The Story Keeper (36 page)

Think about it later,
I tell myself.
Right now, it’s showtime.

I walk up the stairs with Lily Clarette trailing behind, and there he is, Evan Hall in the flesh, whisking through a backstage door, shaking hands and trying to move past a crowd of would-be sycophants. He is instantly swallowed by the activity, and all I can see is his head bent in conversation, his dark curls neatly slicked back against the collar of the black suit he must’ve worn to the fund-raiser luncheon prior to this event. I watch as he politely shakes hands with admirers important enough to be allowed behind the scenes. Cell phones are whipped out. Photos are snapped. A kid from the university newspaper moves in, brandishing his press pass.

I catch a glimpse of Evan’s face. He seems remarkably calm, completely at ease. I try to decide whether I should hug him or slap him whenever I finally get close enough.

George Vida himself guides the knot of hangers-on toward
the side-stage door, where I now realize Lily Clarette has stopped beneath a light to open her envelope.

“He’s all yours, Gibbs.” It takes a moment for me to register the fact that George Vida is talking to me. The old lion grins ear to ear. He’s in his glory. It’s not every day the little publishing house celebrates the release of the book all the giants wanted. And one with this kind of story behind it happens less than once in a lifetime. Some people don’t experience it in an entire career.

If I never buy another project that manages to make the lists, I’ll have cred at Vida House from now until retirement. That today’s event is happening here at Clemson, Wilda Culp’s alma mater, makes it only that much more perfect.

That it involves Evan walking my way, wearing an annoyingly smug smile, is a slight drawback, but not enough to dull the magic.

“Seriously?” I say, and he knows, of course, exactly what I am talking about. He’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t, but the smile makes it obvious.

Stopping in front of me, he leans in and kisses me on the cheek, one of those things he always insists on doing, even though we’ve had the whole discussion time and time again. Work mixed with personal relationships
 
—not a good thing. We both agree. We’ve both been down that road before. Not a pretty picture.

Aside from that, I don’t want anyone in the business
ever
insinuating that I slept my way to the top.

A crackle of electricity passes through me as his lips move away, and that isn’t
professional
either. It happens every time, and every time I pretend it’s not there.

“What?” His lips form a smile that’s as smooth as cream on fresh milk. For a man who was so determined to hole up on his mountain just a year ago, he’s amazingly good at handling all this
hoopla. The press ops all week have gone fabulously well. Evan Hall has managed to quickly light the world on fire. Again.

“You
know
what.” I shift away, putting a safe distance between us, and cross my arms.

He responds with an impishly innocent look; however, he’s anything but innocent here.

Once again I remind myself, as I have during many late nights of poring over last-minute edits on the manuscript together, that nothing good could come from Evan and me getting involved. We live in two different worlds. I’m finally standing at the pinnacle of mine. He has a twelve-year-old niece to raise, and with his granny Vi now gone, that in itself is a full-time job, especially with a book tour looming ahead. I wonder where Hannah is tonight
 
—perhaps seated in the audience with Helen, ready to take in the unveiling of
The Story Keeper
. The book releases in stores at midnight. The ink on the movie options is already dry. We all knew it would happen fast.

“Talk to your boss. It was his call.” Evan pulls a stack of note cards from his pocket, flicks the tip of his thumb across his tongue and leafs through them, only glancing at each one. His speech, undoubtedly. There’s so much to tell about Rand and Sarra, about their life together in Appalachia
 
—their years of helping to build Hudson’s mill towns and then, later, years of fighting for decent living conditions for the impoverished workers who came to live in those company-owned communities. No children of their own, but countless mission schools founded, including one in Tennessee specifically for children of Melungeon blood. A lifetime of struggling against prejudice, bigotry, and the one-drop laws that classified people like Sarra as “colored” and deprived them of their rights, including the right to marry outside their
own race. In many states, Rand and Sarra’s marriage had been a prosecutable offense.

I can’t help wondering how Evan will narrow the speech down to thirty minutes, plus time for questions.

