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Chapter Eighteen

“How did you get that?” I ask. “ Where did you get that?”

Jess and I are standing outside GiGi’s office. She is holding the skeleton key GiGi used to wear around her neck.

“Do you actually think Mom would let GiGi be buried with this around her neck?” Jess rolls her eyes. “She waited until everyone was gone and took it.”

“I don’t know whether to be mortified or thrilled at her foresight.”

“With Mom, it’s totally normal to feel both emotions.”

“And?” I ask. “Where did you find it?”

“It’s always been in the safe in Mom and Dad’s bedroom here. Mom told me about it one night after a martini and three glasses of wine.”

“How do you know the code to their safe?”

“It pays to be nice to Mom,” Jess says with a smile. “And she’s a total narcissist anyway. The code isn’t a number, it’s the name of her first book, Tethered .”

“You’re good,” I say.

“You’re just starting to appreciate my unique talents.”

“I feel like an intruder standing here,” I say. “Like I shouldn’t be here. Have you ever been in here before?”

“Of course,” she says. “I snooped around after GiGi died.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jess points at my mouth and makes a big circle around it with her hands.

As Jess inserts the key, the GiGi-Marcus quote echoes in my brain: A secret is like an acorn: whether or not it ever grows to see the light depends on how deep you bury it.

“I’m nervous.”

“I think you’re going to be shocked.”

Before I can ask why, the old, thick, heavy door creaks open in an appropriately creepy, Stephen King sort of way. I flinch as if GiGi is on the other side waiting to catch us.

I expect a rush of ghosts and spirits to fly out and enter my body as payback for disobeying GiGi, but her office looks, well, like an office.

“Told you,” Jess says. “Super boring.”

It’s dusty for sure, and a few cobwebs billow in the corners for effect, but GiGi was meticulous, as are my parents, and even without much use the last few years, everything looks as if my grandmother just stepped out for lunch.

There is a row of file cabinets of varying size that look as if they were plucked from Dunder Mifflin stacked along the tallest wall away from the dormer. Wooden bookshelves are perched beneath the angled walls. These, surprisingly, are not organized. Some shelves are stacked with books, one atop another, while others resemble piano keys, with spines jutting forward as if they were pulled out and replaced quickly. Tucked into an eave is a closet.

And then I see it.

My grandmother’s desk.

I’ve only seen it in person a few times in my life. Once, when I came charging in when she’d forgotten to lock the door.

“Out, scout!” she had yelled, without turning.

Another time, South Haven experienced an entire summer of nonstop rain: cold temperatures and lake effect precipitation drenched the coast day after day. The roof began to leak into my grandma’s office, and workers were in and out of the house for weeks. My grandmother was so unnerved she got shingles. My father had to come and stay with her, and the two of them hid away in her bedroom, Jess and I delivering meals while my mother stayed in the city.

“I have too much work,” I could hear GiGi say to my father. “Too many deadlines. Help me.”

A roofer looked at her one afternoon and said, “Geez, lady, just sit in your beautiful kitchen and work.”

“I can’t work in public !” she cried.

There is only one photo I know of that captured GiGi sitting at her desk. It was in an old shoebox I found crammed in the back of her closet after she died. I wouldn’t let anyone touch GiGi’s belongings. I went through the pictures, one by one, as if my life depended on it. I nearly threw the shoebox away, thinking it was empty. But there she was, young, raven-haired, bewitching, intense, hunched over a mountain of papers, fountain pen in her hand as if she was about to use it as a sword to vanquish the invisible demons that surrounded her.

And on her lips? The most knowing smile.

And her face? The most knowing look.

I kept that photo on my desk at college. Now I keep it in a box awaiting a future desk of my own. One like hers.

GiGi’s desk is placed directly beneath the eyebrow window. Light pours in through the small window, illuminating the arched wood that surrounds it.

I run my hands over its surface.

It is a vintage rolltop desk, burnished wood, large and imposing. GiGi once said it took four men to get the desk in here, and that they stopped—midway up the steps, backs breaking—until she agreed to double their wages.

The desk has four drawers on each side of the kneehole. A wooden chair on brass casters—with a pretty floral cushion—is pushed beneath it.

