Heartache and Hope

By Mary Kay Abbott

Our Bible teaches us that God doesn't give us more than we can handle. Be strong, have faith, carry on. But what if our daily challenges reach a breaking point? How do we handle our grief then, witnessing dreams shatter like exploding glass? Suffering heartache so profound one cannot take another step? We ask God why? Why is He giving us so many tests? And when we finally muster the courage to move forward again, how do we know which way to go? It is 2012, and recent UCLA graduate, Tiffany Ryan lands the prestigious job as assistant to Monique Mason, a world-famous novelist. Things go well between these two colleagues until Tiffany discovers that her manuscript about her late grandmother's plight during the 1930s Dust Bowl, a story titled Heartache and Hope, has been stolen right out from under her nose""by her boss. When more deceit is revealed, how does Tiffany turn her world right-side up again? Embedded within Tiffany's story are her grandmother's heartbreaking journal entries, of the deaths and destruction that intolerable dust caused for almost ten years. It is a love story of faith and hope for two Christians, Willie and Rose and their three children""how they prayed every day for God's miraculous intervention, for the drought to end, for Him to release his blessed rain; rain that would not only quench their thirst but save their souls. This is the manuscript Tiffany wrote. This was her heart. And a powerful person took it from her. Raised in Oklahoma, the author is now a mother of three and grandmother to six millennials, all residing in the West. While the Dirty Thirties story is fictional, it is based upon her family's roots stemming from the western, northeastern, and southern part of that state. www.mkabbott.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645152255

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was nine thirty on a bright February morning when I pulled my little Honda out of my parking space and headed north into Beverly Hills. Traffic was a friggin’ zoo—horns blaring, drivers swearing out their windows, swarms of tourists walking against red lights. After driving up La Cienaga, I made a sharp left on Wilshire, and then a right on South Beverly Glen, winding around the Bel Air Country Club along Bellagio Road—where houses rival small hotels—where the super-rich enjoy secretive lifestyles my roommate Cynthia and I could only dream about.

Winding streets kept me practically glued to the directions I’d written down until finally there it was, a sprawling two-story Spanish estate perched a safe distance from the street; a heavy curly-cue wrought iron gate at its long drive; red bougainvillea snaking along absentmindedly on the six-foot-high stucco wall with two-inch long spikes hidden within its blossoms. No Rottweiler, thank goodness.

I pushed the button on the little black speaker box and waited as butterflies lined up, as heartbeats accelerated, remembering how I’d come to be at this prestigious address.

Hola, a sweet voice sang from the box.

Uh, Tiffany Ryan. Here for the job interview. The writer’s assistant’s position?

Oh, sí. Un momento.

Slowly, as though I had all the time in the world, the big iron barricade retreated, creating an opening wide enough for me to squeeze through. I parked in the circular drive opposite the fountain, grabbed my big floppy bag containing my laptop with the latest version of my grandmother’s story in it—along with a one-sheet résumé and other essentials—and then headed toward the massive, arching double doors etched with magnificent rambling rose vines. Over my right shoulder was a Latino gardener kneeling on the thick green grass busily planting a row of orange marigolds along its perimeter. The remainder of the lawn was as pristine and as immaculate as the one at the White House. Suddenly, I felt completely and utterly insignificant, as though my mere presence was an intrusion in this marvelous, Disneyesque wonderland. The gardener and I exchanged suspicious nods.

I put my hand up to ring the doorbell, and the door swung open. A short, plump, but sweet-looking Latino lady was standing before me wearing a black and white maid’s uniform, her jet-black hair slicked back in a tight bun, not one strand out of place.

Aaah, señorita. Come in, por favor, she said, holding the door wide.

Thank you, I said, stepping over the threshold, my shoes touching a sea of orange imported Saltillo tiles.

Deed you have trouble finding de place?

Not at all. Was it you who gave me directions over the phone?

Sí, she said, glancing toward the floor, cheeks blushing.

Thank you. They were excellent. I drove straight here.

Bueno, she said, regaining her nerve. She on de patio. Follow me, por favor.

She.

