“I’m going, I’m going!” I growled, leaning heavily against the banister for support.
An inviting aroma of rose water drifted out from the bathroom, and when I opened the closed door, I was met by the sight of a full bubble bath and a large glass of wine resting on one of the tub’s porcelain corners. As I squatted down to test the water, I noticed my pajamas hanging from a hook alongside an oversized towel. Not only was the bathwater hot, but my mother had also put my towel in the dryer. It still smelled of fabric softener and was warm to the touch.
“You really are amazing, Althea,” I whispered. I wasn’t even aware that tears were running down my face until I slipped off my shirt and the fabric became damp from moisture wetting my cheeks.
Sinking into the water’s embrace, I closed my eyes. I’d reached that state of overtiredness where the mind darts from one thought to another but can’t settle on a fixed image. So much had happened during the day that I couldn’t stop the tumble of flashbacks, but eventually, I came back to the thing I most wanted to think about, and that was Marlette’s query letter.
Lost in a brief fantasy in which I stood by Knox Singleton as he rolled out an ancient scroll in a dimly lit reading room, I drank my wine and exhaled as the smoky plum flavors of the merlot coaxed my shoulders to relax even lower into the tub.
“The question is,” I addressed my toes, which protruded through a layer of rose-scented bubbles, “was the idea so good that someone would kill to call it their own?”
I emptied my wineglass and then looked around for the bottle, but my mother knew what I needed, and it wasn’t alcohol. It was sleep. A long and restful night’s sleep.
Draining the tub, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and collapsed into bed. I wondered if I should call Trey and warn him of Iris’s possible involvement, but I decided that Sean would question the girl before the night was through. I also had a powerful feeling that the two deaths were tied to Marlette’s thriller and had nothing to do with Iris. Someone in the publishing world had wanted his book so badly that they’d been willing to kill for it.
“But where is it?” I murmured groggily into the pillow. “Where is Marlette’s book?”
THE RINGING OF my alarm woke me from a dreamless slumber, and I shut it off with a slow-moving hand and turned my face toward the window. The morning light made the thin, cream-colored curtains look like parchment paper, and I lay back against the pillow and pictured Makayla removing a tray of fresh-baked scones from the oven.
Despite all that had happened yesterday, I was incredibly hungry. I hadn’t eaten last night, and after ten hours of rest, I felt revitalized and ready to tackle whatever challenges awaited me. But not without a hearty breakfast first.
When I got downstairs, I saw that my mother’s wooden walking stick was not in its customary place by the kitchen door and knew that she had chosen to exercise early in order to avoid the oppressive heat Inspiration Valley expected today. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of my mother swiping at the tall grass with her stick, warning snoozing copperheads that she was about to invade their territory.
Like her, I wanted to begin my day with a dose of fresh air and sunlight, so I ventured out to the back porch, where I drank coffee and peeled a ripe banana, in no mood to rush off to work.
In The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins had written, “We had our breakfasts—whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder, it doesn’t matter, you must have your breakfast.” As I leaned against a post, chewing the soft fruit and inhaling the scents of wet grass and honeysuckle, I couldn’t agree more.
At that moment, I realized that my mother had been right when she said that I’d needed to stay with her for a spell. She had been a source of constancy over this tumultuous summer, and I’d yet to truly show my appreciation for all the little things she had done to keep me sane.
I felt a rush of shame pinken my cheeks. I had always believed that Althea was the crazy one in the family, and I had held her at arm’s length because of her profession, but I now had to admit that she possessed an uncanny ability when it came to predicting my needs. If she was just as accurate with her clients, then perhaps she did have a unique and wonderful gift that I would never understand.
“When my house sells, I’m going to do something special for her,” I vowed, sending the promise across the dew-covered fields.