I place my hand on the rolled top and speak directly to it.

“Why would the author’s name be part of the motto of the state flag? Why would every book’s Acknowledgments spell out I Am GiGi Page ? Why would that old woman say GiGi wrote her story? Why would GiGi quote this author? And why would Marcus Flare use the exact same quote decades later?”

I take a seat in GiGi’s chair.

“Tell me, GiGi. Please.”

For the first time, I realize this is the only room in Eyebrow Cottage that doesn’t have expansive windows or a beautiful view.

As if she didn’t want an ounce of distraction.

Or attention.

I look at Jess, take a breath and roll open the desk.

Nothing, save for a pen sitting all alone.

“Told ya,” Jess says.

I open the drawers on each side.

Files, categorized: bank, electric, gas, taxes—federal, state, property—car. Each filled with old bills. GiGi never went electronic. In anything.

I get up and walk to the file cabinets along the wall.

More files, these organized by the names of GiGi’s boarders over the years, paper statements with PAID stamped on them, old checks.

“Nothing,” I say, my voice lifeless.

“I mean, this can’t be coincidence, can it?” Jess says. “She was spelling out her name for the world to see. What are we not seeing?”

I feel beyond helpless, so perplexed that my legs feel weak. I take a seat, cross-legged, on the Persian rug that’s as faded as the type on those old statements. Jess joins me, and we just sit in silence.

See, Emma. See something!

I look beyond Jess toward the bookshelves that are home to the S. I. Quaeris novels that used to line her library. The covers call to me like a siren. I crawl over to them and begin to pull the novels off one at a time, studying them before turning to the Acknowledgments that recite the same thing over and over: I AM GIGI PAGE .

“What are you doing?” Jess asks.

“I have absolutely no clue.”

“Do you think maybe you’re just coming to terms with selling the cottage, and this is a final goodbye to GiGi and all its memories?” Jess asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I look up at Jess and smile wanly. “Maybe.”

I mindlessly continue to pull book after book from the shelf, stacking them before me, touching each one.

I get up and walk over to the closet.

“Ouch!”

I bump my head on the sloped ceiling, as GiGi always seemed to do, emerging from her office rubbing a knot or sporting a Band-Aid on her forehead.

“How you doing, Grace?” Jess asks, repeating the line GiGi would say whenever someone would trip.

I open the closet. It is deep and oddly shaped. At the front, there are rods holding hanging blankets and quilts, sweatshirts and hoodies.

“What’s in there?” Jess asks. “I forgot.”

“Stuff to keep GiGi warm when she worked early in the morning or late at night.”

“Oh, yeah. She was always chilly, wasn’t she?”

I reach out and touch an old football blanket—plaid and square—that GiGi used to carry around the house like Linus on chilly, damp days. A vintage Michigan hoodie catches my eyes. I pull it free, thinking I might wear it when I write. I grab the hanger and turn to Jess.

“No wire hangers!” I yell, impersonating Faye Dunaway doing Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest . “No wire hangers ever !”

“Save that so we can give it to Mom for Christmas,” Jess jokes.

I laugh and turn back into the closet.

And that’s when I see it.

I lift the hanger as I need to use it as a weapon.

At first glance, I thought it might be someone standing in the back of the closet, but as I lean closer, I see that it is a standing safe. A big one. Hidden behind the rows of hanging quilts and hoodies.

“A safe?” I say, the words coming out as a husky whisper.

“What?” Jess asks.

I find my voice.

“A safe!”

Jess comes running.

“Ouch!”

“You banged your head, too, didn’t you, Grace?” I joke, calling her by the name GiGi would use when we’d do something clumsy.

“Oh, my gosh,” Jess says when she sees the safe.

We pull the blankets and sweaters off the hangers and squeeze into the open space.

“Safe cracking is obviously your superpower!” I say.

“GiGi’s birthday?” she asks.

Jess spins the lock left and right and back again, ear close, listening.

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

“My birthday?” I suggest.

“Narcissist,” she laughs.

Jess tries again.

“Nope.”

“Try Dad’s,” I say.

Jess enters the code. Nothing.

I then remember what she said about Mom and Dad’s safe.

“It’s not a number, it’s a name,” I say. “Try S. I. Quaeris.”

