Lunch at one. In the kitchen. Sara.
She slipped it under one of the doors into the attic. She knew she should find Chris, make chitchat, then invite him properly, but she had other things to do.
As soon as she was in her room, she called Eddie the lawyer. Sara truly hoped things would work out between him and Willa.
A secretary answered the phone. “Oh! Mrs. Medlar. I was told that if you called, I was to put you through right away.”
“Thank you.” When Eddie answered, she said, “I won’t take much of your time, but—”
“Since I owe you my entire life, I am yours.”
“How flattering. I was wondering if Mr. Howland ever told you a story about breaking an elephant.”
Eddie laughed. “It was one of his favorites.”
“Would you mind telling it to me?”
“He was kissing a pretty maid at Oxley Manor, and they knocked over a little glass elephant. I think it was valuable. The trunk broke off. The girl was so upset that she wouldn’t see him again.”
Sara waited for him to go on but he didn’t. “That’s it? That’s not much of a story.”
“Not by your standards, but Mr. Howland was heartbroken. He said that if it weren’t for that damned elephant he might have married that young woman. But he said she was too scared after that.”
“Scared of what? Or who?”
“Bertram, I guess. Or maybe Nicky.”
Sara sighed. The story was a disappointment. “Thanks, and if you remember anything else, let me know.”
“I will. How are you?” he asked.
Sara wanted to go, but she didn’t want to be rude. And she also didn’t want to give anything away. “Oh, just researching. I may write another romance set in an English manor house. Chris has been praying in the chapel. He wants to—”
As she knew he would, he cut her off. If there’s one thing introverts learned early in life, it was that if you want to get rid of an extro, talk rapidly about some bookish subject and they’ll go away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to take this call.”
“Oh, okay. Stop by and I’ll tell you my entire plot. I think you’ll find it fascinating.”
“Love to,” he said, then clicked off.
Sara let out a sigh of defeat. That story of Mr. Howland was like buying a book with a bloody knife on the cover and finding a love story inside. The man’s heart was broken. So what? Everybody’s heart had scars. Sara’s own heart had a Grand Canyon-sized slash that still hurt deeply.
She looked around the pretty room. What now? Part of her thought she should plan a way to make amends with Bella. Sorry we were shown a skeleton. Sorry your cook is a murderer. Sorry your relatives are a lying bunch of—
Sara saw a big box on a side table. How did that get to her room? She opened it and saw it was full of papers. On top was a note.
Thought you might like these. Byon.
She pulled out what had to be five hundred pages. They were tattered and stained, some in folders, some loose. As she flipped through them, she saw that they were written during Byon’s college years. There were little character studies of his classmates. Sara smiled in memory. Cutting your teeth as a writer. Looking, analyzing, trying to make the mundane interesting.
Most of the stories seemed to be about Nicky. Nicky’s First Meal with Me. I Meet Nicky. Nicky’s Best Replies. “What? No bathroom stories?” Sara tossed those papers aside.
There were several short parody plays of the people around Oxley Manor. Sara read enough of them to see that Clive was often the butt of their “humor.” Knowing what she did now, it was almost amusing to read about Poorwilla. That so-called pathetic person was now the one who was pulling them together. Yesterday, Willa said, “I always did take care of them. I just didn’t know it.”
“How true,” Sara said as she picked up the last file. It was an old, white envelope. Bertram’s Drunken Stories.
It was the first piece that she actually wanted to read. She snuggled down in an overstuffed chair and began reading. Of course the stories were slanted. The reader was to see Bertram as a joke, someone to laugh at. He was stupid, while the writer was superior in every way.