Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Present Day
I t was the week after Estelle’s Christmas-cookie-decorating party and just a couple of weeks till Christmas. Like always during the morning—regardless of the season—Estelle found herself at her desk, typing notes for her lighthouse keeper romance. But the note-taking was slow going. For whatever reason, every time she tried to delve into the romance of her fictional story, her mind tugged her back to thoughts of the sunken ship, Vivian Knight in her wheelchair in Martha’s Vineyard, and why Chuck was so dang curious about an incident that had happened more than forty years ago. It was all stranger than fiction. What was he hiding? And why did it seem as though Estelle was the last person on earth who cared about it?
Feeling all over the place and unfocused, Estelle called Sam to see what she was up to.
“Darcy and I were just about to grab brunch! You want to come?” Sam sounded happy. “It’s freezing outside, but the snow is gorgeous. It’s nice to be downtown.”
Estelle was already on her feet. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!”
“We’ll be here!” Sam cried.
Estelle hurried, pulling on jeans and a sweater and running out the door. Roland was off with Grant somewhere. He’d told her what they were up to, but she’d filed it somewhere in her mind, somewhere she couldn’t get to right now. She drove slowly, her hands at ten and two as she moved through the snowy island and parked in the lot behind the brunch spot.
Darcy and Sam were seated at the window booth, aglow from the snowy light. Estelle bent to hug them both.
“Look at the photo Rachelle just sent!” Darcy cried, pulling up an image of Rachelle next to the Mediterranean Sea with a big plate of pasta in front of her. “She’s on vacation on an island near Rome.”
“That’s our girl!” Estelle cried. “When should we visit her? You’ve already been, but I haven’t!”
Darcy sighed and glanced down at her stomach—proof that she probably wouldn’t manage to leave the country anytime soon, proof that nothing in her life would ever be free and easy again. Estelle hesitated. She hoped she hadn’t said something wrong.
The server arrived to take their order. Estelle went with green tea and a vegetarian omelet with feta cheese. Sam ordered bacon and eggs, while Darcy opted for avocado toast.
“So,” Darcy said, smiling as she changed the subject, “are you still looking into your sunken ship?”
Estelle smiled. “I can’t get enough of it. But I’m not the best researcher in the world.”
“I’ve been wondering about the fifth Albright heir,” Sam said, wrapping both hands around her cup of coffee. “Is there a way you can figure out who that might be?”
“There has to be a list somewhere of who was on that ship,” Darcy agreed. “Police records, maybe?”
Sam nodded furiously. Warmth spread through Estelle’s arms and legs. She considered telling them that she needed to find Travis, too—the husband of the woman who lived down the hall from Chuck. But she wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to know, and she didn’t want to give him away.
“I’d dig deeper into what happened immediately after the shipwreck, too,” Darcy said. “Maybe there were legal battles between the Albright siblings? Maybe something came to the surface and was immediately scrubbed out again?”
Estelle took her notebook from her purse and hurriedly wrote down Darcy’s ideas. She met her granddaughter’s gaze over the table and said, “You’re good at this. Why didn’t you ever get into research?”
But Darcy waved her hands. “I just figured out my calling,” she explained, speaking of her new gig with Reese and Joel and their app development company. “I don’t want to distract myself with another career idea.”
Estelle laughed. “It’s too bad we can’t live numerous lives, isn’t it? Maybe I would have followed several other paths just to see where they led me.”
“But being a writer was what you were always meant to do,” Sam said.
Estelle beamed over her steaming green tea. She had another direction. She couldn’t wait to dig further.
After brunch, Estelle drove out to the harbor and onto the ferry. It was winter, and the boat went between Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket at odd times, but it didn’t always make it back when the schedule said it would. After she parked, she called Roland to tell him she was “following a lead.” He didn’t answer, so she left a voice message and said there was leftover chili in the freezer. All he had to do was heat it in the microwave —if he didn’t eat with Grant, which he often did when they spent their days together.
Estelle returned to the Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society by three thirty that afternoon. Amy was there, just as she’d been last time, and she greeted Estelle warmly and said, “The place is all yours again! Nobody ever comes in here anymore. It’s like everyone has given up on the past.” Estelle thanked her and decided to be open about her task. Maybe Amy would throw herself into helping her.
