The Story Keeper (8 page)

Jamie drummed a nice manicure job against the table, considering it. “Well . . . that’d be interesting. The whole phenomenon made a lot of people a lot of money. He left a bunch of people hanging when he quit, that’s for sure. It’s any publisher’s worst nightmare.”

I looked at the manuscript again, turned a few pages, studied Evan Hall’s image on the computer screen. “This could turn the Time Shifters franchise on its ear.”

“And the fans. What if they find out Evan Hall wasn’t some kind of time-traveling genius with a miraculous vision? What if they find out he was just another aspiring author looking for a story that would sell?”

Across the room, Friday barked as a garbage truck rattled along the street outside. Jamie and I jumped like thieves caught in the act, then looked at each other and laughed.

“What do you plan to do with it?” Jamie leaned over as I
moved to the computer again. “It’s not like you can walk into the office on Monday and tell everybody. And it’s not like you can call the author. Evan Hall doesn’t talk to his fans, reporters, editors, or anyone else
 
—I know because we tried when we did the movie fashions segment. He’s been locked away on his mountain ever since he quit writing and went through the lawsuit with his publisher. Even if this manuscript were his, it’d be tied up by the option clauses in his contracts. You’d never be able to make a bid on it. Where do you go from here?”

I didn’t have a good answer. No telling what would happen next, but this felt like the night I found myself trapped on a snowy mountain with Tom Brandon. This was big. “I’m not sure, but the first step is to find out where he is now and who’s managing his business.”

Chapter 8

T
he trouble with obsessions is that by the time you know you’ve got one, it already has you by the throat. Chasing Evan Hall was like chasing a ghost. His publicist no longer had anything to do with him and he’d broken all ties with his agent years ago. The studio behind the Time Shifters films had stretched the nine original novels into as many movies as possible
 
—without the author’s blessing after the first few
 
—and now that was finished as well. Evan Hall still lived on his mountain above Looking Glass Gap, where, according to his business manager, he did not accept business proposals or business calls related to publishing.

Even Jamie thought I was nuts for continuing to pursue it.
Have you lost your min
d
?
she’d demanded after four days of hearing me complain about dead ends.
You’re brand new at Vida House, and this thing is a total long shot.

I knew she was right, but the story was haunting me. It was wrecking me in some strange way. At Monday’s pub board meeting, I couldn’t focus. All I could do was look around the room and think,
Who knows about
The Story Keeper
besides me? Which one of them put it on my desk?

Hadn’t anyone else figured out the secret?

Hadn’t anyone else wondered about the rest?

Let it go, grasshopper,
Jamie had warned as we walked together to the subway at the end of a long Tuesday.
This is me, giving you some good advice. I’m counting on you and all that profit sharing at Vida House so you can float me a loan if the magazine crashes and burns.

Yeah, whatever.
Not that I wouldn’t have done anything for Jamie, but I was struggling to scrape up the rent right now, myself. On top of that, tucked in Tuesday’s mail, I’d found a dog-eared envelope with a Towash, North Carolina, address, a cheery note, and first-day-of-school pictures. I knew what that meant. A request for money wouldn’t be far behind.

I was trying hard not to think about it. If I did, I’d want to climb into bed and stay there.

Given my present bank balance, one more unexpected financial hit would be the breaking straw. I should’ve been playing it safe at work, but I’d already decided to bring the manuscript back to Vida House, and not with the intention of returning it quietly to Slush Mountain. The beauty of my obsession with it was that it was almost enough to drive my sister’s note and the back-to-school photos from my mind. Almost.

Wednesday morning, I dressed and left for work early. Mitch had been coming in at the crack of dawn, poring over her war bride project. I needed to catch her while the office was quiet.

By the time I walked past the war room and Slush Mountain
and turned into her office, I was focused completely on
The Story Keeper
and how much I wanted it.

Mitch was busy at her desk as I entered her domain. Her quarters looked like an episode of
Hoarders Gone Wild
. Every blank space was filled with ad proofs, cover comps, finished books, stacks of galley pages, proposals, and manuscripts of all shapes and forms
 
—edge taped, spiral-bound, held together by plastic strips, bulldog clips, and rubber bands
 
—pretty much everything but duct tape, and there was probably some of that under there too. The only clear space was a path from the door to the desk chair and from the desk chair to a credenza that was also hopelessly piled with manuscripts.

