went to such lengths to hide their identity, especially when there was nothing to hide,” a guest was complaining to the rest of the party at their table. ”He”s young and attractive, he obviously grew up with all sorts of celebrity friends. It was all for the publicity of a secret identity.”

”No, I read he really is a total recluse,” insisted another. ”The latest story in the tabloids has him living in some old cottage, pretending to be poor.”

”They say geniuses are eccentrics,” someone else remarked. ”I think he”s probably a bit ... you know ... dramatic, and people are going doolally over absolutely nothing. Celebrities are so disgusting.”

”I want to know why he did it, though. For the money? The attention? There must be a reason everyone”s still talking about it.”

”Order up for the new queen of hotel managers,” said Janine, with this reference to Brigette as she placed a coffee cup, no biscuits, on the window”s tray. ”If my window table plucks your sleeve, tell them I”m negotiating their grilled cheese alterations as we speak.” She ducked back inside the kitchen, where the cadence of the staff”schop choprhythm was punctuated by the chef arguing about putting both prosciutto and sardines on a sandwich.

A paper from London was on the table near the service window, underneath a new box of napkins. It was dated from more than a week ago, I noticed, as I picked it up.

I folded back the pages to a section I never read. ”Obituaries.””Gresham, Dean, thirty-four, suffered a pulmonary embolism during a holiday abroad. He was a respected painter and honored graduate of the University of Oxford, and beloved to the many who knew him personally. His untimely loss is mourned deeply by family and friends in London and in the Cornish village of Port Hewer where he lived most recently. He is survived by parents Gillian and David Gresham, brother Nathan, sister Irene Twildon nee Gresham with husband Marsden and two children, and youngest sister Hester. Services and burial will be at St John-at-Hampstead on Friday.

Sadness filled me. Momentarily, I considered tearing it out and saving it, but stopped with the realization that I didn”t want to remember Dean by a notice regarding the end of his time. Of all the scraps of paper, this one should have the least meaning, compared to ones like the letter he had left for me, or the sketch that Sidney turned into my birthday card.

I brought Brigette her lunchtime cup of coffee in the housekeeping office, where she was poring with dismay over a neatly-typed list of items labeled ”Proposals for the Concierge Service” in a folder with Riley”s name on its label. I noticed he resorted to using a faux leather binder and three brass brads for the professional touch.

”Not today,” she said, waving it away without looking up. ”Is he mad?Golfcart hires?” She released an exasperated sigh. ”He has no idea of the logistics involved in any of these plans.”

I withdrew with the rejected delivery. ”Free cup of coffee?” I asked Davin who was updating the hotel”s forwarding address list.

”Ta,” he said. ”Do you know if the guests from the Moss Suite still want afternoon coffee delivered to their room? There was a note on the desk, but I couldn”t read the staff signature.”

”It wasn”t me, but as far as I know they ask for it every day,” I answered.

”Maybe this is Katy”s work.” The phone rang and he answered it, clicking open the registration software on the computer screen. A guest approached the desk.

”Is anything being held for the guest in the Heath Room? Packet ”bout the size of a couple of digital memory cards?” he asked. ”Change for a fiver also, if you will.” He pulled a note from his billfold and laid it on the desk as I checked the box for either mail or notes about items in the locked drawer.

”I”m afraid not,” I said. ”Are you expecting something important?”

”A dossier from a colleague. No big deal,” he said. ”I”m in research.”

”Really? What kind?” I asked, as I handed him the change.

”All kinds,” he said, smiling, as he pocketed the money. His mobile rang. ”Sorry,” he said, taking it out of his pocket.

I closed the cash drawer and studied the signature on the note, which still seemed unfamiliar, so I couldn”t help Davin. I left it beside his cup of coffee and stepped away from the desk.

”Yeah, I”m here, but I can”t get in unless I have a good cover,” the guest was saying over his phone. ”If he knows I”m one of them, he won”t let me in and I won”t get anything. I”ll think of something, I just need an opportunity to gain a little confidence before I start probing. I”m working an angle involving a bit of his past, I think that will be the easiest way.”