“I would love to find a list of everyone on board the shipwreck of October 1982,” Estelle said, clasping her hands. “Is that something you’d have here?”
Amy’s eyes were illuminated. Without answering, she hurried over to the dusty computer and began to type furiously. Then, like a dog who’d caught a scent, she pointed herself toward the corner of the room and sped off. Estelle was hot on her heels.
It didn’t take long for Amy to find the old newspaper clipping within which the journalist listed every person—alive or dead—who’d been aboard the cruise ship the night it sank. Amy passed over the laminated page with a happy smile.
“Thank you,” Estelle said, eyeing the list, which now seemed overly long. “I appreciate it.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
Estelle sat with the list of survivors and victims of the shipwreck of 1982. It didn’t take long to find Vivian Morceau’s name; she was the youngest person aboard the vessel the night it sank. She was also the young woman at the retirement facility. But what did strike Estelle as odd was this: Vivian wasn’t the only Morceau aboard the vessel that night. There was another Morceau. Natasha Morceau. Was she Vivian’s sister? Mother? Cousin?
Estelle hurried back to the computer to type “Natasha Morceau” into the database. Unfortunately, the only articles that came up were Martha’s Vineyard-based and related to the sunken ship. None of them listed anything about Natasha save for the fact that she’d survived the wreck. They didn’t even show a photograph or an age.
Was there another way to learn more about Natasha?
Estelle took to Google for answers.
In the soft light of the historical society, she went through page after page of Google articles, praying for an answer about who Natasha was and where she might be now. At the worst, this was a dead end. But Estelle had a strange inkling about Natasha. She couldn’t help but think that Natasha Morceau was Roger Albright’s lover—and the mother of Vivian Morceau.
She wasn’t sure where this idea came from. It was a “hunch” in the truest form.
But Estelle had been around forever. She’d studied people. More than that, she’d studied Chuck, who’d had a mistress, too. His mistress had given birth to his second family.
Maybe Roger Albright and Chuck Coleman had that in common.
These stories were incredibly common among successful and wealthy men Estelle knew.
Maybe that’s why Chuck was so curious about Vivian in the first place.
It took Estelle nearly two hours of searching through newspaper databases and historical Reddit threads to discover something of value.
The headline read: SHIPWRECK SURVIVOR SUES ALbrIGHT CHILDREN.
Estelle nearly jumped out of her chair. She clicked through the article to find a photograph of a woman in her forties, maybe. She was seated in a courtroom and was sensationally pretty but volatile-looking. The article was brief. It said, rather simply, that Natasha Morceau had sued the Albright children to include herself and her daughter Vivian as heirs to Roger Albright’s estate. Natasha stipulated that Roger was poised to marry Natasha and put her and Vivian in his will. More than that, she suggested that Vivian was Roger’s legal heir, who had been born after Natasha and Roger had an affair eighteen years ago.
At the time of Natasha suing the Albright children, Roger had still been deemed “missing.” The judge suggested that Roger had gone into hiding to avoid dealing with “all the people after his money.” He dismissed Natasha. He said it was clear she was a “hungry home-wrecker.” Her assertion that Vivian was Roger’s real daughter was basically laughed out of court.
As Estelle read, her blood boiled for Natasha and for Vivian. She didn’t know these women; she didn’t know their personalities, how they operated, or whether or not they were the sorts of women who wanted to take advantage of billionaires who’d gone missing. But she also knew what it was like to be a woman in the world. She knew what it was like to be laughed at and called “crazy.” It frequently happened to her as a female writer—especially among male writers who deemed themselves more worthy of accolades.
She wasn’t sure why, but she believed Natasha. Even forty-two years later.
Amy approached with a small bag of salt and vinegar chips.
“You’ve been hard at work all day,” Amy said proudly.
Estelle took two chips and furrowed her brow.
“It’s for a book, right?” Amy asked.
Estelle turned to look at Amy, surprised that Amy had recognized her.
“I’ve read five of your books,” Amy said with a smile. “Who doesn’t love your books?”