I know I should wait to talk with him later, but the curtain hasn’t opened yet. I’d like to catch George Vida before the presentation is over and tell him that Evan and I have resolved the matter.

“Evan, I’m an editor, not a handler,” I point out, not quite looking at him. I’ve learned that it’s easier to carry on these conversations if I don’t.

“Good, because I don’t need a handler.”

Just this morning, George Vida called me into his office and dropped the bomb. I was being sent along on the book tour
 
—at least the first half, maybe the whole thing.

Two months and a bazillion cities, six foreign countries. This was so far from my job description, it wasn’t even in the realm.

I couldn’t decide whether to be excited, embarrassed, or scared to death. Mostly I was just in shock and, yes, worried about how this would look within the industry.

And then there were all the personal issues. I’d been hoping this extended holiday from Evan Hall would help clear up the undercurrent of . . . whatever . . . that was tugging back and forth between us. With the rush schedule of the editing and production of
The Story Keeper
these past months, I’ve hardly worked on anything else. Even though Evan and I have put in many a late night together, the pressure to get the story right, combined with the depth of our investment in it, has made it easier to avoid letting the professional and personal lines blur.

But now this . . .

A quick wink and he slides the cards back into his pocket,
confidence radiating from him, and something more
 
—a new enthusiasm, a passion that makes his blue eyes glow like the cool mountain waters of Looking Glass Lake. Telling the stories of Appalachia, the
real
stories, is something we both care deeply about, a way to bring attention to the peoples and the struggles that in some places haven’t changed much in hundreds of years.

“Listen, I’m going to talk to George Vida and tell him I can’t . . .” I stop as the dean of arts and humanities veers toward us, checking his watch on his way.

“Ready?” He pauses to shake Evan’s hand and thank him for allowing Clemson to host this forum, the plate luncheon earlier, and the gala celebrating the book release. Later this evening, there will be a night of dining and dancing, to the tune of a thousand dollars a ticket
 
—all for the benefit of charity. “We’re starting off a bit late.”

“Ready whenever you are,” Evan answers. He leans close to me, angling his body toward the stage as the curtains sweep open and the dean crosses to the podium. “Don’t bother. You won’t get George Vida to change his mind about the tour.”

“I can try. I just think it’s best that . . .”

He smiles and shakes his head, indicating that, rather than discussing this, we should listen to the dean’s introduction. When it finally winds toward an ending, Evan shifts so that his shoulder touches mine again. For a moment, I think he’ll brush another kiss across my cheek. A prickle of anticipation tickles, featherlight, but rather than a kiss, a whisper touches my ear. “Don’t bother. I had it put in the contract.”

And then he is gone, striding toward his place at center stage, smiling as he crosses from darkness into light. I can only watch, openmouthed, while he shakes the dean’s hand before taking the podium. Waiting for the applause to die, he casts a single,
triumphant glance my way, then pulls the cards from his pocket, lays them next to the microphone, clears his throat, and begins.

“I’d like to thank all of you for coming out today to support what is, for me, a project of the heart
 
—one that, like so much of the history of Appalachia’s little races, came within a breath of being lost. If it weren’t for a slush pile, an eleven-year-old girl, and an antique communion box discovered by my mother at a flea market, the real story of a young Melungeon woman and the son of one of Charleston’s oldest families would probably have disappeared into history and local lore. Like so many family chronicles of the time, the truth of their story was whitewashed by future generations, the facts altered, the genealogies steered to more convenient paths.

“While the experts continue to debate genetic origins of the little races of the mountains, such as the Melungeons, and whether they are actually the descendants of native peoples intermarried with shipwrecked Portuguese or Turks, or descendants of survivors of Sir Walter Raleigh’s mysterious Lost Colony on Roanoke Island, there’s proof enough of these two lives. Rand and Sarra’s story endured
 
—not only in their own words but in the manuscript of Louisa Quinn, who remains an unknown entity to us. Who was she and why did she devote herself to documenting this piece of personal history? Why is there no record of any further published work under her name? Hers is a mystery that endures, but in writing the
Story Keeper
novel, drawing from Louisa Quinn’s unfinished manuscript and Rand’s journal, I’ve tried to stay as close to attainable facts as possible. I’ve had one very determined, very talented editor making certain of it.”