He was a journalist. I should have twigged it — that vague reference to research as a job. He was here to find a way past the shut door that had kept the rest at bay. Maybe he was planning to tell Sidney he was an old friend of Dean”s — one who had seen the obituary.

It made me feel sick in my stomach”s pit to imagine it. Without asking permission, I slipped behind the desk again and lifted the receiver, dialing the number for the cottage, afraid I would hear the buzz of a disconnected number. It rang, but no one picked up, until the answerphone did, the one he had bought this past weekend.

”This is the Gresham cottage. If you need something, or if you”re from his solicitor”s office, leave a message and we”ll ring you back.”A beep at the end.

”Sidney, it”s me,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. ”Listen. There”s a journalist at the hotel, and he”s coming to see you, but he”ll be pretending to be someone else — I don”t know who or what, but he”s going to tell you some kind of story so you”ll let him in the cottage, so don”t trust anybody who comes to the door.”

Hastily, I hung up the phone as Brigette emerged from the manager”s office, and made a pretense of putting out a fresh desk pen, since the head of housekeeping frowned on personal calls. The desk phone rang again, and Davin answered.

”The Penmarrow, how may I be of assistance?” He listened for a moment, then frowned. ”I”m sorry, the person you request to speak to is not here at the hotel. Nor can we take a message.” He paused, either listening or waiting to interject again. ”No, we do not give out personal information regarding people at the hotel or in the village. I”m very sorry, goodbye”

He hung up. ”Another reporter in search of an Alex Davison,” he said. ”Third one today.”

”Those reporters are becoming a nuisance,” said Brigette. ”It”s rude of them to assume we”re responsible for answering their inquiries simply because we have a tiny connection to the person in question.”

She unlocked the private drawer of guests” valuables, filing a manila envelope among them. ”Sidney needs to speak to them and explain that we arenothis message service.” She locked it back.

He wanted to do it, but they wouldn”t listen. Frustration tightened inside of me. I hoped he played back the messages on the machine soon, before the stranger showed up, pretending to be a friend or a lost tourist in need of directions. It would be hurtful to him to invite someone in who ambushed him with personal questions. The emphasis on any dark and dirty details from his past was beginning to take shape in those queries, like the clouds that spawn tornadoes over the Kansas plains. Hope for scandal behind each one.

As soon as my shift was over, I cycled to the cottage with quick speed, not lingering to look at the fading wildflowers in Sonia”s old garden. No car was parked outside the cottage, but instead of knocking, I went in through the kitchen”s door, using the spare key that Callum had kept under a flower pot.

”Sidney?” I called out. ”It”s me.” I came through to the living room, where I found him sitting in the armchair, chin on his interlocked hands, a stack of books next to his feet on the carpet. Ewan McGregor was trying to bury a plastic chew bone under the carpet.

”I found more of your books.” His head tilted my way. ”In Dean”s room, there was a cupboard under the bedside table. He sometimes kept books there that he liked read to him, and ones that were gifts. The two on top were meant for you. He had bookplates attached to the inside leaf.”

I stepped closer. Poetry books, a Charles Dickens volume, a few nice antique volumes. The top two looked like something I would have bought myself, so I was not surprised that they were future gifts. I didn”t particularly care to review them at present, however. I watched Sidney, trying to gauge if he had turned away an unwanted visitor.

”I heard your message.” He knew what I was doing, obviously. ”I didn”t let him in.”

I felt relief, relaxing my body. ”Good,” I said. I sat down on the sofa. At my feet, Ewan made grunting noises as he squeezed half of himself underneath the couch, claws digging into carpet fibers.

”He said he was conducting a survey for NHS on grief counseling,” said Sidney. ”Very creative of him. I thought you”d appreciate that touch on his part.”

That was a cold ruse for anyone to try. I moistened my lips. ”I guess some of them found out who lived here before,” I said. I didn”t have to think very hard about where they came by that information. Would they be writing about Dean next? Tabloids with stories of a secret relationship, or something like that? Dean would laugh over the concept of secret scandals involving him or Sidney, especially given the ”Puritanical” streak which Simon had made fun of, which disliked pretense and deception. Except he wouldn”t, because it would outrage him too much, having his privacy invaded — and Sidney”s jeopardized.

