“Lori’s Stories,” I whispered. It was as though Dimity had foreseen my reluctance to share my heroine with the masses, and had offered this title to reassure me: no matter how far afield these tales might travel in years to come, they would always be mine. I straightened the edges of the manuscript with hands that were none too steady, glanced idly at the bookcases—and found the correspondence.
Books filled several vertical sections of shelves, but the rest of the wall was reserved for row after row of neatly labeled archive boxes. Talking about the letters, reading about them, even thinking long and hard about them, hadn’t prepared me for the impact of seeing them. More than forty years of my mother’s life had been captured in those boxes and the sight left me feeling slightly dazed. Stan Finderman had once mentioned something called “the mystique of the manuscript” and I finally understood what he had meant. My mother had touched these pages, and in their presence, I felt hers. I wanted to pull down a box right away, but I held off. Not now, not yet. Not with Bill cooling his heels in the hall. After a moment’s thought, I picked up the manuscript and headed for the front door.
Bill stood as I returned.
“That good?” he asked.
“Better,” I replied with a grin.
“And there’s still one more floor to go.”
“You can come up with me, if you want,” I offered. “Aunt Dimity never went upstairs in the story, so it won’t change anything to have you there. Here, you can put this on your nightstand.” I handed him the manuscript, grabbed my bags, and started up the stairs.
Bill stayed where he was. He looked down at the manuscript, then up at me on the stairs. “You’re sure you want me to read these?”
“I’m sure,” I said; then, more gruffly, “Well, don’t just stand there. They’re bedtime stories. They belong upstairs, next to your bed.”
A full bath was at the top of the stairs, and two cozy bedrooms occupied the front of the cottage, each with twin beds, wardrobes, reading chairs, and fireplaces. I put my bags in one and Bill put his and the manuscript in the other.
“You wouldn’t think they’d need so many fireplaces,” Bill remarked as he emerged from his room. “The central heating seems to work well enough.”
“But central heating doesn’t warm the soul the way an open fire does. It’s so”—I skirted around the word “romantic” and finished lamely with—“old-fashioned.” Bill was about to reply when the sight of the master bedroom silenced him.
The master bedroom took up the entire back half of the second floor. A sliding glass door opened on to an outside deck, and another sliding door led to a bathroom that brought to mind the changing room in the Willis mansion. The main difference was that, instead of a simple whirlpool bath, it had a strange-looking Jacuzzi/steam-bath installation. Bill, of course, knew how it worked and showed me how to use it. A good thing, too—I would have parboiled myself if I had tried it on my own.
This room seemed to combine bits and pieces of all the other rooms in the cottage. Aside from the wardrobe and bureau, there were bookshelves, glass-fronted cabinets, and a desk, all of which appeared to be empty. Two overstuffed chairs were in one corner and a tea service had been placed on a round table between them.
The bed was the size of a small football field, and another grin broke across my face when I saw Meg’s blanket folded atop a wooden chest at its foot. Seeing it there was like seeing an old friend. I began to say something about it to Bill, then noticed that he’d left me alone again so I could enjoy my discoveries in private. The bed faced yet another fireplace, in which a fire had been laid, but I was too distracted to contemplate that pleasure. For there, on the mantelpiece, was a vase filled with deep blue irises. My knees buckled and I sat, stunned, on Meg’s blanket.
Bill reentered the master bedroom, carrying my bags. He placed them on the bureau, folded his arms, and declared: “This is your room.”
“Bill,” I said, “did you come here today?”
“No. Why?” He walked over to stand in front of me.
“I was wondering how those got here.” I pointed to the flowers.
Bill glanced over his shoulder. “So that’s where they put them. With so much to look at, I nearly missed them. The Harrises must agree with me—about this being your room, that is.”
“The Harrises?”
“I called them today and asked them to put some irises in the cottage for you. I thought they’d add a nice welcoming touch.”
“So you’ve really never been here before?”
“Lori, I may have an odd sense of humor, but I’ve never lied to you. I have never set foot in this cottage before this evening.”
I twisted a strand of the fringe on Meg’s blanket. “I didn’t mean to sound so …”
“Suspicious? Paranoid?” Bill suggested helpfully.
“It’s just that, for a minute there—”
“You thought someone else had opened your birthday present.”
I ducked my head. “It sounds pretty childish when you put it that way.”