Luscious little red herrings were unfolding nicely, clues to Writer Needing an Assistant, the mysterious heading in the classifieds.

In the background was a delicious aroma, sending my memory back to Mother and the smells she would have waiting for me after school. Instantly, I felt a little more at ease. Maybe, just maybe, this monolith of a mansion wasn’t a fantasy after all. Through the dark foyer, the housemaid and I walked, past an arch framing a sprawling living room on my left—one rivaling those in Architectural Digest—then through a sunny space with cathedral-high windows. Wicker and bamboo furnishings gathered in two knots as though they were waiting for literary greats to arrive, guests undoubtedly invited to discuss the merits of King’s and Patterson’s latest tomes.

After opening French doors, the woman gestured me through, and I stepped out of the sunny room and into a huge backyard. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw unfolding before me a smorgasbord of lush greenery undulating gently in the morning’s soft scent of freshly-mowed lawn. Adjacent to the travertine patio, a turquoise pool glistened in the bright Southern California sun, the pool so large it took up a fourth of the space. Carefully hidden in the trees’ shade was an eager waterfall working its swirling dark essence over boulders, down and around plants inserted next to rocks here and there, into a circular hot tub, and then miraculously restructuring itself into a solid two-foot-wide triumph dropping at long last into its final muted destination.

A row of large cream-colored canvas umbrellas resembling man-made trees along the far side provided just a sliver of shade over a half dozen chaises parked underneath, all of them adorned in cream-colored upholstery—a scene only the wealthy might discover at an exclusive European Spa. Next to one of the huge wrought iron glass tables were a pair of fit and trim legs stretching out into the sunshine, a vision reminiscent of some 1950s Hollywood starlet hoping to catch a deeper tan before the sun grew too hot. From the waist up, my mysterious writer was hidden in the shadows, the shade obstructing my ability to decipher who she was. Her wide-brimmed straw hat didn’t help.

Señora, your interview person is here, the housemaid said meekly, as though trained to not interrupt.

Mysterious Writer Needing an Assistant raised her head.

And then I knew.

World-renowned author Monique Mason glared up at me as though I had intentionally overlooked that memo about interruptions. That I’d had the gall to be interfering with her precious fictional world.

Oh, yes, well, take a seat, then, she said, nodding toward one of the nearby chairs, reluctantly deciding to permit me inside her carefully guarded sanctum.

Nerves enveloped my naïveté and then escalated to warped speed as I pulled out a chair and sat down. She continued to scribble in longhand on the yellow legal-size notepad resting on her shapely legs, most likely writing the most scandalous, most heart-throbbing climatic scene ever written. A few very hot moments passed as I recalled I’d made an appointment in advance for this job interview. And I was on time, punctuality being one of my pet peeves.

You brought a résumé, I presume? she asked impatiently, dropping her hat to the ground, and then extending an outstretched hand.

Uh, yes, absolutely. Shaking off my starstruck euphoria, I quickly dug through my bag. Yes, ma’am, right here. My hand trembled as I handed it over.

Ms. Mason perused the paper like a copy editor scanning for typos. Her dark sunglasses were now off, balancing atop a generous sweep of her thick mane. At last, I could get a better view. She looked just like the photos on the backs of all her books: fortyish, quite attractive, no tell-tale signs of cosmetic surgery although we all know Botox can never be ruled out. Blonde highlighted hair, the dark and light streaks rambling downward on their journey to tips resting gently on her shoulders. Ends that would rather die than be caught split. Her toned figure was captured snugly in a discreet blue one-piece bathing suit as a sheer and gauzy robe draped casually over her shoulders.

