JANE DEYRE: A Contemporary Retelling, page 24
“Bertie?”
She cranks the key again. “Bertrand. Edwina’s late husband. This guesthouse is where he used to work. Sometimes sleep.”
Bertrand Mason, I think to myself, the author of Miracle in the Rain, who tragically died in a sailing accident shortly after Charlotte’s kidnapping. Whose body was never found. Presumed to have been ravaged by sharks. A possible suicide. A chill falls over me. What a horrible way to die!
I hold my breath as I watch Ms. Fairfax turn the tarnished knob and push the door open. Without hesitation, she steps inside and flicks on the light. A ceiling fan begins to spin at full speed, the whir sounding much like the chattering of teeth. Is this the weird clinking sound I’ve heard at night? If so, who’s been turning it on?
Ms. Fairfax cuts my thoughts short, her voice curt. “Come look for yourself.”
I cross the threshold and my eyes take in the room. It’s about the same size as mine with a single window, the lower half of it boarded up by a plank of plywood and the top half covered by a yellowing shade. Against one wall, there’s what looks to be a daybed covered by a canvas drop cloth. Across from it a closet. Everywhere else there are stacks of sealed cardboard boxes. A few nautical paintings dot the walls. Along with some cobwebs in the corners.
I sneeze. The dust is getting to me.
“Do you want to look under the bed?” Ms. Fairfax asks. “Maybe you’ll find the boogey man.”
Her words are barbed with sarcasm. Like a scared, silly little girl, I pad over to the bed. I squat down and lift up the drop cloth. I sneeze again. There’s nothing under the bed but a thick layer of dust. And a single dead spider. I stand up.
Ms. Fairfax smirks. “Did you find him?”
I don’t answer. My eyes scoot to the closet. “Can I look inside the closet?”
Ms. Fairfax folds her arms again. “Be my guest.”
She waits in one spot while I tread over to it. I turn the knob and swing the creaky door open. I peer inside. It’s not what you’d call a walk-in closet. It’s small and narrow, with racks of men’s clothing on either side. Meticulously arranged by suits, slacks, and shirts. The suits and slacks mostly solid gray or tan, the button-down shirts mostly white or light blue. There’s a single shelf above each rack, both lined with shoeboxes. All from Brooks Brothers, marked size 10 D. Some with brown-laced leather oxfords sitting on the lids. There is also a floor-to-ceiling shelf along the back wall, with stacks of neatly folded dark-colored cardigan sweaters and jacquard ties. Plus blue-and-white-striped boxers and pajamas. I have to admit, reader, that it’s kind of creepy being in a dead person’s closet. I shudder, half-expecting his body to fall out from nowhere like in a horror movie. My eyes ping-pong between the two racks of clothing before I cast my gaze down. I don’t see any feet on the floor. Or dead bodies. Just for good measure, I yank the string that’s hanging from the single, naked light bulb screwed into the ceiling. Click. It doesn’t turn on. The bulb must have burned out.
“Are we done yet?” I hear Ms. Fairfax call out, the tone of her voice impatient and impertinent.
After one more once-over, I exit the closet. Ms. Fairfax faces me. “Did you find anything? Some dangling skeletons? Or maybe a ghost flew out from the walls?”
More sarcasm. I shake my head. She looks at me with contempt.
“I didn’t think you would. It’s all in your wicked imagination. You’re delusional!”
I know I haven’t been imagining things. I’ve heard the weird noises too many times. I don’t feel safe here at night. Actually, at all.
“Ms. Fairfax, could you possibly call the locksmith again to install a new lock so I can lock my bedroom door from the outside as well?” I suppose I could ask handy Mr. Rochester to install one, but I don’t want to trouble him. And I surely don’t want him to think I’m some kind of scaredy cat. Or delusional nutjob.
She huffs. “I wish you’d asked me earlier. The locksmith has been on and off the premises all month and was just here to put a latch on your bedroom door. And now, I have to call him yet again. Another time suck.” She glances down at her watch. “I have more important things to attend to. Thank you once again, Miss Deyre, for wasting my precious time. Please be back at the house by half past twelve for lunch.”
