Eliza Grande Part 3 (of 4)
(If you missed parts 1 and 2, read them first and then enjoy this installment.)
It was a nearly two hour car ride
from San Francisco to the Grande-Hart Estate, which was located in a remote
area of the Napa Valley; surrounded by miles of open space and vineyards for as
far as the eye could see. I paid close
attention through the entire trip, in case this was some kidnapping scheme and
I had to escape and find my way back home.
My skeptical fears about this whole thing rode with me all the way from
San Fran, but as the limousine drove past the open iron-gates and up a long
stone driveway toward the main entrance, I found a new feeling, one of sudden
but undeniable familiarity and comfort, overcome me.
It was as though I had been there before.
The fact that Hart—my actual last name—was next to Grande on the Estate’s sign gave me pause to rethink all of this. Could it be possible that this Eliza Grande person Orense worked for could be somehow related to me? Might she possibly be a distant relative, or maybe even a business partner to a distant relative? I had no way yet of knowing, but it certainly got my writer’s imagination going.
Orense led me into the large mansion and down several hallways. I paid close attention to everything, just in case. I had been in nice homes before, but this place was ridiculous. It was a mix of old Hollywood grandeur and European charm. Everything hinted at bygone days, but still felt fresh and alive, as though it was and would forever remain timeless. Finally Orense brought me to a large personal library near the back of the mansion, somewhere in the west wing. There were books everywhere, of every size and description, stacked side by side on shelves that went from the carpeted floor up to the base of the domed roof, nearly twenty feet up.
“She will be meeting with you over there,” Orense motioned toward a set of comfortable looking, high backed chairs near the windows. “Please make yourself comfortable while I have breakfast brought to you.”
I was about to give my thanks to Orense for his service but he walked away before I could utter a single syllable.
“Nice to see you too, Mr. O,” I laughed to myself before taking another look around. I walked about the impressive library, taking in the sights and scents of all the collected tomes that filled the shelves all around me. I love books. They are part of the fabric of my life and greatly influence who I am, and how I view the world. Nothing in life is more rewarding to me than curling up with a nice hot chocolate, or a warm coffee, and a good long book to lose myself in for hours at a time. I enjoy the feel of a book in my hands, of flipping through the pages, and of that great smell older books have. They’re a bit musty, and hearken back to days long gone. It’s something that today’s modern digital reading devices just can’t duplicate. It might not be as important to other readers as it is to me, but I like the feel, and the smell of real good old fashioned books. It’s just part of who I am, and will always be. I had just taken one book—a large green hardbound volume—off a shelf, and was in the midst of flipping almost absently through the pages, when I first heard her speak to me.
“That one was always one of your favorites, wasn’t it Anderson?”
At first I turned toward the doorway, thinking she had just arrived, but no one was there. I quickly scanned the room, and soon saw her sitting in one of the high-backed chairs Orense had indicated to me just moments earlier. She wore a full length Victorian style dress, complete with long sleeves and collar, and her grey hair was pulled up and likewise styled in the fashion of that long ago era. Her time worn face was still undeniably beautiful with her pronounced cheek bones, her youthful and somehow mischievous smile and her soulful brown eyes that seemed to know me so well, even though to my knowledge we were meeting for the very first time. I knew, without being introduced, that this well aged, and striking woman could be no other than Eliza Grande.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I continued to stare at her from across the room, searching for any familial resemblance or any visual clues as to how she and I might know one another.
“I was quiet,” she chuckled softly, almost as if telling an old joke that we should both understand, but that I was unfortunately at a loss to recognize. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your reading. I know how much you enjoy that particular book.”
I closed the book and looked for the title of the spine.
“The Collected Stories of Robert A. Easton,” I read the title aloud. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never even heard of him.” I quickly put the book back on the shelf where I’d found it. “You sure have an impressive collection of books, Ms. Grande.”
“Most of them were actually my husband’s,” I heard her reply from her chair as I looked closely at some of the book titles on the shelf before me; some I recognized, others I didn’t. “He loved his books, almost as much as he loved me and the children. Family was his greatest joy, but books were a very close second. He was the best writer I ever knew.”
I suddenly caught the distinct smell of food in the air, and it compelled me to turn back around where I was amazed to see a full breakfast on the table between the two chairs by the window. Eliza still sat in her chair now sipping on a cup of tea that she hadn’t been holding just seconds earlier. “Won’t you join me, Anderson?” She asked after a long sip from her porcelain cup. “I can’t possibly eat all this food alone. I’m not a young woman anymore, you know.”
