Chapter 80
“Hair and makeup are in the back, can you believe it?” Vivian Smith ushered Tessa through the front door of the Smith Bookstore.
“This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in this place.
I mean, even since I was a kid and my dad ran it.
We’ve hosted some major leaguers here, Patterson, and Oprah, that level.
But I’ve never seen this much commotion.
Lights, camera, everything.” She gestured, pointing.
“We had to roll back all the shelves. Remove every questionable cover. And they made us close until noon. But it’s worth it. ”
Nine o’clock call time with the live hit at eleven thirty , Tessa had been told. She was to be interviewed by Abigail Adams, the glamorous morning anchor who hosted the network’s popular book club, who’d be in the New York studio.
“This is—” Vivian pointed to the woman who was striding toward them.
“Rebecca Segura,” the woman interrupted.
Black jeans, black T-shirt, clipboard in hand, earpiece in her left ear, its wire plugged into a metal box on her black belt.
“Producer. We’ll give you an earpiece, you look into the camera, Abigail will ask you three questions, I have no idea what they are. I’m sure you can handle.”
“Sure, I—”
“Good.” She pursed her lips, scrutinizing Tessa. “You look good. Black jacket is good. Blue earrings good. We’ll fix the hair. Pat down your face.” She looked at Vivian. “Audience? Chairs? Copies of the book?”
“We blasted out to our mailing list this morning.” Vivian did not seem cowed by Rebecca’s staccato delivery.
“You can see the big display of Tessa’s book over there.
Chairs up at nine thirty, attendees arrive starting ten thirty, doors close at eleven.
We’ll station someone outside to quiet the overflow.
They’ll look through the front window, of course. Can’t stop that.”
“I’ll let New York know. Four minutes total, max. Be natural. It’s a conversation. You good?”
Tessa nodded, wondering if she’d have her voice when the time came. The producer pivoted, focused on two men setting up lights on expandable metal poles.
“Full of herself, right?” Vivian whispered, raised a judging eyebrow. “But still cool.”
“My family is coming,” Tessa whispered back, then realized she didn’t have to. “I kind of wish they weren’t, it’ll make me way more nervous. But they insisted.”
“Kid one and kid two?” Vivian said. “And is it… Henry? I’ll take good care of them.”
“Thanks. I guess I’d better go to makeup. I wish they could do something for the butterflies in my stomach.”
You got this, Annabelle said.
Fifteen minutes later, Tessa looked at her new TV self in the three-paned mirror a chatty makeup artist had propped on the linoleum table in the bookstore’s back room. The fragrance of powder and hairspray almost overcame the smell of paper.
“You didn’t need much,” the woman said. “You’ll be amazing. I love Annabelle, by the way. That’s how I got this gig. I was completely petrified, but I asked myself—what would Annabelle do? And I went for it.”
“That’s—”
“I’ll come back for final tweaks in a bit.” She sprayed one open palm with hairspray, then ran it gently over Tessa’s hair. “Perfection. You okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Terrified, she didn’t say.
Tessa, sitting in a rickety aluminum chair and surrounded by shelves of upcoming books, was doing her best to stay calm, but every nerve cell in her body buzzed on high alert.
She could not feel her feet. She wished she knew yoga.
Or meditation. DJ and Ollie and everyone at Waverly had planned to watch from the office.
You have no trouble speaking in public , she admonished herself, why is this any different?
Because it’s two million people, Annabelle said. And someone uninvited might show up.
Someone tapped on the doorjamb. Vivian.
“Everything okay?” Tessa could not read the expression on the bookstore owner’s face. More than an hour until showtime. “Viv?”
“Yeah, fine,” Vivian said. “But, uh, there’s someone outside who wants to see you.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t tell me her name. She just said she was an old friend.”
She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t . Ghastly possibilities paraded through Tessa’s mind.
Harper had not contacted her, and Tessa had, possibly naively, relied on the fact that Harper, still in Philadelphia, would discover the schedule change too late to make it to Boston to disrupt this event.
But Philadelphia was driving distance. And this would be a place where she could make a massive power move.
Tessa, about to appear on live television. As exposed as anyone could ever be.
Henry would be here. And the kids. Clueless. Vulnerable. Helpless.
Still, if the woman wanted money, Tessa’s failure or humiliation would ruin that. The woman needed Tessa to succeed. So why would she be here? Henry , she thought again. The kids .
Tessa would be on live TV. And unable to warn them, or come to their rescue.
“How old is she?” Tessa said. “What does she look like?”
“Are you expecting someone? Really short hair, kinda chic and Parisian looking.”
“Parisian?”
“Like Audrey Hepburn in those old movies. But blond.”
“Like Barbie?”
“Huh? Is something going on? She’s quite insistent, and says she only needs two minutes. Do you want me to send her away? She got in the store when no one was looking, but I can throw her out. Nicely.”
“Is there a way for me to see her without her seeing me?”
“Tessa, you’re about to be on national TV. Shouldn’t you stay back here?”
“Can I see her?”
“Look, I’ll go out, and tell her you’re in makeup. I’ll stand so she has to face this way. I’ll ask if I can take a message. You peek out the door.”
“Thanks.”
As Vivian left the room, Tessa tried to decide what she would do if this were Harper. Harper would never go away simply because she was asked. This is what happened with blackmail. The victim was eternally the victim. And Harper clearly relished her power.
Last night, in bed with Henry, Tessa almost told him the whole thing, but could never find the words. Something about this story was missing, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. She still couldn’t believe her mother would pay for a lie.
Which meant Harper had some piece of evidence Tessa didn’t. Constance the librarian might have missed something. Maybe Sheriff Owen had successfully covered his tracks. Their tracks.
She’d snuggled closer to Henry, pushing away the bad thoughts.
She’d seen the sheets on their queen-sized bed were white, and mentioned that.
He’d laughed. “Yeah, when I bought them, the wrapping was flowers, but inside the sheets were white. Who knew they did that? Consumer fraud, no question about it.”
Henry had traced the edge of her face, as he always did, and it was intoxicating to breathe the same air with him. Home was Henry, no matter if the brick and mortar was new. Even knowing the kids were sleeping down the hall felt settled, safe.
When that was the farthest thing from true.
In less than half an hour, she’d be speaking, live, to millions of people, and her future was on the line.
And she could not escape the irony that at any second, she might be visited by her devastating past. Not the bad thing, the thing that had consumed her, and haunted her for years. Not her childhood decision.
But a devastating bargain her mother had made.
Maybe.
Because Emily was the only one alive who knew about Annabelle. And if Emily had divulged that secret, and told Harper about the bad thing—or told Barbara, or told Nellie—it would be Emily who could still, as her mother had grimly predicted, ruin her life.
Now she gathered herself in the back room of the bookstore, not trusting her knees, and took the three steps to the closed door. She put her hand on the doorknob.
You have to do it, Annabelle said. See what she wants. Be fearless, like you promised. It’s the only way to stay in control.
Tessa pulled open the door. Peeked down the bookstore hall.
Risked two steps closer to the main room.
Saw the network crew adjusting the boxy, black-hooded klieg lights, a video camera on a tripod with its lens aimed at a low-backed stool, black wires snaking across the bookstore floor, Rebecca and her crew drinking coffee from blue paper cups.
The display of All This Could Be Yours under a spotlight of its own.
She saw Vivian’s back. And facing her, a woman in jeans and a white shirt, gesturing, earnest and determined.
Tessa felt the blood drain from her face.
This was not Harper.
This was Emily.