With brutal finality, she stomps out of the room, me close behind her. She locks the door and heads to the entrance of the guesthouse while I stop into my room. I hear the front door slam closed while I find my bathing suit. A swim in the pool is just what I need to chill.
CHAPTER 48
Jane
As promised, I take Adele to the pool after lunch. Dressed in a conservative one-piece swim suit, a straw hat, and sunglasses, all of which I ordered online, and bathed in lots of sunscreen, I’m seated on one of the lounge chairs and keep an eagle eye on her as she frolics in the water. Though she can now swim, well at least do a doggy paddle, I’ve made her wear her floaties and stay in the shallow end. I’m not a strong enough swimmer to rescue her should she flounder.
“Jane!”
A familiar voice diverts my attention. I take my eyes off Adele for a second and see Ward jogging my way. Dressed in khaki shorts, a white linen shirt, Topsiders, and his Wayfarers. Holding a padded envelope in one hand, he sits down on the edge of my lounger. His face is brimming with excitement.
Reaching inside the envelope, he slips out a hardcover book and hands it to me. My eyes widening, I gaze at the glossy cover jacket. It’s a photo of young Edwina in her red gown, identical to the portrait above the fireplace. The title: The Queen of Thornhill: A Memoir . . . By Edwina Rochester and W.W. Rochester.
“Oh my God!”
“It’s an advanced copy . . . a bound galley . . . hot off the press. Open it.”
“I’m afraid to. I have sunscreen all over my fingers.”
He opens it for me and flips the pages until he gets to the title page. On the opposite page, there’s a handwritten inscription. I read it.
To my beautiful Jane Deyre~
Who inspires me, makes me feel alive, every minute of the day.
My next book will be dedicated to you. And the next and the next and the next.
Yours~ WWR
My hand flies to my thudding heart as my mouth falls open. My eyes mist and meet his.
“You want me to have this book?” My voice quivers. No one’s ever given me a book before. Let alone a signed first edition. From the author himself.
He chuckles. “Well, it does have your name on it. In ink. So I can’t quite give it to someone else unless you happen to know another Jane Deyre.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, I utter only two little words. “I don’t.”
Lifting the rim of my floppy hat, he smacks a kiss on my lips. “I don’t either. You’re a one and only, Jane Deyre. A rare bird.” He’s about to kiss me again, this time cradling my face, when Adele’s cheery voice fills our ears. We quickly break away and look in her direction. She waves at her father.
“Papa! Come into the pool!”
“Maybe later.”
Cocking her head, she gives him a coy look. “Are you going to kiss Jane again?”
My precocious girl knows.
“Maybe later.”
“Promise?”
Taking off his sunglasses, he winks at his daughter and holds up a pinky. “Promise.”
“Bien!” With an ear-to-ear grin, she floats off, vigorously kicking her little feet.
Ward looks at me, with a cocky smile and a devilish glint in his eyes. “Well, Miss Deyre, promises should be kept…”
Before I can take my next breath, he steals another kiss. Hot and fierce like the sun.
Still kissing me passionately, he kicks off his shoes and tears off his clothes.
“Jane, I need to cool off,” he mumbles before surrendering my lips.
I blink my eyes open and catch my breath. He’s now clad in his swim trunks. I can’t get my eyes off him. His washboard abs and muscular limbs. And that face of an Adonis. They never cease to make my heart pitter-patter.
He sets the book on the table beside me and then sweeps me into his arms.
“I’ve got another promise to keep.” His eyes burning into mine, he plucks the spaghetti straps of my swim suit. As if he’s playing with my heartstrings. Totally turning me on. “And, Miss Deyre, like it or not, you’re coming with me.”
A few rapt breaths later, with a joyous Adele splashing around us, the man I love holding me, I’m floating on water. I’m floating in air.
Reader, I ask you: Can my life get any better?
That evening Ward makes heart-stopping love to me in his room. Usually, I hate to leave him, but tonight I’m eager to get back to the guesthouse. Eager to start The Queen of Thornhill.
Coming off our stratospheric orgasms, bared to each other, I lie on top of him, anchoring my hands on his broad shoulders to lift my upper body. I gaze into his smoldering eyes. With a dreamy smile, he strokes my hair, traces lazy circles on my chest, and kisses a very sensitive spot beneath my chin.