Estelle smiled and thanked her. Amy left the bag of chips behind and went back to her computer. As her fingers tapped out a rhythm, Estelle suddenly found herself with an idea.
Who doesn’t love your books? Amy had asked.
Was it possible one of the Albright children loved her books, too?
Estelle grabbed her phone and wrote an email to her agent, asking if she could set up an interview with one of the Albright children—preferably one of Roger Albright's daughters. They were around her age, after all. If Estelle was lucky, the women were fans.
Estelle left the Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society and headed back to her car. Winter sun glowed from behind thick snow-filled clouds.
When she got into her car, her agent called. “What’s this about?” She sounded chipper and confused.
“I’m researching for my lighthouse keeper romance,” Estelle said, keeping her voice even.
“Why do you need to talk to a billionaire’s child to learn more about a lighthouse keeper?” her agent asked.
Estelle laughed. She had to keep things light. “You have connections, don’t you?”
“I have a million and a half connections,” her agent said with a sigh. “I’ve already checked on it. It looks like Penelope Albright published a book with your publisher just last year. A women’s fiction novel that didn’t sell very well.”
Estelle’s ears rang.
“I’ll contact your editor and see if we can set up a meeting,” her agent said. “How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you’re a dream agent,” Estelle said.
Her agent laughed. “Don’t flatter me. Just get that book to me soon! I’m eager for a spring-time sale.”
Estelle smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Instead of heading immediately back to the ferry, Estelle drove to Chuck’s retirement home. It had been a little while since they’d talked. As a gift, she’d printed out the wedding announcement and photograph for Vivian and Travis. She wanted him to know she was working on learning more.
Chuck was in his chair with another documentary on television. This one was about China. He lent Estelle a somber smile and took the newspaper clipping and photograph with both hands. His expression was difficult to read.
“They were just kids,” he said finally.
Estelle sat down across from him and crossed her legs. She shivered.
“I knew he fell in love with her after the accident,” Chuck said, palming the back of his neck. “He was out of his mind for her, always going to the hospital to see if she was all right. But I lost touch with him and his father shortly after that.”
Estelle’s heart burned to know more. “You were close with Clarence and Travis?”
“Not really,” Chuck said. He gave her a look Estelle meant to mean: I don’t trust anyone with this story, not even you.
Estelle wondered if she should give him more. Maybe then, he’d trust her.
“You know the cruise ship belonged to Roger Albright?” Estelle said. “Roger Albright was said to have died that night. After that, his four children got millions upon millions of dollars.”
Chuck shook his head vaguely. “Right.”
“But did you also know that it was rumored that Roger Albright had a fifth child?” Estelle said. She pulled up the result she’d found via Google—an old clipping from when Natasha Morceau had tried to sue the Albright children. Chuck took the phone and furrowed his brow at the screen. Finally, he reached for his reading glasses and fully took in what it meant.
Chuck’s lips parted with surprise. “Goodness,” he said.
It was clear he hadn’t had this information before.
“There were whispers of foul play,” he said after a long time. “But do you really think the Albright children tried to take out their father, his mistress, and their daughter in one fell swoop?”
Estelle raised her eyebrows. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Chuck handed the phone back to her. He looked grave with worry. “I’d be careful, Estelle. These people are powerful.”
Estelle promised she would be.
“No news on where Travis is?” Chuck asked a bit later as she buttoned her coat and prepared to go. “I see Vivian every day, all by herself. She never has any visitors. I sit with her, but she doesn’t even look at me. It tears me up inside, thinking that she’s by herself in this world.”
Estelle grimaced. “I’m still looking for Travis,” she lied, although she’d sort of lost track of Travis in the chaos of everything else. “But remember that Vivian isn’t alone. You’re here with her. After all these years.”
Chuck said goodbye with a dull voice. Estelle glanced back at him, where he sat in quiet contemplation, before she ducked down the hallway and headed back to her car. After another several inches of snow, the ferries had closed for the evening. It meant she was headed back to Margorie Tomlinson’s for a cozy night of wine and conversation.
By the time she pulled into Margorie’s driveway, her agent had messaged her back: You have a meeting with Penelope Albright next week.
Estelle doubted she’d be able to sleep tonight.