The Discovery Page 3

  “You’re terrible,” she said, then smiled and waved at the pair.

  “Just having a little fun.” As I got out of the car, I waved also as the gate closed and they hurried by. Didn’t want to be a snob. It took us three trips to carry all our purchases into the foyer. We’d bought a tad more than bed linens, and it felt good to be able to turn Jenn loose on a shopping spree. But now we only had fifteen minutes before the art gallery folks delivered our painting.

  “I’ll put all this stuff away, Michael. You go get the mantel ready for the painting over the fireplace.”

  “Got it.” I stepped to the left through the doorway into the living room. It didn’t take long to finish my task. The wall over the fireplace was already empty. A big portrait of my grandparents used to occupy the space. It had been given to Aunt Fran in the will. I moved a few knickknacks off and put them on nearby tables. I expected to find the mantel caked in dust, but it was clean.

  So were the knickknacks. The tables I put them on were clean too. Completely free of dust. I walked around the room, did a little spot-check. The whole room was neat and tidy. Even the wood floors, peeking out from the large oriental rug, were polished and shiny. I couldn’t imagine my grandfather having the strength to keep things this nice, and then I remembered.

  Helen.

  He’d hired a housekeeper shortly after Nan died. That meant . . . Helen still came around. “Say, Jenn.” I walked through the foyer, through the dining area, and into the kitchen. Jenn was on her knees, had the pantry doors open, and was filling up boxes with things neither of us would ever eat, especially me. “You remember Helen?”

  “What?”

  “Helen, Gramps’s housekeeper.”

  “No.”

  “You notice how clean this place is? The living room would pass your inspection.”

  “Well, we don’t need a housekeeper,” she said, staying on task.

  I had a feeling she’d say that. “Don’t you think you might like to have someone clean the house for you? It’s a big place. Not like we can’t afford it now.”

  She turned to face me. “Michael, I don’t want some strange woman I don’t know cleaning my house. I’ll do it, and you’ll help me.”

  “What about Helen?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid we’ll have to let her go.” She set a can of beets in the box beside her.

  “Let her go?”

  “Yes, what else can we do? See if her phone number is someplace, like on the fridge.”

  “Me?”

  “Michael . . .”

  I sighed.

  “C’mon, Michael. You can do this.”

  “But she’s an old woman, Jenn. What if this is her only means of support?”

  “Well, maybe we can give her some kind of severance pay.”

  “How about this . . . I let her know we’re not going to need a housekeeper, but she could stay on for these two weeks. You know, give her two weeks’ notice. Then we’ll give her some kind of severance pay. She’ll be gone before you get back.”

  I walked over to the refrigerator. Sure enough, there was an index card under a palm tree magnet with Helen’s name written across the top. I slipped it out and saw her phone number along the bottom. In the middle was her weekly schedule.

  I looked at my watch. She was coming here at noon.

  “Say, Jenn.”

  6

  Noon came and went, and no Helen.

  I waited about an hour, then called and left a voice mail, just after the art gallery people had left. Our new painting was now mounted over the fireplace. It suited the space well. The colors even matched everything in the room. Jenn had a knack for that sort of thing. We were about to head out and grab some lunch when the phone rang. Not my cell but the phone in my grandfather’s house. We stopped at the front door. “Should I answer it?”

  “It’s probably somebody calling for your grandfather,” Jenn said. “Maybe they don’t know he died. Or maybe it’s Helen.”

  I walked to the nearest phone, which was on a small antique table in the hall next to the stairs. We’d have to add “disconnect the landline” to our to-do list.

  Jenn walked into the living room and sat in the nearest chair. “It never takes just a minute,” she said, smiling.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Rick Samson. Who am I speaking to?”

  Rick Samson, my grandfather’s literary agent. I was immediately intimidated. He was the man I hoped to call whenever I finally did get my first book written. “Hi, Mr. Samson. This is Michael Warner, I’m—”

  “Michael,” he announced. “I know who you are. You’re the one I wanted to reach.”

  I looked over at Jenn, put my hand over the phone, and mouthed the words “Rick Samson” to her, pointing at the receiver. She didn’t get it. “You wanted to reach me, Mr. Samson?”

  “Please, call me Rick.”

  “Okay, Rick. You know you called my grandfather’s house.”

  “Sure I did. I spoke with Alfred Dunn, your grandfather’s attorney. He told me it’s your house now. And here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I said. “I’m kind of surprised you know who I am . . . how do you know who I am?”

  “Your grandfather talked about you a lot in the last year or so.”

  “Really?”

  “He thought you could be quite a writer some day.”

  “I’m . . . I’m honored that he’d say that.” Something stirred in my emotions.

  “Well, that’s how I know who you are. I wanted to call and talk to you about a possible book deal. Is this a bad time?”

  A book deal? “We were just getting ready to head out the door. My wife Jenn and I.”

  “Jenn, I know who she is. Your grandfather talked about her too, said she reminded him a lot of Mary when she was young.”