He casts another quick glance my way, and I feel it in every part of my body this time. For a moment, there is no one else in the theater. Just Evan and me. The pause seems endless, but it probably isn’t.

Bit by bit I feel myself forgiving him for sneaking that clause about the tour into his contract. Okay, maybe I’m forgiving him more than just a bit. Maybe, all of a sudden, I’m glad. Filled with a giddy anticipation that eclipses all else.

“But before I get into that,” he continues, “I’d like to share one more thing that pertains to all of you who’ve been so generous as to purchase tickets to come here today. You’ve been told that the proceeds from this event, as well as the luncheon and the evening gala, will be donated to charity, but you haven’t been told in what way. I’m happy to be able to announce to you that these proceeds and my earnings from
The Story Keeper
will be given to fund the creation of Wilda’s House, a foundation for the support, development, and encouragement of the young people of Appalachia.

“The first Wilda’s House facility will be located on the property formerly owned by well-known writer and longtime Blue Ridge resident Wilda Culp. Over the years, her homes were places of respite and learning for the countless college students who grew under her tutelage at Clemson and later at several community colleges near her family farm on Honey Creek. Her effect on the lives of young people cannot be measured, but the desire is that the sense of shelter, encouragement, and expectation she offered can live on as her legacy and the legacy of all those who seek to combat the challenges created by geographic isolation, poverty, and lack of economic opportunity. Wilda’s House, and the Violet Hall Village that will soon be under construction nearby, will offer retreat space for writers, artists, and musicians. It will also be a center for mentoring, tutoring, and story camp sessions for kids growing up in some of the mountains’ most challenged areas.

“The telling, learning, and recording of our stories
is
Appalachia. It is my family’s desire that Wilda’s House provide a
keeping place for those records, as well as a place for writers and storytellers to mingle and share. Rand and Sarra’s life history, while a beautiful tale of love, survival, and devotion, is also in some ways a cautionary tale. But for a rediscovered manuscript, all would have been lost.

“Our stories are powerful. They teach, they speak, they inspire. They bring about change. But they are also fragile. Their threads are so easily broken by time, by lack of interest, by failure to understand the value that comes of knowing where we have been and
who
we have been. In this speed-of-light culture, our histories are fading more quickly than ever. Yet when we lose our stories, we lose ourselves. . . .”

A hand rises to my mouth, and I press fingers to my lips to ensure there’s still air moving through my lungs. I imagine the place he’s describing
 
—Wilda’s House. How could he possibly have kept all of this a secret until now? I feel as though I must have fallen asleep somewhere
 
—perhaps with pages of
The Story Keeper
or Rand’s original journal still on my lap
 
—and slipped into a dream.

I feel Wilda here beside me, her hand on my shoulder.
So often it is our narrow focus that limits us,
she is saying.
When we look only at our own plans, we miss the infinite possibilities of a greater plan.

Evan continues, giving the background of the manuscript, pulling a laugh from the audience as he tells of his first careless submissions to publishers and his dismay when no acceptance letters came.

Chuckling, I lean against the wall beside the curtain, shift, and look down when something crinkles under my foot. The envelope from my father. I’ve dropped it without even realizing. Silently I pick it up, feel its weight in my hand again. I realize
Wilda is right. I’ve limited the envelope with my own expectations, expunged the possibility that the contents are beyond my imagining.

I look around for Lily Clarette, knowing she has already opened hers. I’m searching for clues, I suppose. Or warnings.

But my sister has disappeared somewhere in the crowd or the darkness behind the stage. Even Wilda fades now, as do Evan and the chuckles of the audience, who are eating out of his hand.