I hear a soft click. The safe pops open.

I pretty much shove Jess out of the way.

I grab my cell, turn on the flashlight and shine it inside.

A shoebox sits in front. I pull it free.

“Look!” I say.

Phillip is written in GiGi’s script on top.

I open it.

There is a Polaroid of my father sitting at a childhood desk—both tiny and adorable—holding a fountain pen. Phillip’s writing desk is written in the white frame of the photo. There is another Polaroid of my father holding a wrapped present in GiGi’s library beside the giant grandfather clock that used to stand sentinel. It looks like Big Ben next to my tiny tot of a dad, and he is pointing at the time: 7:30. Phillip’s 5th Birthday! On the dot!

Beneath the photos is a Bible with my father’s name inside, a well-worn copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull , also with my dad’s name inside the cover, plus an old journal. I open it, and every lined page is filled with a poem or story.

“Can you believe it? This was all Dad’s,” I say. “He was a born writer.” I look at Jess. “He actually had a Bible? Logical, analytical Dad? And he’s always made fun of how simplistic Jonathan Livingston Seagull is. He used to chide GiGi for reading it to me.” I hold up the journal. “Look how prolific he used to be.”

I throw a hand over my mouth to hold back a scream of surprise.

“He wrote a poem called ‘The Beach Is My Happy Place.’” I read. “‘Hello, Mr. Sun, We are going to have so much fun.’”

Jess laughs.

“What did they do with our father?” she asks. “I’d love to see the poetry that he and Mom wrote when they were young.” Jess catches my eye. “But these are just family mementoes, Emma, that GiGi squirreled away like any grandmother would do. Hidden memories that meant something to her. Nothing more.”

I set down the box filled with my dad’s childhood, and I shine my flashlight into the safe again.

Nothing.

I go deeper into the safe with my hand and the light.

I gasp.

“What?” Jess asks.

“Look!”

The back of the safe is filled with a stack of paper, hundreds of pages, all written in fountain pen, held together by a rubber band. I pull them out to show her.

First draft

The Summer of Lost it’s voice that sets them apart, that brings those stories to life, that makes the personal universal, that connects us all.

Best of luck, and please reach out if you consider redrafting.

Regards,

Vivian Vandeventer, VV Literary

“That’s why they hate VV,” Jess says.

“Mom and Dad couldn’t get published,” I add. “Their own work was rejected. Is that why they started The Mighty Pages? To have a way to publish their own work? Is that why they call themselves New York Times bestsellers…because of GiGi’s books and their part in writing them? Do they want to sell this cottage and leave Michigan and GiGi’s memory behind because it’s a reminder of what they can’t face? They never found their true voice. This place haunts them because they still feel the sting of rejection.”

“It all sounds very Piper, you can’t deny that,” Jess says, shaking her head. “I’m in shock. I can’t believe they knew all along.”

At the end of the flash drive is a folder that reads NEVER SHARE, PHIL! EVER! PROMISE ME!

I take a breath and open it.

Phil:

Received call from a woman, who said: ‘I know who you are. I’ve figured it out. S. I. Quaeris is Pauline Page. My offer to you is this: Help me become a writer, or I will finish what Ignatius Marcuzzi didn’t. I need your ideas—lots of them—and your influence. If I receive that, you and your family will remain safe.’

“Oh, my God!” Jess says, her voice echoing in GiGi’s office. “She was blackmailed. After everything she went through.”

I click another email in folder.

“Dad wanted to go to the police,” I read. “GiGi refused.”

I scan the folder.

“No more emails about it between Dad and GiGi,” I continue, “but…”

“What?” Jess asks.

“GiGi took notes of the calls with the woman.” I read those. “‘I can help you. I have some ideas to kick-start your first novel and career, and I’ve written a first chapter for you as well. Once we have a manuscript, I would be happy to introduce you to my publisher. Just don’t involve my family. Please. I beg of you. They’re all I have in this world.’”

We both pick up our cells, fingers flying.

“Ignatius Marcuzzi went to jail for what he did to GiGi,” Jess says, showing me an old newspaper article. “Eight years. It was his third offense and home invasion all targeting women in the area.” Jess reads. “Oh, my gosh. He died mysteriously in prison.”