There was nowhere to sit, so I didn’t.

Sweat broke over my palms, making the folder in my hands feel like it had been left out in a morning fog.

Mitch didn’t look up at first. “Yes?” Polite, yet impatient.

“I need to ask your advice on a project.”

“Yes?” She was still scanning her computer screen. I waited until she stopped and looked at me.

“Something showed up on my desk. . . .” Blood drained from my face as I prepared to reveal the contraband, leaving me vaguely light-headed. I heard Jamie’s warnings.
Those people in the pages aren’t going to rescue you when you lose your job, either. And you’re never going to find another place like Vida House.
. . . How in the world would I explain all this? How could I even bring it up without sounding like I was mentally off?

Yet the obsession had begun to consume me, and it was only getting stronger.

Mitch’s eyes narrowed, drifted lower, until she was focused on the emerging envelope. Was it my imagination, or was there a spark of recognition?

“Mitch, I don’t know how this came to be in my office, I promise. I just found it on my desk one morning, but the postmark is twenty years old. I think it came off
 
—”

She lifted a hand, palm out, stopping me. “Hold it. Don’t say another word. When did you
find
that thing, exactly?”

“I’ve had it . . . a few days. Long enough to do a little research on it.”

“Why?” A change in posture distanced her as she squinted over the top of her reading glasses. “We haven’t given you enough to do here?”

“I want it.”

She blinked, then blinked again, dropping her chin and rolling a surprised look. “You . . .
what
? You know where that came from, right? There’s
nothing
twenty years old around here, still sitting in an envelope, unless it’s off . . .”

“Yes, Slush Mountain. I know.”

Mitch checked the doorway behind me, taking in the office still blanketed with morning stillness. Her hand twitched nervously, then whipped off the eyeglasses, tapped them on the chair arm.
Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m going to give you a piece of good advice. Put it back. Don’t let this happen again.”

“I can’t,” I blurted, and my boss’s head jerked backward like I’d landed a blind left hook. I babbled on. “Put it back, I mean. I have a feeling about this thing. I’ve figured out who wrote it, I think. If you could just look . . .”

“Nope. Cease. Desist.
Alto.
I don’t need or want to hear any more about whatever that is.” Pausing, she let me dangle on a thread while she gathered her thoughts. “Listen, Jen, I’m not going to tell you what to do. There are no dictators here at Vida. What I
am
going to tell you is that, whatever choice you make
from here, you make at your own risk. I know
nothing
about this, you did
not
ask me about it, and no, I do
not
want to see that thing you have in the folder.” She softened then, seeming slightly more sympathetic. “I understand falling in love with a project
 
—blindly, even. But my advice is to think long and hard about whether this is worth it.”

She waited for the tip of that reality to break the surface before she drove the point home. “It’s a huge gamble, Jen, and I’m not exactly sure what it is you’re shooting for. But if anyone here would know anything more about that manuscript, it is probably George Vida. And if anyone has the ability to get answers about it, it is probably him as well. But like I said, think about it. Hard. I expect great things from you here, as you get up to speed with projects of your own. I appreciate your input on the war bride proposal. You helped to give it just the right touch at pub board. George Vida likes you, and trust me, he doesn’t warm up to every new recruit in that way. But you know the rules about Slush Mountain. Whether George Vida will buy the idea that this thing just
showed up
on your desk, I have no idea. I’m having a hard time with that one right now myself, but . . . I can’t quite imagine why, having just joined our team, you’d decide to flout the rules. You seem smarter than that. Much smarter.”

I let the envelope fall back into the file folder, feeling the burn of Mitch’s comments as she returned to her computer, indicating that I should withdraw from her office and take my secrets with me.

“Thanks for hearing me out, Mitch.” Part of me was saying,
She’s right. You know she’s right.
But part of me was rejoicing in the fact that she hadn’t slammed the door on my idea
 
—she’d just told me I had to walk through at my own risk. “I’ll give it some more thought.”

“I would if I were you. I’ve seen people here one minute and gone the next. Doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.
Loyalty, honesty, teamwork
 
—it’s right there on the Vida House logo. But George Vida also values hunches. Question is, which side will he come down on in this case? Not that I know anything about this whole matter . . . because I don’t. Understood?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“
If
you’re going to pursue it, I’d catch George Vida when the gatekeeper’s not around.” By
the gatekeeper
, she meant Hollis, of course.