”I told him I prefer to grieve privately and shut the door,” said Sidney. ”And to give my regards to his editor.” His grin, mild and Alex-like, was neither sincere nor long-lasting.

”At least you didn”t let him in and have to argue someone in your own living room,” I said, trying to find a bright side. ”The message machine is coming in handy. You can have fair warning if someone might be showing up.”

He nodded. ”I”ve had a few already. Most of them are from a chat show that wants an interview and won”t accept refusal. Some critic from the New York Times who wants me to speak at a conference and tell all of my readers the fascinating story. The literary world is eager to know.” He sounded sarcastic, a rare thing for him.

Among those critics were probably some of the ones who had bashed him post-exposure in interviews, claiming they always felt his talent overrated in private, and felt his alter ego was an exploitative public stunt. Critics who had once claimed to love the book as a modern literary masterpiece, now turning on it during the second wave of attention, in response to the fans gushing over the personal details.

If only it would stop. Everything could still be fine, if all this attention would fade away.

He leaned forward and clicked the button on the machine.”Hi, Mr. Davies, I”m from the Chris Ciomo show and — again — we would LOVE to have you dish about your bad boy lifestyle —”

”Mr. Davies? Tim here, editor of the Telegraph”s literary review column. We”d like you to —”

He hit ”delete” twice, then paused.”Sidney, it”s Byron. I know you”re feeling the pressure to come public, and I want you to know that I can help make it easier. You know it isn”t going to stop, and we really need that fourth book. We need a primed public to be waiting for it after all these years.

”This is the real deal, so you need to focus. Alistair Davies is beyond us, Sidney. He”s too big to fail at this point, so finish or fade out. It”s your choice.”

He deleted the message after it played. He leaned forward, chin propped on thumbs, mouth hidden from view. ”Another magazine called, saying they want to know the details behind the Oxford scandal they”ve heard mentioned. About me disowning my family, they said.”

My breath caught. ”They found out about that, as well?” The nasty fight that had ended Sidney”s Oxford career had been legend to a degree among his circle of classmates. Someone was bound to tell, especially for the fifteen seconds of fame it would bring. They would get it all wrong, of course, not that it would make it worse than the truth.

”They rang my mother.” His tone, quiet, said it all. ”Several times.”

”I”m sorry.” My reply was quiet, too.

”She”s upset.” He glanced away. ”Understandably so. I told her nothing like this would happen, and now it has. All the unhappy details will be twisted around and mocked in the sort of papers she hates.”

He buried his face for a moment, rubbing it before he looked up again. ”I promised her that I won”t say anything, of course, but it”s everyone else whom I can”t promise for. So it doesn”t matter, I suppose.”

I took one of his hands and squeezed it in both of mine. ”Let”s turn the bolt and close the drapes for the rest of the evening,” I suggested. ”Switch off the lights and the phone.” My smile was the best one I could manage, trying hard to hold up the weight of his chagrin. ”I”ll make dinner and cue up someDoctor Whoepisodes.I think now is a good time for a break.”

”I think my creative inspiration is at an end for today anyway.” He gave my fingers a little extra pressure. ”I”ll help you find some food in the cupboards.”

________________________

”Did you make these dinner arrangements for the couple in the Larkspur Suite?” Brigette demanded.

She had stood by with a polite smile until the guests making arrangements for a coastal pleasure cruise moved on, and Riley was finished jotting down their request.

”Dinner for two at that little spot near the Egyptian House, known for its wine,” he said, reviewing the card. ”Yeah, of course.”

”Why did the restaurant ring me to ask if we would honor the discount arrangement we have with them?” Steel had entered her prim voice.

”Because I made a little deal with them — strictly a one-off,” he said, reassuringly, before she could interrupt. ”Ten percent off dinner as honored by us, ten percent off a stay at the hotel by them. Good business promotion. They call it ”cross-promotional negotiation” in my business class.”

