The Swallowtail Legacy 2, page 5
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As fascinating as the registry of deeds sounds, it’s going to have to wait till during the week, and besides, I have to get back to the hotel. Even though Didi has assured me that Keyheart wouldn’t dream of missing the cocktail hour before dinner, it’s my job to make sure she’s there. At 6:20, I knock on the door of the Captain’s Cottage and wait. There’s no answer and I can’t hear anything inside, so I knock again. Still no answer, so I call the main hotel number and have them connect me to the cottage number. Strangely, I can hear ringing in my phone when they make the connection, but when I press my ear to the door, I can’t hear anything. I knock again, a little louder, and finally, at 6:28, Keyheart, with wet hair and dressed in a fluffy white hotel robe, opens the door.
“Lucy!” she says. “Come on in. I’ll be ready in two shakes. Don’t wanna miss out on the free cocktails. Grab yourself a water from the fridge and take the load off.” She downs the last of her drink and hands me her empty glass. “Here you go. Put that in the sink, will you.”
She disappears into the bathroom, where a hair dryer roars into action.
I take a good whiff of the empty glass on my way to the kitchen, burning my nostrils. Seriously, do people actually like that smell? After I rinse the glass and leave it in the sink, I notice that the bottle of scotch is on the stone countertop. The level of liquid inside, however, has dropped considerably, so I’m guessing that the answer to my question is yes.
Next to the sink is something new: a bottle of champagne in a clear crystal bucket, along with two champagne glasses and the green box of Keke’s Cocoas, all on a round silver tray. The lid is not on the box, so I can see that it’s the box of dark truffles that I had opened earlier in the day, and there are still just three pieces missing. There’s a handwritten note on the tray, and curiosity gets the better of me. Because she’s the famous author Ann Keyheart, I assume that the champagne is for her, but I’m wrong. And just when I start to think that maybe there’s something to all that stuff about not meeting your heroes because you’re bound to be disappointed, she gives me hope for the world; the champagne is from her—a gift for Didi. After checking that the bathroom door is still closed, I read the note:
DD—
Thanks for being the best P.A. ever! Sorry about your phone (I’m such a klutz!) and for being such a pain in the you-know-what. This bottle is for our special celebration—we’ll crack it open tonight after the shindig. Please help yourself to the chocolates—you earned them, and my hips certainly don’t need them!
Hope you had fun sailing!
Cheers!
-AK
So, maybe she’s not perfect, but clearly she’s not the devil in a linen pantsuit that Didi led me to believe she was. I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator and slowly push open the door into Didi’s room. Except for the laptop, closed and charging on the desk by a window, a book of poetry on the bedside table, and the carry-on-sized suitcase against the wall, the room looks exactly like it must have when she first set foot inside. There’s not a wrinkle in the bedspread, a dirty sock on the floor, or a half-full water glass on the bedside table. I don’t know why I’m being so nosy, but I can’t stop myself from peeking inside the dresser drawers where her perfectly folded clothes are stacked. I mean, it’s like a picture from a Pottery Barn catalog. The bathroom, too, is neat and organized; the towels are still folded neatly on a chrome rack and the basket of soaps and lotions is on the glass shelf above the sink. A contact lens case and a bottle of saline solution on that same shelf are the only signs that Didi has been there.
“Hellooo? Lucy?” Keyheart calls out from the living room. “Are you still here?”
I hurry to join her. She has changed into a new pantsuit, navy blue with white piping, and is wearing more makeup than she wore earlier in the day.
“You look nice,” I say.
“Not too nautical?” she asks. “I figure, it’s an island. And look at this place. It’s where nautical motifs come to die. Like it was decorated by Captain Stubing. If I can’t wear it here, where can I?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about—motifs? Captain who?—but I nod and smile.
“Speaking of nautical, did Didi make the boat on time?” Keyheart asks. “She said you were going to walk her over.”
“Yeah. We, uh, the boat was still there when we got there.”