“Jane, stay with me. Read the memoir here with me. I want to watch you read it. I want to hear what you think.”
The temptation is great. “Ward, I can’t. It’s too risky.”
“What are you afraid of, my love? I’m here to protect you. I’d slay dragons for you if I had to.”
“Would you slay that dragon woman?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Ms. Fairfax. She’s out to get me . . . and will do anything within her power.”
“Forget about her. Stay.”
I roll off him, then slide off the bed before he can hold me back, and quickly don my clothes. Then, grab the book off his nightstand.
“Goodnight, Mr. Rochester,” I say and hurry out of the room.
I depart Thornhill as usual through the servants’ entrance, and as I jog along the pebbled path to the guesthouse, I look over my shoulder. Watching me from her second-floor window, her arms folded, is Ms. Fairfax. A shiver skitters down my spine. She smirks at me, as if she’s watched and heard my every move and word, before yanking the curtains closed.
I’m still shaken when I get to the guesthouse. And because all the lights are on when I know for sure I turned them off, my nerves grow more jittery. Somebody’s been inside it. The locksmith? One of the groundskeepers who’ve been here to clean up the front yard? Maybe the Wi-Fi guy? Clutching the book, I hurry to my bedroom. The first thing I note is my door is ajar. Nothing’s been done so that I can lock it from the outside. Cautiously, I step inside. My eyes circle the room. The last thing they land on is my vision board.
My heart does a flip-flop and I gasp. The Hollywood star with my name is missing. And so is my photo of Thornhill. In their place is a photo of an old cemetery with tombstones. Someone has written my name on one of them. With my birth year. Beneath it: The crazy bitch deserved to die. I swallow past the ball of horror in my throat and take a deep, fortifying breath. For sure, this has to be Ms. Fairfax’s doing. She practically called me insane this afternoon. I rip off the photo from the board and crumple it in my hand. I’m not going to let her mess with my head. Get in the way of my dreams. Tomorrow, I’ll draw a new star with my name and tack it onto my vision board.
After a quick bathroom run, I shed my clothes for my pajamas, lock the door, and climb into bed with Edwina’s memoir in my hand. Eager to commence. Hoping I won’t hear strange noises from the room next door.
Once I start, I cannot stop. I begin with Ward’s heartfelt foreword. A testament to his lifelong love for his godmother and his desire to share her incredible story with the world. My eyes are already misting. Then, I dive into the first chapter and I’m quickly pulled in by the opening paragraph:
Every person has a story.
Every house has a story.
If walls could talk . . .
Alas, they can’t. God made them mute.
So I will speak for them. Be their voice.
I am the Queen of Thornhill.
And this is our story . . .
The prose is tight yet lyrical. So beautiful. So emotive. Rather than glomming on to every word, my eyes race over them. Flipping the pages, unable to stop. Yes, it’s that good. Reader, you should read it for yourself, but let me share the gist of it. You will get to know the legendary Edwina Rochester. Understand her and feel for her equally. You will also gasp and shed some tears. When you learn her shocking secrets.
Edwina was born on December 12, 1956 to Edward and Elizabeth Rochester right here at Thornhill. Her father was the scion of Byron Rochester, the self-made head of Paradigm Studios, which he founded in the late thirties. By the time Edward was running the studio, he was worth millions. And soon a billion thanks to being a ruthless businessman. And the star power of his precious daughter.
From early on, Elizabeth had a love-hate relationship with her beautiful daughter. She was the apple of her father’s eye and manifested at an early age extraordinary talent. Despite his wife’s protestations, Edward gave her singing, dancing, and acting lessons from the very best. There was only one problem with the dancing lessons . . . Edwina was born with a sixth toe on her right foot. A rare physical anomaly known as polydactylism. This was a source of great embarrassment to her parents, who demanded perfection in their child. For Edwina, it was a source of pain and conflict.