”Riley! You didn”t ask!” Brigette looked ready to stomp one foot in its sensible work pumps. ”We can”t simply hand these things out, Itoldyou. If we”re going to work together and you”re going to havesomesemblance of a role in guest relations —”

”You”d have approved if I”d asked through the proper channels, you know it as well as I do,” he answered. ”It doesn”t help me, the fire in those eyes of yours when we argue, which you know has a man helpless before he makes his full point.”

Momentarily, Brigette”s attitude was checked. ”My what?” She fumbled, making an effort to recover. ”That”s — that is not the point,” she said, carrying on after this pause. ”My eyes are unimportant, and I”ll thank you not to bring them up during discussions like this. It could be construed as workplace harassment.”

Riley looked taken aback. ”Surely you”re not saying — the kiss — was a mere ruse?” A touch of reproach in his voice, which he dropped low enough to be nearly inaudible. ”I thought ... it meant a bit of something to us both.”

”Stop talking about that!” Brigette hissed - although she looked a tiny bit mollified now. ”No, I am not charging you with unprofessional behavior ... but you have to keep things professional and stop making ridiculous claims.” She tucked back a stray lock of hair. A little bit of a flush had crept up from beneath her collar.

”Of course,” said Riley, seriously. He raised three fingers. ”Scout”s honor. I”ll never breathe a sigh about it.” He managed to look serious whilst saying those words as well, instead of cheeky. His tone was unexpected, to me as a chance listener, and to Brigette especially.

The blush in her face came and went quickly this time. ”Be more decorous in the future, please,” she said, primly, as she struggled for composure. Feigning coldness, she crossed her arms, probably as a form of self protection.

”As you say.” Perfect contrition from Riley.

The argument against his maneuver would have been a draw anyway because Riley wasn”t entirely wrong in his decisions. Just this week, a small bouquet of gratitude had arrived from a wealthy guest from the previous week — card addressed to Riley, the ”wonderful concierge of a wonderful hotel” for arranging a private tour of the EgyptianHouse for their art club”s reunion. And the guest wasn”t a wealthy widow flattered by his charms, which was the sort Brigette had predicted would find Riley”s concierge services the most appealing.

Brigette went away without another word, although the look on her face conveyed her inner conflict on this matter. The entire situation was a blow to her usual mode of operation. Latest match”s victory, to Riley Bloom.

Gomez, who had been bringing down some suitcases, shook his head. ”You”re playing with fire, mate,” he said, without his customary Latin accent. ”She”s no tart on a Friday night who”s going to be impressed by some flash bloke with a swagger taking Open University courses. You know the type of bloke she wants.”

”Of course,” scoffed Riley. ”Why else would I make an effort? A woman like her requires mature wooing by a mature lad, which is what I am. That”s what makes me the one for the job.” He straightened his waistcoat. ”I think I”ve already chipped away a bit of the old impression. In a few more weeks, she”ll see me as a pillar to lean on professionally, and the proper dinner companion with roses at her door.”

Bold but not entirely bragging — that had me a little impressed.

”I would say you are mad, but that is already a foregone conclusion.” Gomez”s accent was back.

”Wait and see.” The dogged tone of voice had a touch of cockiness, proof that the old Riley”s personality wasn”tentirelyvanquished within.

Behind the desk, I was cleaning the electronic equipment with the compressed air and soft cleaning cloths Brigette designated for the purpose. Lady Val passed by, looking eager and radiant in her riding togs, and carrying a professional digital camera.

”Taking in some fresh air?” I asked. She was a proficient rider, as I knew from her first visit to the hotel. I wondered if one of the factors in favor of Cornwall had been the thought of weekly gallops across the fields, and along the open stretch of beach where tourists and locals enjoyed jogging and mudlarking.

”I”m beginning a new venture,” she said. ”I”m volunteering at the stables, to teach riding lessons to local children. I”m giving thought to partnering with them for a program they want to offer in summer, riding camps for children less fortunate.”

”What a great idea,” I said. ”Riding comes in handy more than knowledge of the art world does on a weekly basis in a Cornish village.”

”I think my art knowledge will be quite handy in the future,” she answered, with the hint of a smile. ”But unlike my instincts for great art, Bard has no real need of my equine talents, except to advise bored guests that fresh air from the saddle of a hired horse is essential to any Cornish experience.”

”That sounds like an episode ofPoldark,” I answered, smiling back.

”That”s what people are hoping,” she answered, tipping her hat to me. ”If you see Bard when he returns from his meeting in Penzance, tell him I shan”t be back for lunch, but I”m making my famous penne in garlic pecan pesto for dinner.” She exited by the front door, passing two guests who were admiring the poster in Riley”s new showcase frame.

My phone rang in the pocket of my apron and I pulled it out to silence it guiltily, but stopped when I saw the number for Dean”s cottage on the screen. I swiped the green button instead. ”Sidney?”

”Maisie, I wanted you to know that I”m having to disconnect the phone for good. Every two minutes, it rings again, mostly rubbish calls from the press. So if you try to call, the message machine won”t answer.”

That wasn”t good news. ”I”m sorry,” I said.

”I didn”t want you to worry if you tried ringing and it didn”t connect.”

”They”re not exactly passing the word along that you won”t talk, are they?” I surmised.

”The tide won”t go out, apparently,” he said. There was a long pause, and his tone was quieter. ”I think I may need to leave.”

My heart slammed back from my chest”s wall. ”Where would you go?” I asked.

”I don”t know.” He paused. ”If I stay, though, they”ll simply keep coming, and they”ll ask questions to people in the village who don”t deserve to be bothered by this. When they find out I”m gone, they”ll start looking elsewhere. I think it”s the only way there will ever be peace until this dies away.”

”But where?” I kept my voice quiet as I repeated my previous question. ”They”d think of Lewiston. And you can”t go to your mom”s.” Adele would be livid if any more journalists turned up on her doorstep. ”Is there anywhere else?”

”I thought I”d pick somewhere I don”t have ties and lay low. It won”t be the obvious place to look. Byron has friends in the right corners, so I can”t put it past him to know someone who could track my financial information and flight records as a favor, even if it”s wrong. I”ll have to travel light to be safe.”

”I understand,” I said, softly. ”There”s no choice for you, really.”

The agent seemed like the sort of person who did have friends in all the right places. He also seemed like the sort who wouldn”t be above asking someone else to help him for the wrong reasons. The message on the machine hadn”t been a real threat, but the genteel professional version of one, since his stake in the Alistair Davies mystery was growing more valuable by the day.

”If I go, it”ll be tonight or in the morning,” he said. ”As soon as I find a place to stay, I”ll tell you how to find me.”

”Will you switch your mobile off?” I dreaded this thought. But what if Byron”s ”friends” were influential with the mobile service providers as well?

”I might,” he said. ”It would make me harder to find. I don”t want to, though, because it will make it harder to keep in touch.” His tone hardened. ”I don”t want to go at all.”

”I know,” I said. ”But if you have to, it”s okay.”

The things I wanted to say, they were stuck inside me, afraid to come out.Saying it would make it one hundred percent certain that he was leaving, I thought, as ridiculous as this idea was.

”I”ll take the late train if I”m going. Probably no one will notice, either in the village or anybody who might be hanging about, hoping for an interview still,” he said. He hesitated, and the pause felt heavy with reluctance. ”Would you come to the cottage and look after the dogs and Yo-Yo for me? It won”t be for very long, I expect. If I”m away from all this, maybe I can write more quickly. Then I”ll have the advantage in this mess.”

We both knew it was his best chance, because if he could finish, the contract would be fulfilled. As both Dean and Byron had reminded us, it was the only way he would ever have the upper hand, since all hopes of intervention had been dashed. This was the only way left, and we both knew it.

”Of course I will,” I said. ”Maybe I”ll stay there for awhile. I should say a proper goodbye to the place before you give back the keys.” Memories were framed between its walls which I would not forget anytime soon, but this was merely a convenient excuse for assuring him that the pets and the final possessions wouldn”t be neglected for the next few weeks.

”Maybe you”ll change your mind about the lease. There”s still an empty shed at the vicarage. You could at least kick me out until you finished unpacking.”

