The Discovery, A Novel (3 page)

T
he next day Jenn and I were still at our hotel. A week ago, she had protested when I’d made the reservations. It was too expensive. I told her we’d certainly be getting enough from my grandfather’s will to afford a few days of comfort. Obviously, I was right.

Now I was ready to check out and move into our
new
house, but she wasn’t. I looked over at the keys Mr. Dunn had given me, then over at Jenn sitting at the desk in our hotel room. She had just made a convincing case for staying in this expensive hotel one more day.

As Gramps had pointed out before he died, I had married a good woman and it would be stupid not to listen to her.

“Now, Michael, you’re going to help me when we get over there, right?”

Jenn’s voice brought me back to the present. Apparently, I had started shaving. I looked at Jenn through the mirror; she was still sitting at the desk, writing a checklist of things we needed to do for the house. The adult thing to do. “Of course, I will,” I said. “You think I’m going to goof off and let you do all the work?”

“Not goof off, but you do get distracted easily, and there’s a lot there to be—”

“I’m going to help you, Jenn.”

She looked up at me. Guess I said it with an edge.

“Michael, since I’m heading home in a few days, we’ve got a lot to get done in a short amount of time. When’s the art gallery delivering our new painting?”

“Eleven-thirty, but I could call and make it later.”

“Maybe you should; then we won’t be so rushed. The first thing on my list: we need to buy some new sheets and pillowcases. I loved your grandfather, but . . . didn’t he die in that bed?”

I hadn’t thought about that. Something else I hadn’t thought of was Jenn not being okay with us moving into the house so quickly and leaving our lives in Florida behind.

Like our jobs. Well, her job anyway.

My bank had just been taken over by a large Canadian outfit, and I didn’t care what they thought of me. I was probably on somebody’s hit list anyway. But Jenn liked her job, cared about the people she worked for. “I have to give them at least two weeks’ notice,” she’d said last night when we talked this over.

So we agreed that after another day or so, she’d head home, work her last two weeks, and I’d stay here, get the house ready. Gramps had been in his late eighties, so there was probably a lot that needed tending to.

After I finished shaving, Jenn walked up behind me and hugged me around the waist. “You doing okay?”

I turned around and hugged her back. “Sure. I’m not happy about the idea of you leaving me for two weeks, but—”

“No, I mean about the book thing. I felt bad about what Vincent said last night, about you getting lost in your grandfather’s shadow.”

Vince hadn’t actually said that, as I recalled. What Jenn just said sounded worse. “It’s okay, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. No matter how good I am, I’ll never be as good as he was, and—”

“Don’t say that.”

“Jenn, I’m just being realistic. You inherit things like a big nose and high blood pressure, not the ability to write like that.”

She laughed. “I don’t know, famous singers often have kids who can sing.”

“But they’re never as good.”

“That’s not true.”

“Okay, name one megastar singer whose child or grandchild became just as good or just as famous.”

She pulled back a little to give it some thought. Clearly, she was drawing a blank.

“I’ve got two names for you,” I said. “How about Julian Lennon and Ben Taylor?”

“Who are they?” she said.

“Exactly.”

Later that morning, our shopping all done, we drove the handful of blocks to our new home on Legare Street. Really, except for the weight of our shopping bags, we could have walked the distance. It was that close.

My grandfather’s house—
our
house—was just past the Tradd Street intersection. Almost the entire street was shaded, either by the homes built right to the edge of the sidewalk or by the rows of palmetto palms and oak trees lining the homes set back from the road.

As I drove slowly down the street, Jenn said, “This is ridiculously charming.”

I pulled up to our narrow driveway. A couple in their early twenties stood by the sidewalk, peeking through the wrought-iron gate at our courtyard, engaged in a favorite Charleston tourist pastime: gawking. Jenn and I used to do the same thing when we’d visit my grandfather, just walk all around the neighborhoods, admiring the homes, the courtyards and private gardens. I remembered occasionally getting caught by residents pulling into these incredible homes.

“See that, Jenn? Gawkers.” I pointed to the couple. They hadn’t seen us yet. “Watch this.”

“Don’t, Michael.”

I pushed the remote button. The iron gate rumbled to life, then creaked as it opened, startling the couple. They stepped back and gawked at us as we drove through.

“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.”

N
oon 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 and 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.