Chapter 15
Once, traveling to somewhere in Illinois for her corporate job, she’d gotten a notification under her door, a piece of paper like this one, that an insect called a corn bug was prevalent in the area, and not to be “upset or concerned” if she saw one in her motel room.
From the size of the mammoth bug in the photo, and the length of its horror-movie antennae, if she had seen one in person, she might have fainted.
But this letter under her door was not mass produced. She turned it over, then over again, blank on the back—but the message on the front was written in black felt-tip pen, in spiky careful printing: Package for you at front desk.
Tessa frowned, holding the paper.
She looked at the chunky black house phone on the rectangular nightstand between the two double beds. The red message light was blinking. She picked up the receiver. Hit zero.
“Yes, Ms. Calloway?”
It always freaked her out that they knew what room it was, but she supposed that was prudent.
“I got a message that you have a package for me?” She set her tote bag on the bed, noting the bedspread’s sage-and-amber pattern, colors of the desert.
Black-and-white photos lined one wall—Ansel Adams—she recognized the light.
And the Georgia O’Keeffe cactus flowers, probably the same print in every room.
And it didn’t matter, did it, each visitor, like her, only saw one of the rooms. No way to know—for better or for worse—what amenities someone else had.
“One moment, ma’am. I’ll check.”
Probably bookmarks. Waverly had an efficient system; sometimes they shipped her handouts to her destinations so she didn’t have to carry dozens of cardboard rectangles.
“Hello?” The clerk’s voice.
“Yes?”
“No. We have no package for you.”
Tessa stared at the note, heard white noise on the other end of the line.
“I got a note under my door,” she finally said. “It said a package.”
“I’ll check again,” the clerk said.
It was not unimaginable that there had been confusion. A big hotel and one small package of blue bookmarks.
“Thanks. Call me when you find it. Okay?”
Her stomach was rumbling. She had to get food.
Text Henry. Check on Linny. Try to sleep.
She had to wake up horrifically early to get to the airport on time.
Every single thing, and every single moment, was always the highest stress level it could possibly be, even when everything went right.
Welcome to book tour. But most of her adored it.
“Certainly,” the hotel clerk was saying.
Her unzipped roller bag was spread like a flapped-open book on the webbed luggage carrier by the dresser.
The locket, padded in tissues and two gray plastic wastebasket liners from her previous hotel, was zipped into the front pocket.
She’d never found anything in a hotel room before.
But certainly people left things all the time.
Their heirloom jewelry? Annabelle asked.
Tessa ignored her, ordered a carryout salad and wine from the bar, then pulled out her laptop. Nothing new on her pages on #LocketMom; only more speculation, most comments tinged with sympathy, some with suspicion.
On ReadRunner Bookstore’s page they’d already tagged her, showing a wide shot of the backs of attendees’ heads, and Tessa at the podium, holding her book, smiling beatifically. It already had dozens of comments.
She was the best, wasn’t she? ? Annabelle
Did you see cool guy who came at the end?
Friend of Tessa? He waited for her, did you see? #romance
She’s married, come on. And kids.
Two. And husband Henry. #married
#happily
Ha ha. #HomeAlone
In novels, she knew, too much backstory, too much history and explanation, made readers stop reading. Forget the backstory , her agent Sadie had ordered her, as she’d struggled through a revision. Your book is about forward motion. What happens next. Keeping your readers turning the pages .
She hoped her own life would be like that, too, forward motion from now on. Her backstory—the one she’d spent her life trying to avoid—fading into the past, and forgotten.
Stop worrying, Annabelle said. It’s over.
Even more comments now, popping up one by one.
Did she ever find #LocketMom?
Publicity stunt, IMO. #salesploy
Tessa would not do that.
Annabelle would. Ha ha. #AnnabelleRules
Do you think that’s her real name?
Go away.
How come she won’t tell her hometown?
How about privacy, moron. #Jealousy #getalife
Tessa stared at the screen, trying to balance what mattered and what didn’t.
His name is Sam, I heard him say it.
Who Sam?
Hot guy at the bookstore. #loveinterest?
She flapped the computer closed, shutting down the gossip and rumors, marveling at how it all traveled at light speed. Nothing was stickier than speculation. Determined to turn her brain off, she slipped her laptop into its padded case and zipped it away from her consciousness.
People were trading theories, and conjecture, making up stories about her . People knowing nothing.
Or everything.
But she could not let strangers with wild imaginations or ulterior motives or relentless curiosity control her life.
No one had called about the package. She’d go down to the front desk and check for the bookmarks. Pick up her dinner. Sleep. And move on to her next day as a bestseller.
The only stories that mattered were the ones she told.