“Thanks, Mitch.”

“Don’t thank me,” she muttered. “Keep in mind, it could just as easily be the rope you hang yourself with.”

Chapter 9

T
he airplane bounced and rattled over patches of turbulent air, the motion rousing me as the pilot announced the remaining flight time. Blinking against the sleep haze, I swore I heard Friday growling and snuffling, but the report over the PA system reminded me I was far from home by now. I couldn’t quite remember why I was traveling, but it didn’t seem to matter. I just wanted to catch a little more sleep. . . .

Letting my eyes fall closed, I reached for a memory that was circling, foggy yet. Something about the plane’s sound and motion reminded me of riding in a squeaky Radio Flyer wagon downhill over a bumpy road. My mind traveled back and back and back. Back to a rust-eaten red wagon with four of us piled inside, bone-thin limbs and bare feet poking out everywhere.

Laughter and squeals. Marah Diane’s high-pitched voice screeching above everything, her brown hair whipping Joey’s round-cheeked baby face. And then a rock, a sudden jerk on the
steering, a wild tumbling off, and bodies flying everywhere. Cuts, scrapes, blood, tears. Mama running from the trailer house, her skirt gathered up high over long, shapely legs that never saw the light of day otherwise. It wasn’t permitted.

The plane bumped over opposing air currents, throwing my head forward, bringing me to awareness. I pressed into the seat, into the memory again.

Marah Diane stood up, pointing a finger, her hand clutched over her knee. Joey lay rag-doll floppy in the ditch water, squalling like a scalded cat, but there wasn’t a scratch on his chubby toddler body.

“It was
yer
fault! It was
yer
idea!” Marah Diane’s voice was stark and sharp, like the persistent ovenbird calls that split the quiet of the mountain air.
Tattletale birds
, we called them because they cried out
teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher
. I hated the sound
 
—the ovenbird’s and Marah Diane’s
 
—more often than not. Everything between Marah Diane and me lay bound up in the not-so-silent battle of sisters. With the four of us kids stair-stepped, each two years apart, we were always squeezing each other, fighting for space, but Marah Diane and I were the worst.

When the wagon crashed, I was mostly concerned about Joey. He was special, being a boy, and for as long as I could remember, I’d been given the care of whoever was youngest. My mother was just now starting to pay attention again.

Mama ran to Joey first, passing by Marah Diane and her split knee. Coral Rebecca lay facedown in the road, hidden in the thick white-blonde frizz of hair that had given her the unusual name. She didn’t even bother to whimper. At three and a half years old, she just rolled over, sat up, and started looking at the damage. She didn’t like to call attention to herself. That was problematic, as she got attention everywhere she went because of her hair.

“It was yer fault!” Marah Diane shouted again, anxious to figure out who would take the blame for this.

“It’s nobody’s fault.” Mama rescued Joseph John from the ditch, checked him over, then turned to the rest of us, looking relieved. There wasn’t any evidence on Joey. He’d flown clear of the road before he hit, being lighter and more aerodynamic than the rest of us.

Aerodynamic.
I’d just learned that word the week before in the third grade over in Towash. We’d been studying the Apollo missions to the moon. It seemed impossible that men had set foot there long before I was even born. The moon looked very small from the mountains of North Carolina.

“C’mon, we’ll clean it all right on up. Wasn’t no harm done.” Mama stood with Joey in her arms and reached for Marah Diane’s hand, her eyes soft and comforting. I’d forgotten that about her over the years
 
—how gentle she was, how she kept quiet about things that went wrong when Daddy was gone to the hay fields, in the woods working coonhounds, or away doing day work . . . if there were jobs fit for a man to take. The son of a deacon among the Lane’s Hill Brethren Saints couldn’t be seen doing just anything. I was proud of that, somehow, the fact that my grandfather held a special position.

I was proud of the fact that my mother was beautiful, too, with her dark hair and bright eyes. Her beauty was whispered about, even though such talk was discouraged, beauty being only a woman’s way of tempting a man toward sin. Just as my mama had tempted my daddy. He’d taken a wife from outside the Brethren Saints, a thing that was frowned upon and would assure that deaconry was probably out of his reach. The union was tolerated because my mama joined the church, but it was always made clear enough that the marriage was impure and so was she.