  This also stirred something in me. I had to press to stay focused. “I can talk for a minute or two, but maybe you should give me your number, and I’ll call you this afternoon.” Everything in me wanted to head back to my grandfather’s study, pick up the extension there, and hear everything this man had to say. I looked over at Jenn. She sat on the edge of her chair, clearly interested in the call.

  “That’s fine, Michael. Actually, you can find my number on your grandfather’s desk. He used one of those old-fashioned Rolodex things.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “Don’t look up my agency’s name, use my name. The number he wrote there will get you past all my office staff. It’s my personal line.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Samson . . . Rick.” I gave him my cell number and told him to feel free to use it from now on. We exchanged a few more kind words, then hung up.

  Jenn stood up, picked up her purse.

  “Do you know who that was?” I said.

  “No, but you look almost as excited as you did when you heard how much your grandfather left us.”

  “That was Rick Samson.”

  “Why do I know that name?” She opened the front door, moving us along.

  “He’s my grandfather’s agent, been doing his book deals for years. He’s huge in this business.” I followed her out the door, turned, and locked it.

  “Really?” Her face showed that she got it now. “He’s the guy you were telling me about, right? The one you hoped might represent you when you finish your book.”

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking he would personally. I’d take any one of the agents at his agency. All of them are A-listers.”

  “But he called you,” she said. “He didn’t have one of them call.”

  “You’re right.” We walked down the three brick steps. “He did. Rick Samson called me.” Repeating it didn’t make it feel any more real. It was too wonderful. Hundreds of would-be writers, maybe thousands, would give anything they owned to have anyone from his literary agency give them the time of day. I walked to her side of the car and opened the door.

  “So what did he say?” she asked, getting in.

  I got in a
nd turned on the car. “He wants to talk about a book deal with me.”

  “No way,” she said. “Really? Oh, Michael, that’s wonderful!”

  I clicked the remote button and watched the ornamental iron gate open in my rearview mirror. I looked at the gorgeous courtyard through the windshield, the exquisite Charleston Single House out my left window, the beautiful wife sitting beside me. Suddenly, a strong desire hit me. As I slowly backed out of the driveway, I shared it with Jenn. “This car is all wrong.”

  “What?”

  “This car does not belong at this house.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s time,” I said. “As soon as you fly home, I’m going to find the nearest Mini Cooper dealer and trade this old buggy in. Get that one we’ve been dreaming about the last few years.”

  “The blue turbocharged Cooper S?” she said. “The one that’s all decked out, with the white roof and white stripes down the hood?”

  “The very one.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she said.

  “Why? It would look perfect in that driveway.” I pointed as the iron gate closed.

  “You’re not going to buy it after I leave. We are going to go buy it together, before I leave, and I’m going to drive it every minute until I get on that plane.”

  There are so many great places to eat in downtown Charleston. This time we picked Tommy Condon’s Irish Pub. Can’t go wrong there. It’s got all the ambiance you’d expect in such a place. Even the live music is worth listening to. I finished off some fish-and-chips and Jenn ate half of her Irish Cobb salad. The conversation was light and fun, alternating between the fact that we could actually afford to buy a new Mini Cooper and the book deal conversation I’d be having this afternoon with Rick Samson.

  I already had two or three novel ideas roughed out. I wondered which one he’d want to start with. It would be amazing to write a book, whichever one, knowing it was already under contract. Who gets an opportunity like that? Just after I paid the bill, my cell rang.

  “Is it him?” Jenn asked.

  I didn’t recognize the number, shook my head no. “Hello?”

  “Is this Michael?” A woman’s voice, older.

  “Yes it is.”

  “This is Helen, your grandfather’s housekeeper. You probably don’t remember me.”

  “No, I do, Helen. I remember you. We didn’t get to talk at the funeral, but I saw you there.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your grandfather was the most amazing man. A complete joy to work for.”

  “Actually, that’s why I called earlier.”

  “Yes, I got your message.”

  “I saw your schedule on the refrigerator.” I paused, trying to think of a nice way to say this.

  “I guess I forgot to take it down,” she said. “I came in a few days ago to clean for the last time. I hope everything was satisfactory.”

  “It was very nice, spotless, actually.”

  “Thank you. I only worked for him a few years, but . . .”

  “So, are you . . . no longer coming over?”

  “I guess you didn’t hear. Your grandfather, bless his heart, I mean, I didn’t expect it at all. He set something up with his attorney and gave me a severance package that commenced the day after he died. The most amazing thing.”

  I should have figured my grandfather would take care of her too.

  “He put some money in an annuity that will keep paying me what I was getting paid until I’m old enough for Social Security. That’s just a few years from now. With that and what I’ve been able to save, I won’t have to work again. Isn’t that something?”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said. “He was incredibly generous, to all of us. I guess you heard he left me the house.”

  “I knew that was coming. He talked to me about that a number of times. You need someone to work for you? I know some great friends who do that for a living. I could make some calls. One or two I have in mind would do an excellent job for you, good cooks too.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Helen, but I think we’ll just take care of things ourselves. You enjoy your . . . retirement.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  We hung up. I looked over at Jenn. She had pieced together our conversation. “No Helen,” she said.