UCLA. Top of your class. She paused, glancing my way. Impressive. Then back to the paper. English major, of course. You live nearby, another asset. When she glanced over a second time, I immediately felt self-conscious. The chair I’d taken was sitting partially in the sun, and I’d already begun perspiring. I shot a sideways glance at the pool and pondered momentarily if she’d mind my taking a quick dip. Protocol for all job interviews, right? I was wearing the obligatory navy blue two-piece polyester nightmare that everyone buys with Mother and Daddy’s money before that graduation milestone arrives. Afterward, who has any cash? Memories of standing in Nordstrom’s cramped dressing room came flooding back. What was I thinking? This was Southern California, not Manhattan, for crying out loud! I wanted to kill that marketing professor for insisting we have one of these torturous straitjackets. My armpits were growing wetter. Ohmygod, was my new deodorant failing? I prayed she couldn’t see the drop of perspiration that had cascaded from underneath my left boob, the one that had begun to dampen my waistband, the one hell-bent on announcing my deodorant was a dud.

Single? She glanced at my left hand.

Yes, ma’am.

More pluses. Husbands are so needy. Require way too much of a busy woman’s time, don’t they?

I’m afraid I don’t have any firsthand experience with that, never been married before.

Good. Take my advice and keep it that way. I’ve had four and every one of them was after my money. Just ask my CPA, he’ll tell you the straight skinny. Leeches, all of them. She shot a glance over my head and leaned in. Better not say that too loudly, hubby-to-be-number-five is upstairs packing for a trip to Spain.

I nodded. I didn’t dare turn around to check, fearing I might discover hubby-to-be-number-five standing on a balcony, eavesdropping rather than packing, the man scrutinizing the strange girl sweating profusely out in his backyard.

Kiddies?

Oh, no, ma’am. No kids, either.

I knew these last two questions were in the hands off category, legally, but I was desperate. A husband, kids, what would it matter if I lied? I needed, no strike that—had—to have this job. Last time I’d checked, there was exactly $568.34 left in my Wells Fargo checking account. If she wanted me to feel uncomfortable and totally awkward, she was doing an Oscar-worthy job. I braced for more questions, wondering when the more pertinent ones might follow. So far, I was ranking the interview in the minus-one category the questions had been so trivial.

Any nicknames?

Well, my roommate, Cynthia, and college pals call me Tiff, sometimes.

Tiffany it is, then.

About that time, her little Latino housemaid came toward us carrying a wicker tray almost as big as she was, balancing two glasses filled with ice and what appeared to be a pitcher of lemonade. A white napkin was draped over something in a little silver basket. I wanted to stand and hug this angel of mercy who’d come to rescue me with cold refreshments.

Lemonade, miss? she asked. Warm, fresh out-of-oven cranberry muffins, además. Muy bueno para tí. Lot’sa vitamins.

Gracias. That’s very thoughtful and so unexpected.

The woman set the tray near me, then immediately began serving. It took every ounce of energy to not stare as the cool liquid splashed over the ice.

This is Lucinda, Tiffany. She runs this place like a well-oiled machine. Been with me for eighteen years. Knows more about this house and me than I do myself. Don’t you, Lucinda?

Lucinda offered a subservient nod as she set a muffin on a glass plate having picked it up with a pair of silver tongs. If you say so, señora. I just cook. You de boss.

The boss? Ms. Mason chuckled. More like the cash cow.

Lucinda curtsied quickly, then backed away with hands clasped tightly, disappearing the same way she had arrived. Right then, I got the undeniable impression that Ms. Mason was, indeed, de boss.

I reached over and picked up my glass taking a ladylike sip.

Now then, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Ms. Mason lifted her notepad. You can see I write in longhand. Nasty way to go, but there it is. Consequently, I need someone to read my scribble, transcribe it, and then type it in my computer. I have a top-of-the-line desktop, the latest rage, you see but barely know how to turn the bloody thing on. Hence, the need for an assistant. That’s where you come in.

Stop! Rewind! Had I just been hired? I played it cool. Oh, no problem there, Ms. Mason. I know my way around a computer.

Good. She took a sip of her drink. So, do you know anything about the publishing industry, Tiffany?

I blushed. Only what I picked up in a few classes. Then again…I am trying to write a novel, but I’m sure an editor would say it’s garbage. I started it—

Everyone wants to be the next J. K. Rowling or John Grisham, Tiffany. No harm in having that dream. I had a similar dream twenty years ago. Thank heaven someone saw that my first manuscript had legs. Could be a commercial success. That’s bottom line, you know. Stepford House took a chance on me, and well, as they say, the rest is blissful history. Nineteen best sellers. One every year.

