Chapter 3
The polished marble lobby of the Indie Hotel bustled with comings and goings, roller bags rumbling over the shiny floors, pop music piped through some invisible sound system, a column of travelers shepherding their suitcases through the velvet-roped registration line.
Tessa, with her own black roller bag and black carryall and carrying the biggest bouquet of frothy pink peonies she had ever seen, now stood one person away from check-in.
The reader at Excelsior Books who brought the flowers had leaned in—almost too close—to whisper her story.
“I quit my job because you did,” the woman said.
“You are so brave, and Annabelle is so brave, and I wanted my one life, too.” She’d laughed, pointing to her oversized canvas tote bag.
“Yeah, I’m using a diaper bag. I know it’s not very glam, but at least I’m with my kids and husband, and I use my study as an office for my own business, and I don’t have to show up nine to five and drudge for some bozo anymore. ”
“And everything worked out?” Though Tessa was gratified by her readers’ passionate reactions, she always worried that they’d make unfortunate life decisions based on fiction. What was the balance between inspiration and folly?
“I’ve never been happier,” the woman had said. “And it’s all because of you.”
Tessa had inhaled the flowers’ lush fragrance; didn’t have the heart to reveal she’d have to leave them in her hotel room. “Same,” she said. “ I’ve never been happier, and it’s all because of you .”
Now she shifted her own tote bag to the other shoulder, the scent of the peonies as intoxicating as her memories of tonight’s event.
Lisa Mooney had told her the signing line was a record for Excelsior Books, with three women actually crying, two who’d brought their teenaged daughters, one of whom demanded Tessa sign her arm.
Lisa had offered to adopt Tessa, keep her, never let her go.
“Sorry that the questions got personal,” Lisa had apologized as she guided Tessa to the signing table. “That’ll happen, but you handled it beautifully. You only have to answer what you feel comfortable answering.”
“No problem,” Tessa had said. “I know it comes out of love.”
Now the woman at the registration desk—her dark hair pulled back with a black ribbon, and wearing a trim navy jacket—was beckoning Tessa forward.
“Gorgeous flowers,” she said, as Tessa approached the registration desk. “I’m Graciela, welcome to the Indie Hotel. And your name?”
“Calloway.” Tessa spelled it. “First name Tessa.”
“Oh!” Graciela’s eyes widened. “Of course. I should have recog—”
“No, no,” Tessa said, “but thank you.”
“I adore your book.” Graciela leaned in, looking conspiratorial.
“Working here—” she gestured, encompassing the entire hotel.
“There’s such a hierarchy, you know? I can’t quit, like you did, or…
” She paused, maybe worrying about who might be listening.
Then smiled. “Do what Annabelle did. But it gave me courage.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Tessa said. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her trench coat. She needed to check in. Call home. Get food. Try to sleep. “I love hearing that.”
“And there’s a package for you in your room,” Graciela went on, tapping at her computer keyboard.
“Let us know if there’s anything else you need.
” She selected a black key card, put it through some machine, tucked it into a cardboard flap, handed it to Tessa.
“The room number is on the flap. We don’t like to say the numbers out loud. ”
“Thanks. A package? Do you know who from?”
“I don’t. It came on the last shift. Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all.” It was probably a gift from the bookstore. She put the key card in her jacket pocket. “And thank you for the kind words.”
“Thank you ,” Graciela said. “And all my friends feel the same. You totally rock.”
Tessa paused, then handed Graciela the peonies. “You know, I can’t keep these, an early plane tomorrow. Would you like to take them home?”
“Oh my goodness.” The clerk accepted the bouquet, the pink blossoms cradled in her arms. “I’ll treasure them. You’re even more amazing than I thought. If that’s even possible.”
“My pleasure.” Tessa’s phone buzzed again as she walked toward the bank of elevators. She dug it out of her coat pocket. Linny?
She stopped at the elevators, accepted her daughter’s call before she pressed the up button.
“Sweetheart?” she said as the call connected.
“Are you okay? Is everything okay?” A torrent of words flooded in from the other end; Tessa imagined Linny’s tousled blond hair tamed into a ballerina bun, her rainbow-striped shirt, her face animated in preteen outrage.
For the past three weeks, she’d seen the kids and Henry only on FaceTime.
Her life evolved as a series of tiny pixelated squares, sometimes a thousand miles away. Dreams coming true had a price.