  “Nope. Guess I’ll have to fend for myself while you’re gone.”

  “Somehow I think you’ll survive,” she said. “Let’s go to the grocery store. I made a list back at the house.”

  “How about first I get on my phone here, and we find out the nearest Mini Cooper dealer?”

  Jenn smiled. “Did you make sure the money’s in our checking account?”

  I smiled. “Jenn, let me show you. I looked at our balance before we left. There’s an obscene amount of money in there, more than I’ve ever seen.” I got on the internet and logged into our account. “Here.” I held the phone up so she could see.

  “Michael, that’s just crazy,” she said, staring at the screen.

  7

  It was late afternoon. Jenn and I had returned to our new home on Legare Street with an antique lamp. An authentic 1860s white, opalescent coin dot oil lamp to be more precise (at least I think that’s what the antique dealer said). It was far less a prize than what I hoped we’d be bringing home.

  We had a blast at the car dealership, looking over the inventory of Mini Coopers, and test drove one like the one we wanted. Smooth ride, great pickup, incredible sound system. Problem was, it was red. Had the white roof, white stripes down the hood, but it was shiny and red.

  I would have been happy with it. But I knew, for Jenn, the dream was the blue one. The Charleston dealer didn’t have a blue one fully loaded. But he promised he’d have it here in two days. Jenn was heading back to Florida tomorrow to start her last two weeks at work. We reminded ourselves that such disappointments hardly amounted to anything close to suffering. As we drove off the lot I remembered an antique lamp Jenn had her eye on the day we came into town. But it cost six hundred dollars.

  That day, way out of reach.

  I looked over at her now, holding it on her lap, rubbing the bottom half with her palm. “I know exactly where I’m going to put it. On that table in the foyer, next to the phone.”

  “It’ll look great there.” Of course, she knew I knew nothing about such things. But the lamp said “I love you” and that I felt bad she wouldn’t get to drive the Cooper for two weeks. The iron gate closed as we got out of the car. “Why don’t you take care of the lamp, and I’ll get the groceries in the house?”

  She walked around the front of the car, holding the lamp, and gave me a one-armed hug. “I love you,” she said.

  “Love you too.”

  I popped open the trunk and stared at the grocery bags. My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. Rick Samson. I couldn’t believe Rick was calling me again. I was supposed to call him, planned to right after I put the groceries away. Was Rick Samson actually pursuing me?

  “Hey, Michael, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Samson, it’s me.”

  “You forgot—”

  “Actually I was just about to—”

  “—to call me Rick. I know I’m an old guy, but we can still be friends, right?”

  I laughed, probably a little too hard. “Sorry, Rick. I was just about to call you. We were out running errands. Just got home, so—”

  “No problem. I’ve got an appointment that’s going to eat up the rest of my afternoon. Thought I’d try and reach you before it got too late. Got a few minutes?”

  He was pursuing me. “Sure, uh . . .” I looked down at the groceries; there was some milk and frozen things in there. I wondered how long we’d be talking. What was it, ten bucks worth? Heck with it. “I’ve got time. You said earlier you wanted to talk about a book deal.” I leaned back against the rear fender.

  “I did. I’ve been talking with your grandfather’s publisher. As expected, sales are way up on his books.
Seems like a great time to get something out quick. I’m assuming your grandfather left you enough money to quit your day job.”

  “Already have, didn’t even need to give two weeks’ notice.”

  “Great. So you’re free now?”

  “Free as a bird. I’ve been thinking about this since your call earlier. Jenn and I even talked about it over lunch.”

  “So she’s on board? Good. ’Cause if we do this thing, we’re going to need you to get right on this, work some long days to put something out soon. I can keep the interest alive between now and the book’s release with some promo ideas we’re working on. All his fans will really eat this up. I’m sure of it.”

  It sounded exciting, but my novels wouldn’t even be in the same genre as my grandfather’s. I wasn’t expecting to catch many of his fans, certainly not a majority. “So . . . why do you think it will do so well, Rick? Is it just the name recognition, the family tie?”

  “That’s just a small part of it. But it’s a serious plus, don’t get me wrong. I’m thinking about flying down my best ghostwriter, help you get this thing done quick.”

  This thing?

  “It’ll be your name on the book, and you can write as much of it as you want, pick the parts that matter the most to you. But this guy is fabulous. He’ll interview you, read a bunch of things you’ve written, and before you know it, he’ll be writing just like you. It’ll be so close your own wife won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  This was beginning to sound very strange. “What kind of time line are we talking about here?”

  “I’m thinking eight weeks, tops.”

  Eight weeks, I thought, to write a full-length novel? Guess I would need some help. But I couldn’t imagine how that would work. Jenn wouldn’t be too happy having some strange guy here day and night writing a book with me. And I wasn’t too keen on having a ghostwriter writing half of my first novel. “You really think my grandfather’s fans will want to read one of my books?”

  “Are you kidding, Michael? You’ve got the grandson of a literary legend writing a book about his grandfather . . . especially someone as elusive and mysterious as he’s been all these years . . . I mean, I don’t even know much of his story, and I’ve been working with him over twenty years.”