She arrived at the end of her paved driveway, slowed her pace, and walked in small circles to catch her breath and cool down.
The weeping willow in her front yard stood in graceful tranquility. Letting her eyes fall closed, Gwen inhaled the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms from the orchard across the street. Toward the east, the sunrise glowed over the distant ridge on the horizon. The valley was stunningly beautiful, and Gwen was astounded by a feeling of rapture. It had been a while since she’d felt such enchantment. Perhaps it was the endorphins from the run, mixed with the scent of spring blossoms that told her summer was on its way.
She was ready for it. It had been a long, cold winter.
Gwen turned and climbed her front steps, opened the door, and entered the house—a two-story colonial with cedar shakes, warped and weather beaten to a soft pale gray. On the inside, it had been lovingly restored with a tasteful mix of historical charm and contemporary styles,including all the latest conveniences in the modern kitchen. She and Eric had spent an entire year on the renovations before they’d moved into the house—though Eric hadn’t been able to enjoy it for long.
Gwen stopped in the foyer and pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. Why did she do this to herself? She had just been marveling at the sunrise and feeling hopeful for the first time in ages. Why did she have to spoil it by thinking about Eric? He was gone. She had to accept it. Their marriage was over, and she had to stop dreaming that he would eventually come back. It had been a full year since he’d left, so the time had come to accept things the way they were.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep, cleansing breath, Gwen forced herself to tuck those thoughts away.You must think of something else.
What time was it? There. She needed to get ready for work.
Gwen opened her eyes and ran up the stairs to turn on the shower.
A half hour later, Gwen was dressed for work in a rust-colored pencil skirt, a matching sweater, and black pumps. She stood in her quiet kitchen and poured coffee into a travel mug. Then she remembered something. Today was the twenty-third of May. She was supposed to meet with someone—an American writer who had sent an email over a week ago to inform her of his intention to visit the museum. He’d explained that he was working on a biography about Scarlett and requested access to the archives. He wasn’t the first writer to visit the museum—there had been many over the years—but he was the first to have a six-figure contract with a major New York publishing house.
“Shoot,” Gwen said as she snapped the cover onto her travel mug, grabbed her purse, and walked out the front door to her car.
The Scarlett Fontaine Museum was housed in a large Victorian mansion in the small town of Wolfville, Nova Scotia. It was the childhood home of Ms.Fontaine, a famous Hollywood movie star and fashion icon of the 1960s and ’70s. Born as Valerie McCarthy in the Annapolis Valley in 1942, Scarlett had traveled to New York after high school to pursue her dreams of becoming an actress. After a year in Manhattan, she had moved to Hollywood, where she’d achieved fast success with a lead role in an Oscar-winning film that had launched a fifteen-year career and earned her two Oscars—one for acting and another for best song—before she’d retreated from the spotlight and moved to Switzerland, where she died in 1979.
“Good morning, Nora,” Gwen said as she walked through the front door of the museum. Nora worked in the gift shop and sold tickets to visitors.
In the summer months, Gwen and a few student employees conducted guided tours, but it was only May. The tourist season hadn’t yet shifted into high gear. Bus tours from the cruise ships didn’t begin until June.
“I don’t suppose you remembered that we’re having a visitor today?” Gwen asked Nora.
She moved out from behind the oak counter. “The American writer.”
“Yes. His name is Peter Miller.” Gwen adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder. “I think I might have tried to block it out.”
She’d googled this guy and discovered that he was a notorious Hollywood paparazzo who had sold hundreds of salacious photographs of celebrities to every tabloid magazine imaginable. He’d once been heralded as the “most limber and accomplished fence jumper” in the Hollywood Hills.
“What time are you expecting him?” Nora asked.
“Nine thirty.” Gwen glanced at her watch and headed toward her office. “That gives me time to hide all the good stuff.”
Nora laughed. “Should I charge him the regular adult price for a ticket?”
“Definitely yes,” Gwen replied. “Then bring him straight to my office. I don’t want him nosing around untethered before I meet him.”
Gwen didn’t like to think that she had an axe to grind, but members of the paparazzi weren’t exactly on her list of favorite people. Poor Scarlett had suffered from the constant hounding of the press. There was even a full museum display upstairs that illustrated her struggles and explained her subsequent move to Switzerland to seek privacy. Gwen wondered what Mr.Miller would think about that display when he toured the museum.
She sat down at her desk, which overlooked the back parking lot and a tennis court that had once belonged to Scarlett’s family but was now open to the public. On that morning, museum hours didn’t begin until ten o’clock, so when a black Honda Accord drove in at nine thirty, she knew it was Mr.Miller.
She rolled her chair closer to the window and watched him get out and stretch. She’d already seen pictures of him online. He was handsome, in his midthirties, with dark hair. Today he wore a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers with mirrored sunglasses. He was visibly fit, no doubt from all the exercise chasing celebrities in the streets or climbing trees outside of hotel-room windows.
He reached back into the car and withdrew a black canvas laptop bag, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he checked his phone and started walking while texting.
Gwen rolled her chair back to her desk and finished typing an email while she waited for Nora to show him in. A moment later she knocked on Gwen’s open door. “Mr.Miller’s here.”
“Thank you,” Gwen replied, closing her email program.
When Mr.Miller walked into the office, he no longer wore his jacket. Nora must have hung it up for him. He wore a crisp, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Gwen stood to shake his hand over the desk. “I’m Gwen Hollingsworth.”
Nora quietly left and closed the door behind her.