“Linny? Honey?” Tessa tried to interrupt. “Use your careful words.” Linny had called on her own. Where was Henry? “I’m here. I’m listening. You don’t have to raise your voice. I’m hearing that Zack is superly annoying you. But you know how to deal with that. Right? But where’s your father?”
“Mom. I cannot take it. Zack always gets first dibs, like on every thing, and Dad’s all about that, like they’re a team, and even though I’m so much older, I’m like…”
A frazzled-looking mom cooing to a bleary-eyed, pink-bonneted infant in a strapped-on carrier and pulling a battered roller bag stepped to the elevator button, and looked at Tessa, questioning. “Don’t tell me this is broken?”
“No, I’m on the phone. With my own daughter. Go ahead, I’ll wait for the next one.”
As the elevator doors opened and closed and left Tessa alone again, Linny’s stream of complaints continued, condemning her impossible brother and bemoaning the doomed unfairness of her eleven-year-old life.
Meanwhile, precious hours of potential sleep time before her crack-of-dawn flight were ticking away. She was starving. And handling Linny’s mini-meltdowns should be Henry’s job.
Where was he ? At least Indiana and Massachusetts were in the same time zone, but it was pushing ten in Rockport. Linny should be long asleep. And, bitter icing on the cake, this needy phone call proved Tessa had no idea what was happening in her own home.
“Linny? Sweetie? Maybe read a book instead of fighting with Zack? He teases you on purpose, you know that. He’s a boy. Practice ignoring him. Can you get your dad?”
“Mom. He’s—”
“Look, honey? I have to go up to my room. If we try to talk on the elevator, we’ll get disconnected. So get your dad, have him call me in five minutes. We’ll all figure it out. ’Kay?”
“’Kay. But it still sucks.”
“Linny!”
“Bye-ee.”
Tessa had to laugh as her daughter hung up.
That age, somewhere between Harriet the Spy and Twilight , Linny not quite certain of who she was or what she would turn out to be.
Eleven years old , Tessa thought, as the elevator carried her upward.
Eleven could go either way. Tessa knew that, firsthand.
But that was long ago. And forgotten. She hoped.
The long hotel corridor stretched out in front of her, jewel-toned paisley carpeting in some only-in-hotels pattern, lily-shaped sconces casting a dim glow onto the row of numbered doors. She found hers, 3016, and patted her pockets for her room key card.
She tapped the card against the metal square. The light blinked insolently red. She tried the card’s other side. Red.
“Kidding me?” She tried again. Red.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Tessa?” Henry. Finally.
“Hey, honey. Hang on. My key card isn’t working,” she interrupted his greeting.
“Did you put it against your phone again?”
“No. I didn’t.” Though possibly she had. “Sometimes they’re cranky. So about Linny—”
“How’d it go tonight? They loved you, right? Tessa Calloway, instant best-selling author. Inspirer of women. Bringer of power. The darling of social media. Hang on, Tesser,” Henry said. “I think I heard something. A sound. I’ll call you back in ten minutes. Fix your key.”
“What’s wrong? What sound? Is it Linny?” The kids. Henry. Their brand-new house. But there was only the flat white noise of nothing. He’d hung up.
Footsteps behind her. A man carrying a grease-spotted paper bag from Panera glanced at her as he walked by; he seemed to be taking in her face, her whisper, her bag, her suitcase, her phone call.
She smiled at him, the wan acknowledgment of a fellow traveler, telegraphing all good, nothing to see here , waiting for my husband to check on a strange sound in our new house.
The man paused, assessed her again, opened his door. At least Panera Guy had a key that worked.
It’d be easy for someone like him to pretend to be a registered guest , the thought occurred to her. While, in reality, be lurking, scouting, targeting. Using the built-in anonymity and accepted proximity as cover. As disguise.
But that was her writer-mind at work. These days, with a deadline for an unwritten second book looming, everything became a potential plot element.
She examined her card again, front and back, trying to discover what was wrong.
Oh . She patted the pockets of her new book-tour trench coat; knee-length, black, suitable for airplane, rain, and substitute bathrobe.
In the right-side pocket, her fingers closed over another hard plastic rectangle.
She’d been using a key card from her previous hotel. “Idiot,” she whispered.
She tapped, and her keypad light went green. She opened the door, then paused. Looked, ridiculously, for Panera Guy.
But the corridor was silent, empty, only an anonymous row of identical closed doors.
She deadbolted her own door. Chained it. She was Tessa Calloway now, and safe.