The landing gear touched down, tearing loose the memory, sending it spinning in the plane’s wake before I could linger and search for more. So few recollections of my mother remained that looking at those years was like studying a portrait with chunks randomly cut from it. Just frustrating. Slightly disturbing.

Why does a woman bring six children into the world and then leave without a word, never to be heard from again? It was always a question too hard to answer. I’d given up searching for my mother or trying to understand her years ago.

My eyes were dry and grainy, slow to focus. I heard Friday’s growl again as the plane rolled to the gate. Something wiggled near my feet, and a yip sat me bolt upright. I looked down, and there was Friday, crammed under the seat in the soft-sided pet carrier I’d borrowed from Jamie’s mother in a fit of last-minute desperation when my dog-sitting arrangements fell through.

Everything came back in a rush then
 
—my conversation with George Vida during which my theory about Evan Hall had been met with skepticism, but also with interest. The big boss took the manuscript off my hands so that he could look the situation over himself. By the next morning, Hollis was making trip arrangements for me, and later that day I was being sent on a time-travel mission of sorts
 
—back to the one place I never wanted to go again. Into the Blue Ridge, with its achingly beautiful hills and folds, its familiar sounds and scents, and its hidden spaces of undeniable pain.

In the last twenty-four hours, I had learned two things: One, when George Vida wanted something, he’d go to any lengths to get it. He wanted to know if that manuscript was by Evan Hall, and if it was, he wanted it. Two, small dogs can ride on many flights in a pet carrier, as long as it fits under the seat.
It’s no big deal. My mother does it all the time,
Jamie had insisted.
Just take
him along. I’ll even go pick up Mom’s doggy travel bag for you.
That was her way of alleviating her guilt over refusing to step in when the kids down the hall couldn’t take care of Friday. Jamie’s sister had just set a wedding date and they were planning a dress-shopping weekend.

So, for better or worse, Friday and I were on this journey of a thousand miles together. Unlikely partners, of a sort. Friday was beyond thrilled. Not.

I heard a noise and it was quickly evident that Friday had just committed an indiscretion of the sort that’s fairly inexcusable in close quarters.

“Eeewww!” the little girl in front of me squealed. “Mama, he did it again!”

The mom cast a dirty look between the seats as she stood and made ready to run from the plane as soon as the doors were open.

A hot flush crept up my neck and burned my ears.

“What do you feed that thing?” The thirtysomething guy in the aisle seat grimaced playfully. We’d talked a bit before I’d fallen asleep. He was headed to Kitty Hawk to marry his high school sweetheart in a beach wedding. Wonderful story.

“Sorry. Friday doesn’t get out of the house much.”

“I can see why,” he joked, then held up the aisle traffic while I tugged Friday’s carrier loose.

Friday growled, a whiff of noxious air floated up, and the kid in the next seat groaned, “Get me out of here!”

Wait until I gave Jamie the blow-by-blow of this. She’d made
take the dog on the plane
sound so simple, almost like a fun adventure for both pet and owner. With Friday, nothing was simple.

My seatmate touched my arm. “Hey, don’t forget your briefcase.”

I glanced at it, shocked, then grabbed it and slung it over
my shoulder. So far today, my nerves were a wreck. Two of the reasons were in that briefcase. One being
The Story Keeper
partial, the other being a second envelope from Coral Rebecca. This one wouldn’t be filled with school photos and a greeting. I hadn’t even worked up the courage to open it yet, just shoved it in my briefcase and brought it along instead.

I felt the weight of it as I hurried from the plane. My sister had no idea I’d just touched down on soil only hours from the old hometown. I still wasn’t sure if I intended to tell her. It’d be so much easier to come and go and never say a word.

I contemplated the possibility while dragging Friday and my luggage down the Jetway and into the corridor.

The terminal in Charlotte hadn’t changed all that much in ten years. Although it felt smaller now. It’d seemed huge when I’d left for New York City, just one day after Clemson graduation. My first time on a plane or even in an airport.