“Well, better her than me. I hate boats. It’s like being in prison, but with a chance of drowning. I think Shakespeare said that. If Didi were here, she’d tell me I’m wrong, I’m sure. Sometimes she’s too smart for her own good. And from what I hear, Reggie Cheever’s record isn’t so great this summer. He’s already sunk one boat.”
I check my watch and ask, “Are you ready to go?”
She points to the door. “Onward and upward.” Then her heel catches in the rug and she almost does a face-plant. On her way down, though, she grabs hold of my broken arm and somehow pulls herself back up to vertical. “Oopsie-daisy.”
It’s all I can do to keep the scream of pain and accompanying tears inside as I guide her to the door with my good arm. “Don’t forget your key card,” I say, gritting my teeth. I’m back to thinking that Didi may be right about her boss’s true identity.
In her heels, Keyheart walks at the speed of a slug on dry ground, so the pain in my arm is almost gone by the time we make it to the hotel patio where the VIP cocktail hour is in full swing. I have done my duty, so I point her toward the bar and look for a friendly face.
The only person my age who I recognize is Gabby Bensikova, the pretentious bunhead, and unfortunately, we make eye contact, so I have to nod. She glides across the patio as if she’s on ice skates and joins me.
“Is this going to be a long night, or what?” she says.
I guess our friendship has progressed beyond Hi, Lark.
“Yeah. Seriously,” I say.
“How’s it going with Ann E. Keyheart?” She way overemphasizes that capital E, pronouncing the whole name in a mocking tone.
“She’s great,” I say. “Super nice. And funny.”
“Huh. That’s not what I’ve heard,” says Gabby. “I hear she’s a nightmare.”
“Really?” I say, pretending to be truly surprised.
“My mom tells me things,” she says, leaning in close to me. Like a sponge that has soaked up too much water, she is waiting desperately for me to give her just the slightest squeeze.
I’m determined not to give her the satisfaction of spilling whatever publishing world gossip her mother shared with her, so I try changing the subject: “So you’re, like, into dancing.”
“I’m into ballet,” she says, her nose high in the air. “Although I’ve never heard it put quite that way.”
“Do you go to school for that, or what?”
Gabby looks at me sideways, as if she can’t decide if my utter lack of knowledge of ballet is real, or if I’m pulling her leg.
“Uh, ye-ahhh, I go to school for that. And I practice three or four hours a day. At a minimum. While all my friends are sitting on their butts watching TikTok videos or posting selfies on Instagram or whatever, I’m in dance class.”
“Sounds kinda like me and soccer,” I say.
“Um, no offense, but I think it’s a little different. Ballet is about discipline. It isn’t just some game where you’re running around chasing a stupid ball. I’m going to dance professionally. I should be in the last week of a summer program in New York right now, but I tore a tendon in my foot and had to drop out.”
I ignore the part of my brain that is saying in a loud, clear voice: Don’t engage. Walk away, Lark.
“It’s a lot more than chasing a stupid ball,” I say, feeling the blood rush to my face. “I’m gonna get a scholarship and play…if you knew how many miles I run every day, or the hours I spend in drills, or just practicing dribbling…trust me, you couldn’t handle it, not for one day.”
“I suppose you think you could handle a day in my life? That’s a laugh. Ballet is way harder.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right.”
“There’s really no point in arguing. I mean, you actually think Ann Keyheart is a great writer. What chance do I have in convincing you that ballet is harder than soccer?”
As I open my mouth to respond, Nadine waves to me from across the room and makes her way toward us through the crowd.
“Ah, good, you two found each other,” she says. “Having fun yet?”
“Time of my life,” I say, smiling through clenched teeth.
“Have you seen your brother Blake?” Nadine asks. “We had a last-minute addition to the presenters and I asked him to help out. Lucky for me, today was the last day of theater camp.”
I scan the room, spying him near the bar, talking to a man in a badly wrinkled plaid sport coat. “There he is.”
