Chapter 32
So Henry had told the people in the bookstore where they lived.
“In the peony house.” They’d find out eventually, Tessa figured, but it should have been up to her to make the decision to relinquish her privacy.
Their privacy. Or at least they could have discussed it, decided it together.
As Linny prattled, Tessa imagined Henry, lording it around the place, using her for bragging rights, which, okay, was a mean thing to imagine, and unfair.
But she’d told him about her new fears about her increasingly inquisitive readers, and what she’d learned about bodyguards and overzealous fans and loss of privacy.
The warnings from Sadie about “bitter people” and DJ’s vigilant monitoring of her socials.
In any world, though, you don’t tell strangers where you live.
And Tessa wasn’t even home now. For better or worse.
“Will you have your father call me when he gets back, after he finishes with… the dog walker?” Tessa tried to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Tell him, let’s FaceTime. And it’s fine to say that you and I chatted.
We’ll just leave out the sweater part,” Tessa went on, wincing as she lured her own daughter into deception.
“You’re a good kid,” Tessa went on, “taking care of your dad. That’s called emotional intelligence.”
“I’m not a kid, Mom.”
“You’re my kid. No matter how grown up you are.”
Tessa watched her daughter, reality from two thousand miles away, watched her face change.
“I—I really do miss you, Mom,” Linny finally said. “I miss your stories. It’s super weird here without you.”
Tessa was dying. She was. How did anyone ever do this?
Bestseller or not? But she couldn’t let Linny know she was homesick.
Linny had to believe Tessa was happy, that she loved her, and being her mom, but that a career was a good thing.
And that women could balance a career and a family, and everyone would be the better for it.
Tessa knew she herself did not quite believe that.
It was Tessa’s own deal with the devil, this was, trading her family for fame.
But when did the contract come due? She knew the stories.
Knew the myths about the devastatingly irresistible bargain.
It always came due when you least expected it.
Just when you thought you were safe. And it was irrevocable.
If you believe the stories, Annabelle said. Which I do not.
“It’s super weird here, too,” Tessa said. “But you have your new house, and a room of your very own. Are you getting it set up the way you want? How do you like it? How do the stuffies like it? Are your books on the shelves?”
“Mom, I have to go. Dad’s coming back inside. Thank you about the sweater. You rock. It’s awesome. Bye-eee.”
Her daughter’s face disappeared, and Tessa was holding only a black rectangle.
Tessa stared at the blank screen, imagining what she was not seeing; Linny, and the inside of the home where she’d never lived, and her husband and a dog walker who looked like Barbie.
Tomorrow at this time she’ll be in San Diego, seeing the ocean on the exact opposite coast of the United States from where she was supposed to be.
A sound.
Was someone knocking at her door? She flinched, willing the sound away. At her door? She was finished with surprises. Putting down the wine, wrapping her white robe closer around her, then tying the belt protectively tight, Tessa padded to the door and peered through the peephole.
On the other side, an owl-faced young woman, a hotel employee, it appeared, head to toe in a hotel uniform, khaki pants, khaki shirt, hotel name tag that said—Tessa could not read it.
She left the chain on as she opened the door and peered through the two-inch space. “Yes?”
“We have a package for you, ma’am.”
Come on, Tessa thought. You have got to be freaking kidding me . She glanced at her suitcase, where the outline of the locket was still evident. And at the bed, where the blue earrings waited. A package?
Tessa saw it, then, the woman held a book-sized parcel wrapped in gold foil. With a red bow on top.
“It’s chocolates,” the woman said, offering it. “Seems like.”
“How nice,” Tessa lied. “Who are they from?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” the woman said. “I guess someone dropped them off.”
Tessa could now see her name tag.
“Sorry to keep asking questions, Yunis,” Tessa said, “but do you know who dropped them off? I’m trying to figure out who knows I’m here.”
Waverly Publishing, for one , Tessa thought, answering her own question.
DJ, Olivette, anyone with access to the master schedule.
Her agent. The bookstore. Her husband. Anyone who looked at their refrigerator door.
Waverly’s travel agent. The entire travel agency, if they bothered to check the records.
Or, someone who had followed her from the bookstore.
You are the only person who could make chocolates a problem, Annabelle said. You have got to chill.
“I don’t know, ma’am. The desk told me to bring them.”
Tessa opened the hotel room door. The chain clanked as it fell against the metal. She took the gold box. The chocolate fragrance was unmistakable. “Thank you,” she said. “I wish I knew who sent them.”
“There’s a card on them, see?”
“Oh, right. I guess—”
“Whatever, ma’am,” the woman said.
As Tessa closed the door, she wondered what Yunis would tell her colleagues about the goofy lady in 1032 who was freaked out over expensive candy.
Indeed, under the red ribbon, a flat white envelope. She ripped it open. In navy fountain pen, in elaborate cursive, someone had written Sorry about the luggage mix-up, hope you fly with us again . It was signed, too. Your flight attendants .
“Oh. Well. That was sweet,” she said out loud. “Ha ha.” And for an instant, she was embarrassed at her unwarranted fear. Then it vanished.
How did those flight attendants know where she was staying?
She felt her heart drop, but turned the card over. We called the bookstore to find your hotel, it said in navy-blue ink, as if anticipating her question. Safe travels.
Tessa could not think about it, could not worry about this one more minute.
It was easy enough for Karine and Maddalyn to know she had an event, and where.
Easy enough to call the bookstore, then the candy shop.
It was, possibly, how the generous and thoughtful world worked if you were not neurotic and paranoid and tired.
And hungry. And having to get up at six the next morning to catch another flight.
She slid the chain back into place, hearing the drone of the television voices. She was good, she was safe, and she had chocolate. “Time for dinner,” she said out loud. “Time to stop worrying.”
The aroma of balsamic vinaigrette hit her as she opened the lid of her salad, and she plucked out a golden-brown crouton and popped it into her mouth.
This was all about low blood sugar, it was , and making something out of nothing.
Except for the earrings. And the suitcase .
And the chocolates? She’d feel better when she had food. And when she had an explanation.
Her phone pinged. A message from Henry. Facetime?