She continues.

“His wife lied to give him an alibi,” the article says. “Said he was home with her, although GiGi and the boarders identified him.”

“What was his wife’s name?” I ask. “Does it say?”

Jess scans her cell, eyes darting back and forth.

“Jeannette,” she says.

I google Jeannette Marcuzzi.

“Ooh, I found an article that mentions her,” I say. “She had a son named Avery who won a poetry contest as a kid. It was about how he missed his father in jail.”

“Sad,” Jess says, coolly. “But I don’t think that helps us.”

I stare up at the light glimmering through the Eyebrow Cottage, a shimmering blur of sunshine and the lake.

I look down at all of her books, a family legacy unearthed.

S. I. Quaeris.

“Latin,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” Jess asks.

I look at her.

“It’s not a dead language at all,” I say. “It’s still speaking to me.”

“Are you okay?”

I do another Google search.

“Oh, my God,” I say.

“What?”

“The Latin word for fire is ignis ,” I say. “Ignatius means fiery.”

“I’m not following,” Jess says.

“Ignatius Marcuzzi,” I say. “Marcus Flare . Get it? Fire is the common denominator. Marcus Flare is a pen name to honor his father, Jess! He used his mother to call and threaten GiGi on his behalf. He still wants to destroy our family because he believes GiGi destroyed his.”

“Oh, my God, Emma. Are you sure? That sounds…insane.”

“Why else would he use the exact same quote in his book that GiGi used decades earlier? Even you said he came out of nowhere. Why would a man like Marcus Flare write fiction for women? Because GiGi helped him start. His books may still be popular, but why do many readers and critics find them to be so poorly written now? Because she’s not here to give him any more ideas. His goal is to ruin our parents’ literary reputation with this secret, which will taint their company and legacy. Then he can do what he wants.”

I look at Jess and continue.

“And that’s why he wants to ruin our family! We took his father away. Now he still wants revenge even though GiGi made him who he is.”

“The swan protecting her flock,” Jess says.

“What do we do?” I ask. “We have to tell Mom and Dad everything.”

I grab my cell.

“No, not yet!” Jess says. “They have a legal contract with Marcus, which I know that his lawyers largely drafted because Mom and Dad were so desperate. I heard our attorney say it was ironclad, and protected all of Marcus’s interests. What if they tried to call it off, and he sued them? He could win. At the very least, he could outspend and outlast them in court.”

“But the media would call him out,” I say. “We have proof.”

“And America trusts the media these days?” my sister asks facetiously. “As a social media pro, I know he would spin it on us somehow, revealing who GiGi was and that Mom and Dad were ashamed of her, or tried to steal her work. I mean, it’s not completely untrue, is it?”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“Call Mom and accept the offer to work with Marcus. We need to stay as close to him as we can.”

I pick up my cell.

“Hi, Mom,” I say when she answers. “Jess is here, and she’s talked some sense into me finally. I know, can you believe it? And I’m thrilled to say I’ve come to a decision and that I’d love to accept the opportunity to work with Marcus and learn from the best. Hopefully, that will lead to a job with you.”

My mother actually screams in delight.

“Oh, I have another call,” I lie, not wanting to say the wrong thing when my head is spinning in a million directions. “Talk soon. Bye!”

When I hang up, I look at Jess.

“What next?”

“We’re going to utilize GiGi’s game plan,” Jess says. “And yours to stay close to Marcus as well as mine.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re going to school Marcus. A little old school coupled with a little new school. We are going to do what women have always had to do to win over the years—break the rules while playing within them. Is your book really as good as you think it is?”

I remember VV’s words.

“I do.”

“Send it to me,” Jess says calmly, “and then—God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this—I want you to send it to VV.”

“Is this the right time?”

“We have no time,” Jess says. “So, yeah, it’s the right time.”

“And then?”

“And then you and I are going to gather our swans,” she says. “And we will remain elegant until we need to turn vicious. We have to do it the right way, or we will lose to this monster.”

She picks up one of GiGi’s books and looks at the cover before holding it before her like a shield.

“We will protect our flock no matter what,” Jess says. “Nobody fucks with our family unless their last name is Page.”