The kids at the elite private school I attended mockingly called me a six-toed monkey. But I loved my sixth toe. It made me special. I even had a name for him: Mr. Pinky. It repulsed my perfectionist mother. It repulsed my perfectionist father. Most significantly, it got in the way of my ability to dance . . . so my father unbeknownst to me, ordered a doctor to amputate it. My mother conspired with him, tricking me into going to the doctor for a general checkup. Complete with a visit to Cee Cee Brown’s for an ice cream sundae. Three hours later, I woke up at home and Mr. Pinky was gone. A plaster cast in his place. I couldn’t walk on my foot for weeks. And even when I finally could, it hurt. Over sixty years later, it still hurts. Phantom pain, my doctor has said. The pattern of my life was set. A precious part of me taken from me. The worst was yet to come.
I read about this rare condition with great interest. As I do, the bone spur on my right foot aches. A simpatico feeling? My mind flashes back to the time when John Reed shot me with his BB gun and I fell from the tree and broke my ankle. The emergency room doctor who set my foot noticed the spur and asked me if it hurt. I told him it sometimes did and felt like the bone was trying to burst through the skin. The X-rays suggested I may have had an extra toe at some point. I never thought much about it after that, though the pain still persisted from time to time.
A fast reader, I turn the pages quickly. My interest piqued with every word. The beautiful, no-longer-deformed child star grew into a beautiful woman. As beguiling as she was beautiful. By the time she was twenty-one, she had over two dozen movies to her name. Each one more successful than the one before. Edwina was already a legend. A box office sensation. A gorgeous sexpot with raven-black hair and violet eyes. A vixen whose wild, glamorous life America couldn’t get enough of. Her scandalous sexcapades filled the tabloids; she was linked to a string of lovers. One notorious actor after another. Warren Beatty. Steve McQueen, Jack Nicholson. Mel Gibson. Even some prominent politicians, including a future unnamed president.
Then tragedy struck. When she was twenty-five, both her parents perished in a plane crash, leaving her their vast fortune, Paradigm Studios, and Thornhill. The beautiful heiress sold the studio to Paramount for another small fortune and took up residence at Thornhill. America’s fascinating sweetheart became known as the Queen of Thornhill.
Dalliances with the world’s richest, most powerful men ensued, but none seemed to fulfill her. As soon as one was cast off, another replaced him. Until she met Bertrand Mason, the author of the critically acclaimed Pulitzer Prize–nominated bestseller, Miracle in the Rain, the basis of her eagerly anticipated, latest movie. Meeting him for the first time at her agent, Max Fuller’s office, it was love at first sight for the both of them.
He was unlike any man I’d known before. Bookish. Not too tall. Conservative in his appearance. Though a man of words, tongue-tied in my presence. That was the charm of him. His allure. I’d brought along a copy of his book for him to sign. As I watched him sign it, he grew handsome to me. He had extraordinary hands, his fingers long and tapered, and beneath his horn-rim spectacles, were caramel-colored eyes that melted with lust for me. What he wrote made me fall fast and hard in love with him.
To Edwina Rochester~
The most beautiful woman I have ever set eyes on. The woman who will make Miracle in the Rain come alive.
And immortalize Anabelle Bright in the hearts of fans around the world.
Thank you from the bottom of my loving heart . . .
~Bertrand Mason
Two weeks later they eloped in Las Vegas. Stunning the world with their shotgun marriage. Edwina added Bertrand’s surname to hers, but to the world she remained the legendary Edwina Rochester.
The following February, Edwina won her first Oscar for her moving portrayal of Anabelle Bright, the tragic protagonist of Miracle in the Rain. A movie that shocked the public with its sexual boldness and Edwina’s full-frontal nudity as she made love in the rain to her co-star, Hollywood heartthrob Malcolm Carr.
Despite Edwina’s Oscar and several others, Miracle in the Rain didn’t win Best Adapted Screenplay or Best Picture (those awards instead both going to The French Connection) nor did Bertrand win any literary prize for his novel. It was, in fact, the last novel he would ever write.
While Edwina’s career continued to soar, being offered more movie roles than she could take on, Bertrand’s career began to sink. His agent dropped him and the literary world ridiculed him, calling him a one-book wonder and “Mr. Edwina Rochester.” He began to spend less and less time with Edwina, holing himself up in his office—the guesthouse—staring at a blank page of paper in his typewriter. Yet, Edwina stood by his side, despite her social secretary, Alice Fairfax, suggesting he was having an affair and urging her to leave him. And gossip magazines constantly featuring headlines like:
