Fresh tears spilled from her big blue eyes. “But he is. I know he is.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “And I know you’re behind the rest of the stuff going on at the house. Admit it.”
“Really, Rebecca. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do! Every time Marc or one of the film crew goes anywhere near the stairs when Jayne is up there with the twins, icy hands shove them away. The first guy who quit broke a finger when he fell, so it’s not like he’s imagining things.”
“Maybe he’s just clumsy?” I asked, feigning hopefulness.
“And the other three guys who say the same thing? They’re clumsy, too?”
Before I could come up with a plausible explanation, she said, “And whatever or whoever it is won’t allow Marc near the grandfather clock. He says his hair stands on end whenever he enters the parlor, and he feels actual hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him away, whenever he gets within five feet of the clock.”
I didn’t say anything, but I was sure that Louisa was protecting the children and wouldn’t allow anyone she didn’t know up the stairs. And she more than likely was messing with the electricity to show her displeasure at the invasion of her home. As for whoever was prohibiting Marc from getting too close to the grandfather clock, I had my theories. I couldn’t help but remember the girl with the melted face and her dog, Otis. I’d seen her in the parlor before, with Nola. I just couldn’t think of why.
I took a deep breath. If I wanted her to be candid, I needed to reciprocate. “First of all, Marc has no business messing with the clock. Now, I do admit to having a . . . conversation with Louisa. She’s always been protective of the children, and I made it clear that she had my full approval to continue during the filming. If she got a little . . . carried away, I wasn’t going to stop her. Maybe when you’re a mother, you’ll understand.”
She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again with her wadded napkin.
Gently, I asked, “Why hasn’t Marc said anything to me if he thinks I’m responsible?”
Rebecca was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure. I asked him the same thing. And he . . .” She stopped.
“He what?”
She looked down at the crumbs and wrapper shreds on the napkin in her lap and shook her head.
“I can’t help you, Rebecca, if you don’t tell me everything.”
After a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes met mine. “He . . . smiled. Not his usual friendly smile.”
I wanted to ask her if we were talking about the same Marc Longo, but I didn’t want to interrupt her.
“He said not to worry about it, that he had everything under control and that I should go back to growing our baby. Which was kind of sweet, but I was once a journalist and I suppose I always will be, so I had to keep asking questions.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t be forced to contradict her about Marc’s comment being misogynistic instead of “sweet,” and remained silent, my telltale crossed leg bouncing with impatience.
Rebecca continued. “So I kept asking. He’s always so proud of himself when he figures something out, so I knew it wouldn’t be difficult to get him to tell me. It’s too hard for him to keep it to himself. He’s such a brilliant man, I can’t really blame him for wanting to share some of that brilliance, you know?”
I thought my lip might start bleeding if I kept biting it. Instead I forced a smile and nodded, my leg continuing to bounce.
“Anyway, he said that he’d found some kind of proof about the existence of something valuable. Something that he said would get us out of debt and secure our financial future.” She looked at me. Swallowed.
“What else did he say, Rebecca? Anything I need to know?”
I could tell she was wavering, desperately torn between her loyalty to Marc and her loyalty to her family. But only one of us was cheating on her.
“As the future godmother to Peanut and as a family member?” I hadn’t meant to lower myself and play that card, but Marc and his machinations always brought out the worst in me.
She looked around the bustling lobby, at the shoppers and tourists and hotel guests strolling unhurriedly in front of us, blissfully unaware of the personal drama unfolding on the bench in the corner.
Lowering her voice, she said, “He told me that the success of the film wouldn’t matter, that we wouldn’t need your financial support. That we would be free from all of our debts and any obligation we’d have to you and Jack.”
I sat up, the pastries I’d eaten sitting like a ball of raw cookie dough in my stomach. With a voice that sounded a lot calmer than I felt, I asked, “Did he tell you what it was?”
She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure it has something to do with an old painting that he seemed excited about, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else. He put it in his office so I don’t have to look at it. Maybe it’s a newly discovered Rembrandt or something. I don’t know and I’m tired of asking. To be honest, I’m okay with him taking charge. Growing a baby is hard work, and I’m just so exhausted, I can hardly think.”
“Try growing two while working full-time,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Nothing important. Do you think you could snap a picture of it on your phone and send it to me? Maybe I can help you figure it out.”
“Seriously, Melanie? I may have pregnancy brain, but I haven’t completely lost a grip on my senses. If you want to see it, you should ask Marc. But I’m pretty sure he’s keeping it under wraps for a reason.”
“Maybe I will.” I took another sip of coffee and pretended to think. “Off topic—do you know if Marc surfs any treasure-hunting blogs or websites?”
“Oh, definitely. He says it’s his favorite hobby.”
“Me, too! I guess the whole diamonds-in-my-clock thing started it. It’s something to do when I can’t sleep. I haven’t seen Marc’s name, though. Does he use a handle? Like Blackbeard, maybe?”