This coaxed a tiny smile. ”Maybe,” I said. I wasn”t sure I would feel the same about those rooms, with the presence I associated closely with them gradually dissipating from the atmosphere.

”I won”t board the train until after I call you,” he said. ”It will be all right, Maisie. I”ll come back as soon as I can.”

”I know it will,” I said. ”And I know you will. You do what you have to do. We”ll figure the rest out when the moment comes.”

”Thank you,” he said, softly. I knew he meant for everything.

”My pleasure,” I said. ”Now go, you have to pack. You don”t want to lose track of what you”re doing before the next distraction arrives.”

After the call ended, I pocketed my phone. I felt pensive, and strangely afraid, as if all was not well. Sidney”s tone had been that of determination, so it wasn”t him. It was the thin wire on which this situation suspended itself, thanks to his agent”s stance on negotiations.

”Gomez, stop helping Riley move those plants at once,” commanded Brigette, who was pinning up the new schedule. A deep frown on her face as she turned towards the distracting squeak of a hand cart in the foyer.

”He needs the room for the display of hotel history books,” said Gomez.

”But he hates those books,” said Brigette.

Gomez arched one eyebrow. ”Not at twenty percent off,” he said. He managed to hide his amused grin as Brigette”s eyes widened.

”Did Mr. Trelawney authorize that? Riley?” Brigette abandoned her half-tacked paperwork and sailed off to the concierge desk, where Riley was unpacking one of the dusty surplus boxes of the books chronicling the Penmarrow”s history.

I was beginning to suspect nearly all these challenges to her authority and defense of pointless rules of decorum were serving another purpose entirely for the both of them. Say, a handy excuse to work off some of that frustrated romantic tension.

At twilight, I cycled to the cottage, where Callum”s van was parked outside. Sidney was emerging with his backpack and the typewriter”s case just as I parked outside the garden. He saw me, and lowered his things to the ground beside the car as I came up the path.

He opened his arms, folding me into an embrace when I reached him. I wrapped mine around him, holding on for a long moment.

”Take care of yourself,” I whispered.

”I will,” he promised. ”Come to the station if you want. I wanted to ask, but I didn”t want to waste your time waiting for a train that you won”t be catching.”

”I asked for it to be wasted, didn”t I?” I drew back, showing him my smile. ”I could have told you goodbye when I told you I was coming back to Cornwall, instead of saying I loved you. I”m only saying the words here in the most innocent of ways so I can kiss you before you go.”

His hands were wrapped around mine. ”I should stay,” he said, softly. ”Tell me I should.”

It was so tempting.But here he”s surrounded by boxes that need packed, and memories that are still hurting.The mound heaped over Dean”s grave was still fresh, beneath the flowers only beginning to wilt from the mourners who had said goodbye that day.Here, the phone will ring off the hook with people grabbing for time and attention, and there will always be Byron Duncan turning up the pressure.

I shook my head. I felt the hands holding mine close a little more tightly.

”I could ride out the crisis here somehow,” he persisted. ”The book can wait, or it might somehow come together if I stay, even with the pressure. You mean more to me than any of it, truly.”

”Go,” I said. ”You need this.” I drew my hands free of his hold and framed the back of his neck, looking him in his eyes. ”There”s no way you”ll ever feel at ease here with things as they are. I don”t want you to lose the strides you were making. It”s only for a week or two at most, until you have your bearings again.” This was what I told myself was true, so I could feel better.

He leaned down and kissed me. Once, then a second time. When he looked into my eyes again, I knew that the battle was over.

”Wish me luck,” he said.

”Luck.” I linked my fingers with his, one more moment of connection. Just a few weeks, I thought. Sidney was no stranger to finding his way in the world, so this situation would be fine. He only needed time and a change of pace to finish the progress he had already made.

Callum leaned out of the driver”s window. ”Are you coming, love?” he asked me. ”Time isn”t standing still, so we need to be on the road. Throw your bags in the back, mate.” This, to Sidney, as he popped the boot”s latch. I leaned up and kissed Sidney goodbye one more time. I lingered, only for a second, exchanging one last breath as the kiss ended.

For luck, I thought. He needed anything I could give him to see it through.