He sees me and waves quickly before holding up a finger to say he’d join us in a minute.
“That’s your brother?” Gabby says, staring wide-eyed and struggling to lift her jaw from the floor.
“Uh-huh. Well, technically my stepbrother.”
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” Nadine says to Gabby. “And he’s only a year ahead of you in school.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. It’s not the first time that a girl has gone gaga for Blake’s boy-band looks. “Who is that with him, in the plaid, with the bushy hair? Man, he looks terrible. He has got to be a writer.”
“Jordie Holloway,” answers Nadine with a laugh. “He’s an agent, but you’re right. He looks more like a writer. He’s got that whole ‘rumpled genius’ look down. He’s the last-minute addition. Just got here. Drove all the way from the city. Incidentally, he was Ann Keyheart’s agent until a year or so ago.”
“Ohhh, I know about this,” Gabby says. “She totally dumped him for some young, flashy agency. And the word is, when she was just starting out, she was broke and all, but Jordie over there believed in her and let her live in his house for free for more than a year. And did all kinds of other stuff to help her out. So after she gets famous, that’s how she repays him: she dumps him.”
“I don’t know about any of that,” Nadine says. “And the reporter in me says there’re two sides to every story.”
“Oh, there’s definitely more to the story,” Gabby says. “She ran him over with another bus last week. He had a deal for film rights for the author of some mystery series, but then somehow Keyheart sticks her nose in. Next thing ya know, the guy fires Jordie and signs on with Keyheart’s new agent. But that’s nothing compared to what she did to Howard Allam. Or Wendy Eppinger.”
Nadine holds up her hands. “Whoa. Gabby, stop right there. This week is about the beauty of books, and writers, and how they make our lives better. For a few days, let’s all forget that some of them might be flawed human beings and focus on the good. Deal?”
CHAPTER
4
while the swallowtales participants are in the main dining room enjoying an all-you-can-eat dinner of fish and chips featuring a local favorite, Lake Erie perch, Nadine ushers the VIPs into a private dining room for a four-course dinner with, Keyheart has been assured, an ample supply of excellent wine. After the dinner, both groups will meet in the spacious hotel lobby for more drinks, and the aspiring writers will have their first opportunity to meet and schmooze with the presenters.
Meanwhile, the pages and other Swallowtales helpers retreat to the patio for burgers and hot dogs. Blake and I fill our plates and then look for a quiet spot to sit and eat. We’re on our way to an empty table well away from the others when Gabby’s voice rings out: “Lark! Over here!”
“Great,” I say under my breath. “Thanks. Sure.”
Blake follows me, whispering to the back of my head: “Who is that?”
Gabby rearranges the chairs around the table, greets me like we’re BFFs, and holds out her hand for Blake to shake. “Hi, I’m Gabby.”
As Blake shifts his plate to his other hand so he can shake Gabby’s, one of his hot dogs falls out of its bun and to the ground.
“Oh, no!” she cries. “Wait here, I’ll get you another one.”
I bend down to pick it up, but she runs off toward the food line before I can invoke the five-second rule. Trust me, Blake totally would have eaten that hot dog. I mean, the patio floor was pretty clean. A little wipe with a napkin and it’s good to go.
Gabby’s back in a matter of seconds, looking quite proud of herself as she sets a plate with a new hot dog in front of Blake. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” mumbles Blake.
“So. You’ve got Jordie Holloway, huh? The agent,” Gabby says. “What’s he like? My guy, Howard Allam, is super quiet. But he’s brilliant, you can just tell. I’m just in awe every time he opens his mouth. I am so lucky. I mean, I don’t know what I would do if they matched me up with a YA writer.” She shoots me a look to make sure I understand exactly what she’s saying.
Blake half shrugs. “Holloway’s okay, I guess. Seems a little…”
“Depressed?” offers Gabby.
“No, not really. More like preoccupied. Like he’s looking for somebody. I don’t think he heard a word I said.”
Gabby smirks for my benefit. “Gee, I wonder who.”