That’s when the glitter from two diamond and ruby rings flashed sunlight in my eyes. I had to force myself to not shield their brilliance with my hand, so I shifted my weight instead.

"I know. I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve read all but one, Lady across the Park."

Ms. Mason sneered. Oh? And why not that one? Critics say that one’s particularly good.

I’m sorry, what I mean is—as you know, it came out last May, and well, I was studying for finals, I couldn’t—

She thrust a hand in the air. No need to apologize, dear. I have an extra copy in my library. I’ll even autograph it for you. You can read it in your spare time.

Really? Thank you. I’d love that.

Whatever. She studied me carefully, her eyes focusing at my waistband.

Was that sweaty drip now visible? I held my breath and sat taller, pulled at my navy jacket’s bottom button.

She took another sip of her lemonade. "I like you, Tiffany. And I think we can make a good team. If you can keep up. I try to get in about four thousand words a day. Oh, and another thing, I do hope you can spell or at least put a sentence together. I’m not big on punctuation so will rely on you to correct all of that. When I send in a manuscript to my agent, I like it to be as clean as possible. Double-spaced and Chicago Style ready."

Oh, I always double-space…and will make sure all the pages are in numerical order before it pops in the mail. My roommate complains I’m somewhat of a…well, a perfectionist.

Ms. Mason smiled.

She offered way more salary than I expected and then told me I’d start the following Monday. When I asked about office attire, she laughed. I could either wear my sweats, jeans, a dress, or my birthday suit as far as she was concerned. She liked to work out on her patio on warm days and suggested I keep a bathing suit here, or at least keep one in my bag.

Was I dreaming? The salary, the setting, the work, no navy-blue suits? Everything seemed surreal.

*****

Cynthia reached into the bread basket. So, what does the job entail, exactly?

Two people being seated near us grabbed my attention, and I wondered if they happened to be famous. The Ivy Restaurant on Robertson Boulevard, where we were having my celebratory lunch, was known worldwide for the celebrities who dined there, for the paparazzi who camped at the curb 24-7. The newcomers were unknowns, so I turned back toward Cyn.

Type her manuscripts, mostly. When we get to the end of a story, I’ll send it to New York, to her agent. She sends it by e-mail, then pops a hard copy in snail mail, for insurance. Start transcribing the next one after that one is off to the presses, I suppose. She produces a book a year. All the well-known authors try to do that, she said.

Cynthia reached for the butter. She’ll expect you to do more than that, won’t she?

I shrugged as I tore off a bit of roll. What do you mean? We didn’t talk about anything else. I won’t be expected to make coffee, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s Lucinda’s job. Lunch and snacks are included. I’ll probably get fat on Lucinda’s baking. She served cranberry muffins with our lemonade. I smiled. Ohmygod, Cyn. Don’t tell my mother, but the tiny bite I had was better than hers. I reached for my butter knife. I’m gonna gain ten pounds at that house.

Sounds ideal, Tiff. A to-die-for salary, unlimited quantities of free food, a Greta Garbo setting. What more could one want? You’ve hit the Mother Lode, my friend. Congratulations.

We both reached for our Chardonnay.

Clink!

I agreed. I had.

That night, I opened my laptop and read my novel’s first chapter for the umpteenth time.

Journal Entry: March 19, 1940

A beanpole of a man named Willie Rathborne walked into Erick, Oklahoma’s Christian Church Fellowship Hall in October of ’25, as though full of spit and vinegar. He quickly surveyed the room and then walked straight toward me as I stood in a nervous knot of giggling gals clustered against the wall. Seconds later, his calloused hand reached in my direction as a lopsided grin consumed his tanned, chiseled face. Why me? I asked him as he twirled me around the squeaky floor. He grinned that sweet grin again and said it was because I was wearing a lacey blue dress, and blue was his favorite color. Not only that, I looked like an angel to him, an angel come to save his soul. When I told him my name was Rose, he said that cinched it. His mother’s name was Rosa, and with that kind of destiny at work, how in the world could he lose?

From that moment on, I never wanted to dance with any other fella. Some people call that love at first sight, and maybe it was. I’ve never tried to pass as an expert on such matters. All I know is my parents weren’t too thrilled to see Willie at our door every day. He courted me like there was some sort of race going on. Like I was some kind of prized heifer he needed to save before the stockyard became my home. A month later, he asked Pa for my hand, and the next thing I knew, we were standing in front of Pastor Wiggins. That was November 21.

Just like everything else I came to learn about my husband, besides those brown eyes bursting with honesty and hope and a grin that held the world, Willie had an agenda. He had big goals and a strategy for making them come to pass. On our two-day-long honeymoon over in Elk City, we lay in our bridal bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, and he told me about the many acres of wheat he wanted to harvest. How big our spread would grow, as far as our eyes could see. Gesturing wide, he said they would be waving bands of golden glory on tall shafts, riches yielding in Oklahoma’s soft breezes. I blushed when he talked of how we would have a house full of children, music, and laughter. How our lives would be filled with joy and wonderful memories. How we would grow old together, sitting in side-by-side rocking chairs far into our elder years. Yes, Willie had all his goals firmly set in his mind, firmly set in his heart, and, I, as his freshly-plucked bride, believed everything he told me would come to pass.

He’d been driving a wheat combine on a spread north of Erick and was anxious to get back home to take care of his winter wheat there. Time was awastin’ he’d said. I was seventeen, and he was twenty-three—well past the age to take a wife and start a family. We were going to have a full life ahead of us, and he didn’t see any reason why we shouldn’t get started right away. Marrying a willing and able Christian gal was number one on his list.

Willie owned what every other successful young man who had two nickels owned…an old Model T…he named Tin Lizzy. Not the latest version, mind you, but a used one that ran real good, if you didn’t mind a dent here and there. It cost $275, a heap of money back then. But you see, it seems he had a knack for making anything work. If the engine wouldn’t turn over after a crank or two, he’d tinker with it until it did.

After those brief honeymoon days, he tossed my one small suitcase in the back seat, and off we went a sputterin’ and a firin’ in a westerly direction down Route 66 until we turned north toward Guymon. Back then, it wasn’t much more than a wet spot in the road, smack-dab in the middle of the Oklahoma panhandle. Still, it took me only one look to fall in love with the place—a green oasis in a land flat and wide in the dead of winter. Come summer, Willie warned me, it would be as hot as a Chinaman’s griddle.

We stopped in town for a bottle of pop on our way out to his spread, and he introduced me to Ed Rollins, the owner of Rollins’ General Store. Willie knew I’d want to make his acquaintance first as I would be buying all my staples from him. From there, he carted me around to three more places, showing me off like a kid with a brand-new red wagon. In Mabel’s Café, the men tipped their hats, and the women eyed me over real good, sizing up the newest filly in town. I was pleased as punch ’cuz after seeing them, I knew I had the best looker in the whole county. I didn’t say it, but I implied under no uncertain terms: Hands off, gals, this cowpoke is mine.

Willie’s pa, Floyd Rathborne, had claimed his spread on 160 acres three miles northwest of Guymon, along the south side of Beaver River’s watershed. Back in the 1880s, nobody owned that high prairie land. It had belonged to the Indians and the buffalo. When Floyd first saw it, he was riding drag at the tail end of about a thousand head of tough Longhorn cattle, pushing them hard along what was known as the Santa Fe Trail. His job was to keep the herd moving and to pick up strays, his boss neglecting to tell him it was the dustiest job of the bunch. After the prairie grass played out with so many crossings, his boss decided to call it quits. He divided his herd and gave Floyd twenty head for his own. From that moment on, Floyd Rathborne was a cattleman in his own right. A man with land and livestock made him respectable, made him Somebody.

When Willie was just a young boy, he asked his pa why he’d wanted to settle in such a godforsaken place. The only thing of interest to Willie had been the river where he spent all his spare time fishing and playing with the turtles and frogs, searching for arrowheads, or collecting the dry brittle shells the cicadas had shed. All his pa could do was say the wind had spoken to him, and in those days, that was plenty good enough. If my pa had said that to me as a girl growing up in Erick, I wouldn’t have known what he meant. But that first day, when Willie and I blustered into Guymon on a breeze strong and sweet, that wind spoke to me, too. Plain as day. I heard it sing my name like Willie’s pa had…and I knew I was home.

Chapter 2

After Lucinda’s greeting at the big gate, I pulled my car off to the side, just in case Ms. Mason had a visitor, making a mental note to ask where I should park each day. Hired help shouldn’t leave their eight-year-old, rickety blue Hondas right by the front door, should they?

Buenas días, Lucinda sang, opening one of the double doors. First day, sí?

Sí.

She in breakfast nook. Follow me. Lucinda shuffled off.

Following aromas of sausage, toast, and coffee, we exited the darkened foyer, turned right through the long dining room, taking much too short a time to have a thorough examination, and then into a pleasant, sunny space. Ms. Mason was seated at a round glass table looking at her iPad, a tiny white cup of espresso at her wrist.

She looked up as we entered. Aah, Tiffany, punctual I see.

Yes, Ms. Mason, I try. I couldn’t help but notice she was reading an article on the New York Time’s website—some critic’s comments regarding the Best Seller list.

Oh, please, call me Monique. Ms. Mason is for gray-haired spinsters.

Yes, ma’am.

And you can cut the ma’am, too. Keep that up and I’ll want to stop having my hair highlighted.

I chuckled. Roger.

She closed her iPad, shoved it to one side. Sit down, dear. Espresso?

No, thanks. I’ve already had my one cup, I said choosing a chair opposite hers. Can’t have too much caffeine or the jitters will set in.

Same with me, except in the mornings. Got to have my leaded Joe. Gets my muse running, full tilt.

Lucinda reached around me, and set down a crystal glass of ice water, a slice of lemon floating on top. Agua, Miss Tiffany?

I looked up. How thoughtful. Thank you. I immediately took a sip, showing my gratitude, catching Lucinda’s smile out of the corner of my eye.

Monique leaned forward. I’m on chapter 22 and just coming up to the climax. Got up at four to write. That’s an hour earlier than I usually do.

Wow, four?

Afraid so. She looked up at Lucinda disapprovingly. Would still be writing if Lucinda hadn’t forced me down here.

It was nine o’clock, and she was still wearing her nightgown and robe, an expensive, sexy crème ensemble that had easily cost as much as my month’s salary.

Monique took a sip of her espresso, grimaced. Lucinda, more sugar.

Sí, señora.

Lucinda immediately shuffled over and set down a small sugar bowl. Freshen up first, Miss Monique?

No, don’t bother. Just needs more sugar, so I can slug the thing down in one big gulp. Monique scooped two rounded teaspoons into the cup, stirred twice, and then inhaled it like a tequila shot.

Time for the tour, my dear, she said, standing, tightening the tie around her slim waist.

Great. I hopped up. I’m dying to see more of this fabulous house. How long have you lived here?

Nineteen years. Daddy always said to buy real estate, so I did, she said as I followed her into the darker dining room. With that first book advance, too, she continued. Was a hefty sum. Made a wise decision, didn’t I? Worth a few million now.

It’s stunning.

The dining room’s crystal chandelier was as big as a refrigerator. A magnificent Edgar Degas copy (or was it an original?) stretched eight feet wide above an antique sideboard. My breath caught in my throat. Could that possibly be a Rococo original? From the fifteenth century? Photos of the furnishings in the Versailles in Mother’s coffee table books rambled through my memory. Some very astute interior designer had mastered the eclectic look with just the right touches of French, Spanish, and contemporary influences. Two ornate iron candlesticks supporting three-pound candles anchored each end. Everything was huge, the scale fit for a giant, not a trim woman Monique’s size. A highly polished mahogany dining table twenty feet long, if it were an inch, swallowed up the center of the room. Twelve lush, fully upholstered chairs in beige suede rimmed it beautifully their edges studded with antique brass nail heads. Queen Elizabeth would have felt right at home for a State Dinner.

