“Oh, um, hi,” she mumbled, staggering toward his table. “What’s up?”
“Not much is up. And how are you this lovely afternoon? I see you remain on the lam from authorities.”
“You’re hilarious.”
Annie thumped her backpack onto the table and slouched down in the booth.
“You all right there, love?” Gus asked.
“Who knows,” she said. “So who was that guy? I thought you didn’t have any friends.”
“Grace Almighty. You’re right testy today, aren’t you? And that, my dear, was no friend. That was my brother Jamie.”
Gus folded up his newspaper, then removed his glasses and set them on the table.
“Brother?” Annie said, blinking. “You have a … oh. Right. Nicola mentioned that. You never talk about him. Ever. It’s weird.”
“What’s there to say? There’s not much to him.” Gus took a sip of cider. “So what is it?”
“What’s what?”
“That.” He pointed at her with his glass. “Your face. The utter lack of cheer.”
“Oh. I don’t know.” Annie thought about it for a second. “It’s hard to say. I feel stuck, I suppose.”
“Stuck? In what way?”
In every way, if she was being honest.
Annie was stuck in the duchess’s story, for one. And in Win’s and Pru’s. She was also physically stuck in England, her mom mostly absent and her fiancé on a boat.
On top of that, her very existence was stuck, trapped in the space between childhood and being an adult. Eric was off fighting wars; meanwhile she probably couldn’t even lease a car without Laurel’s signature.
“Annie?” Gus prodded.
“I’m just so frustrated,” she said. “All around and across the board. I’m just…”
She couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“Ah. So this is about the research project.”
“Yes, among other things.”
“I’m not surprised,” Gus said. “You’re an empathetic person. You’re probably so deeply mired in the story, you’ve picked up on Win Seton’s disgruntlement.”
“That’s part of it. But, Gus. Seriously.” She tossed up her hands. “You’re every bit as bad as Mrs. Spencer!”
“As bad as Mrs. Spencer?” His eyes widened. “I don’t know if you’ve just complimented me or you want me to sod off.”
“You left me hanging the other day, outside the inn. A million pieces of the story scattered everywhere. I realize Nicola interrupted us, but you dumped the mess on me, and then you bailed.”
“I bailed?”
“You’re not making this easy. And I have to say, it’s not appreciated.”
“Annie, every story has a pace,” Gus said. “Including Mrs. Spencer’s, and Win’s. I can’t just vomit it all up in one go. As a devotee of literature, you should know this implicitly.”
“Well, some stories move too slowly. Sluggish plots are the worst.”
Annie unzipped her backpack and pulled out the transcripts.
“Here’s what I’ve been reading,” she said. “And yes, they’re stolen and, yes, I’ve spilled Diet Coke on them and, yes, I’m a horrible steward of important documents. And to what end? It seems like most of what Win knew about Mrs. Spencer, the duchess, whoever she was … most of what he garnered was from newspaper articles and gossip columns, not from the woman herself.”
“Let’s see what you have,” Gus said, putting his glasses back on.
He did a hero’s job of appearing calm, of not seeming like he wanted to throttle Annie. For the first few seconds anyway. But when he turned over the most Diet Coke-laden sheet, his face went white.
“Annie, this n—”
“I know! I know!” she said, and clonked her head on the table. “I’m the worst.”
She looked back up.
“Reason number four hundred thirty-seven that I’m so agitated,” she said. “I’m a spaz. A klutz. Not to mention the world’s most overachieving meddler.”
Face locked in an expression Annie could’ve read (irritation? bewilderment?), Gus handed back the transcripts. He wiped a dribble of sweat from his forehead.
“You’re not nearly as bad as all that,” he said.
“I beg to differ,” Annie said. “So what’s next? What happens after this? Help a mess of a girl out.”
“What happens after what?”
“Did Mrs. Spencer finally crack?” she asked. “Or did Win just grill the poor woman until she keeled over from exhaustion or old age? And let’s not forget the wan and waifish Pru Valentine observing from the corner. She must’ve read like a thousand books by the time Win got his written.”
“Well,” Gus said, eyes holding steady to the transcripts on the table. “Mrs. Spencer eventually started talking. She did begin to aid Win, albeit in her own marginally helpful way.”
“Marginally helpful. Sounds about right. So did she finally cop to being the duchess?”
“Not precisely. She gave Win more to work with, but her usual ‘I’m no duchess’ rigmarole remained.”