“What am I missing?” Blake says.
“Nothing,” I say. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“There are the Cheevers,” Gabby says, pointing, as a couple disappears inside the hotel bar. “They own the hotel. Did you know that?”
“No, but I’m not surprised,” I say. “Seems like they own everything else on the island.”
“You know Owen, don’t you?”
She knows perfectly well that I do. “Yes. I know Owen. Isn’t there anything else…Blake, did you know that Gabby’s a dancer? You know, like on Dancing with the Stars.”
“Ballet,” she says, shooting me a dirty look. “Not at all like that.”
“Blake’s going to be an actor,” I interrupt.
“I-I never said—” Blake stammers. “I took one class.”
“I’ll bet you’re really good,” Gabby says, touching his arm. “I can tell from your eyes.”
Pardon me while I find someplace to vomit.
Half a minute later, she has turned the conversation back to her, regaling him with a story about her first time in The Nutcracker and it’s like I’m no longer there. While they ignore me, my mind wanders back to the Cheevers. Now that I know they own the place, I’m not surprised they’re here (making sure everyone sees how rich they are), but I want to keep track of them so I can keep as much distance as possible between us. And if they’re here, does that mean Didi is back, too? It seems odd that they would be back from sailing so soon, but a glance at the glasslike surface of the lake explains it: I don’t know much about boats, but even I know that no wind means no sailing. If she is back, I hope she’ll change her mind and come to the party for a while. The fact is, I have lots of questions for her about Carton Academy, and not the kind you find answers to in the brochure.
The dinners wrap up at about eight thirty, and everyone heads for the lobby bar. There’s still no sign of Didi, and by the time I finally track down Keyheart, she is perched high on a barstool holding court for a cluster of fans—a fresh drink in one hand and a pen in the other as she signs copies of books that fans have brought with them, and agrees loudly with the guy standing next to her, who is outraged that Hollywood has yet to make a film based on The Somewhere Girls.
I wriggle my way through the crowd until I reach her side, catching her by surprise.
“Sweet home Alabama!” she cries, tilting her head back to look up at me through glassy eyes. “You’re very, very tall. Ladies and gentlemen, I present my bodyguard, Lana.”
“How was dinner?” I ask.
She leans toward me, spilling some of her drink on my sneakers. “Oopsie-daisy. Sorry ’bout that. Between you and I? It was terrible. There was definitely something off about that beef.”
“I’m pretty sure the menu said it was lamb,” I say.
“Huh. That might explain why it tasted funny,” she says, and then gulps down the rest of her drink and waves the empty glass at the bartender. “Robert, my good man. Another. And this time maybe not quite so stingy.”
The bartender, whose name tag clearly identifies him as Richard, makes eye contact with me and I give him a helpless shrug. He takes a bottle from the top shelf and pours a full two inches of scotch into a fresh glass and hands it to Keyheart.
“That’s more like it,” she says.
A mid-thirtyish guy decked out in equal parts denim and denial (about his age and the state of his receding hairline) approaches, grinning idiotically. “There she is!” he announces. “Future Nobel Prize winner for literature, Ann E. Keyheart.”
“Hello, Irwin,” Keyheart says, holding her hand out for him to kiss while I look on, suppressing my urge to gag. “I was beginning to worry that your plane went down in the middle of Lake Erie.”
Ah. Irwin. So this is the guy that Didi told me about, the superfan who flies himself to all Keyheart’s events.
Irwin laughs as if he’s just heard the world’s funniest joke. Tears are literally running down his cheeks when he recovers enough to speak. “You kill me, Ann. How can it be legal to be so danged funny?”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “She’s a hoot. Ms. Keyheart, can I get you anything? Do you want me to find you a table and chair? It would be easier for signing books,” I say. What I’m thinking is: Sit before you can’t stand anymore. Because if you drink that pint of scotch that Richard just handed you, that’s where you’re headed. “Where’s Didi? Still shailing? Sai-ling.”