Do you do a lot of entertaining? I asked.

"Twice a year. When I finish a manuscript and when the book comes out. Back in the good ole days, I hosted a party often. Had to put on that face to all the big shots on the West Coast, you know. Now, I don’t really give a dang. I’ve made my mark. Forget them. Forget them all. Still, my publisher expects me to play the role of West Coast literary giant. She paused with a sigh. Do you know any film or book industry big shots, Tiffany?"

Me? Oh, no. I’m just one of the little people.

She laughed. Well, you’re much better off. My advice is to not play those games if you can get away with it. That’s one good thing about success and fame. You can make up your own rules, once you reach the top. The author at the top rules. She paused. Someone should tell my agent that.

I nodded.

We walked into the two-story foyer. Below are the wine cellar, a large media theater, and an indoor gym, she said, pointing off to our right.

I nodded, noticing stairs going down into a darker space.

Dropping from the second-floor cathedral ceiling, in the center of the circular foyer, hung another giant chandelier suspended directly over a round mahogany table showcasing a magnificent fresh bouquet at least three feet in diameter. I couldn’t help leaning in close to take a whiff—roses, stargazer lilies, gladiolas, and varieties I had no idea existed arranged to perfection.

I quickly caught up to Monique who was already climbing the white carpeted steps that wound around the foyer like a protective arm. The floating staircase’s hand-rubbed cherry handrail was supported by wrought iron balustrades adorned with scrolls, wine clusters and leaves, the artistic workmanship flawless.

In there, dear, she said, gesturing toward double doors just beyond the railing. I’ll change into something else while you snoop around. Please don’t touch anything, though. I’m quite fussy about order.

Of course. I wouldn’t dream of touch—

Glancing over, I noticed her gone. She’d turned left and had closed the double doors to her private suite.

Now at my left, was a huge Palladian window that overlooked the patio and generous backyard. I looked down and recognized the spot where she and I had talked the previous Friday. Next came a long hallway with at least seven doors, another set of stairs peeking out at the far end. I presumed those doors opening to guest rooms, linen closets, and bathrooms, the back stairs leading down to the kitchen. I quickly conjured up seeing a butler carrying luggage to one of the bedrooms for none other than Marilyn Monroe in 1952, a weekend guest of whoever owned this old house before Monique bought it. No doubt, I was walking in history, taking tiny footsteps where greats had once tread. Maybe Clark Gable. Judy Garland. An awesome anxiety lodged in my throat, and I suddenly wanted to stretch out my arms and shout over the railing, I’m queen of the world!

The room directly ahead with opened double doors was her library. If she’d had a receptionist, she would have sat there guarding the inner sanctum. A tight conversation grouping of three white love seats banked in front of a massive fireplace. Over the mantel was a huge reproduction (or was it another priceless original?) of Picasso’s Bullfight I, the famous piece recognized around the world with its distinctive black images superimposed on a solid red background. After closing my innocent and naïve mouth that had dropped open, I looked through another set of double doors to see a large glass desk, one for which every CEO in Hollywood would gladly have given his first movie percentage. I halted in my tracks, thinking she wouldn’t want me to go that far. She hadn’t extended an invitation exactly.

Out here in her library, I was surrounded by a sea of cherrywood paneling and bookshelves full of books, trophies, pictures of Monique in gilded frames. Photos of her holding her latest book, crystal champagne flutes in hand, designer gowns, diamonds ricocheting off the photographer’s lenses. Pictures of her with Jay Leno, David Letterman, Regis, and former President George W. Bush with Mrs. Bush at the White House. Grand mementos of her fame and success.

I walked closer to study her book collection. A large matching set with gilded binding caught my eye: Of Mice and Men, War and Peace, The Grapes of Wrath. Many of the classics. The complete works of Shakespeare. I didn’t want to examine them, but I’m sure a few were first editions. Priceless jewels. Damaging one of these babies on my first day would certainly have called for the guillotine. A chill crept down my spine recalling she’d said to not touch.

Monique bustled in, her hair pulled back with a clip. She was wearing jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Sandals.

"You