Wilda had rushed through instructions before letting her son, Richard, take my duffel bag
 
—all I owned
 
—and hand it to me on the curb. I’d been scared to death on the inside, still as a winter dawn on the outside. Clemson was one thing, but New York seemed like the other side of the universe. I’d wanted to run home to Wilda’s big house on Honey Creek. My hiding place. My refuge.

But I knew she wouldn’t let me. During my three years at Clemson, she’d only offered to bring me home once
 
—just long enough for my little brother’s funeral, which was all the time I could stand, anyway. Joey shouldn’t have been driving the truck at thirteen, but he was, and then he was gone. My grandmother had made the point that, if I’d been there to watch him, it wouldn’t have happened.

After that, Wilda thought it was better if I stayed away, and
it undoubtedly was. My family had shown no interest in my college graduation or my plans for grad school and a publishing internship program in New York. No one from Lane’s Hill cared enough to tell me good-bye, but Wilda had stood on the airport curb, her chin trembling as I walked away.

Even now, I could still picture her there, Richard by her side, awkwardly waving his good arm until I vanished through the doors. Suddenly it seemed as if they should be outside waiting to greet my return.

They wouldn’t be, of course.

Richard is probably gone by now.
The realization sifted through my mind as Friday and I wound toward the rental car area. Richard had been fighting health issues, even back then. With Wilda’s passing not six months after I left for New York, there was no telling what had become of her house and the gardens and the orchard. Someone else probably owned it by now.

The reality settled in as I reached the rental car counter and handed the clerk the paperwork from Hollis.

“Oh, you’re headed to Looking Glass
Gap
.” He drew out the last word, arching an eyebrow. “Going to the big camp? You haven’t got enough luggage. Where’s your costume?”

“I’m wearing it, I think.” The clueless expression won a laugh.

“Just covering Warrior Week for the press then?” He nodded along with his own conclusion.

“Warrior . . . huh?”

He rested his hands on the counter dramatically. “I didn’t think you looked like the type, although you can’t always tell. Whole families come through this place
 
—dads, moms, little kids. Sometimes they’ve got their garb on right here in the airport. Sometimes they’re incognito until they get to Looking Glass Lake. But usually I can pick out the Time Shifters folks.
It’s Warrior Week. Camp week. They do it in the spring and the fall
 
—the fan bash. But a few of them really believe they’re not going to
need
a return flight home, if you know what I mean. So . . . listen . . . if you’re just in the area for a quiet vacation, you might want to rethink and book someplace else
 
—maybe Pisgah or Highlands. By the way, have you considered an upgrade to four-wheel drive? Never know about the weather and the roads this time of year.” A hand swished vaguely through the air, indicating some nameless mountain road far, far away.

I felt my smile slowly melting. I’d stumbled onto a big fan camp week? Hollis had made all the travel arrangements. She’d mentioned something about the hotels being full and booking what was the last cabin in town, out on Looking Glass Lake. No wonder she’d had such a hard time
 
—Looking Glass Gap was probably in chaos, swelled beyond capacity with Time Shifters enthusiasts.

This was exactly the wrong time to approach Evan Hall. He’d be locked up on the family estate outside town, avoiding the masses while tour buses stopped by his front gate, die-hard readers hoping to catch glimpses of the man who’d started it all. I’d seen a few photos on Internet fan blogs.

“Ohhhh, man. This is not good.” My chances of getting anything done here were probably nil. I should’ve kept a clearer head when George Vida wanted to send me. I should’ve asked for a week or two to fully study the situation, come up with the best plan of approach. But I’d been afraid he’d change his mind, or I would. Given time, one of us was bound to see reason.

“I thought the big gathering was in the spring.” Panic stirred and stretched its wings. So much was riding on this trip. How could I possibly go back to George Vida and tell him I’d accomplished zilch?

“Wild Week in the spring. Warrior Week in the fall. Starts third Thursday in October. Always,” the clerk offered.

The manuscript was beginning to feel like a dancing hippo chained to my shoulder.

“Ohhh . . . kay. Okay . . . okay . . .”
Think, think, think.
I looked up and down the airport corridor, noticed an eighteenth-century buccaneer extracting a cape and over-the-knee boots from his Travelite and putting them on. Somewhere farther along, I thought I saw Abraham Lincoln and Mary Todd, arms linked, walking out the door.