I wanted to ask how the food had suddenly just appeared in the room, but decided not to. Eliza would no doubt just tell me the servants had been quiet and laugh my question away casually.
I abandoned my search of the book shelf, and took my seat across from Eliza near the window. Outside there were horses grazing in the yard, and a large brown stable sat off to the distance. I looked at the horses for a moment before turning my attention toward the selection of foods laid out on the table before me. It was an impressive selection of fresh cut fruits, muffins, waffles, eggs, bacon and sausages. I could feel my stomach growling for food; all I’d had to eat or drink was that one sip of nasty Sweet and Low infested coffee back at home two hours earlier. I was pleased to see the coffee pot accompanied by cubes of real sugar.
For a while we ate in silence, and I feared suddenly that I was being awfully rude to my gracious host. After all, I did have a fifty thousand dollar check from her in my pocket. I finished my final waffle, washed it down with a last gulp of coffee, and then I looked up at Eliza and smiled. “Thank you for the breakfast, Ms. Grande,” I said politely, not sure what else to say. “That was very good.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Anderson,” she smiled back, “but please dear, call me Eliza.”
“Okay, Eliza it is,” I said. I didn’t know what more to say, and for a few moments we sat there in awkward silence. Finally I thought up something more to say. “So, you said your husband was a writer? What books did he write? Perhaps I’ve read some of them.”
“I’m afraid the only books he ever published in his life were under a pen-name, and he wasn’t very proud of them,” Eliza explained. “It’s his final work that he was actually proud of. Unfortunately, he passed away just after its completion.”
“Is that the manuscript you sent me?”
She nodded.
“I haven’t read it yet. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Orense told me,” she smiled at me kindly. “It’s alright. You’ll read it when you’re ready to.”
“Why me?” I finally asked her. “Why did you send your husband’s manuscript to me? Why is it so important that I read it? I’m a published writer, sure, but not a great one. My books make money, yes, but not J.K. Rowling money. I write formulaic drivel, Eliza. Not one of my books is going to be seen as a classic in the future. I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“I know that I haven’t, Anderson. It must be you who reads that manuscript.”
“But why must it be me, Eliza?”
“That, you will only know when you read it.”
“Did you really get an extension from my editor?” I had to ask her.
“Yes, I did,” Eliza assured me with her indisputably sincere voice. “Lance is a very understanding man.”
Suddenly my cell phone began ringing and vibrating from my inside jacket pocket. I took it out and was about to press the button to ignore the call, when I saw that it was from Lance Thompson himself.
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered, and then looked over at Eliza. “It’s Lance. Would it be alright if I take this call?”
“Please do,” she smiled warmly. “You can call him back from the garden. No one will disturb you there. Orense will show you the way. It’ll give me a chance to clean up in here.”
It was as though I had been there before.
The fact that Hart—my actual last name—was next to Grande on the Estate’s sign gave me pause to rethink all of this. Could it be possible that this Eliza Grande person Orense worked for could be somehow related to me? Might she possibly be a distant relative, or maybe even a business partner to a distant relative? I had no way yet of knowing, but it certainly got my writer’s imagination going.
Orense led me into the large mansion and down several hallways. I paid close attention to everything, just in case. I had been in nice homes before, but this place was ridiculous. It was a mix of old Hollywood grandeur and European charm. Everything hinted at bygone days, but still felt fresh and alive, as though it was and would forever remain timeless. Finally Orense brought me to a large personal library near the back of the mansion, somewhere in the west wing. There were books everywhere, of every size and description, stacked side by side on shelves that went from the carpeted floor up to the base of the domed roof, nearly twenty feet up.
“She will be meeting with you over there,” Orense motioned toward a set of comfortable looking, high backed chairs near the windows. “Please make yourself comfortable while I have breakfast brought to you.”
I was about to give my thanks to Orense for his service but he walked away before I could utter a single syllable.
“Nice to see you too, Mr. O,” I laughed to myself before taking another look around. I walked about the impressive library, taking in the sights and scents of all the collected tomes that filled the shelves all around me. I love books. They are part of the fabric of my life and greatly influence who I am, and how I view the world. Nothing in life is more rewarding to me than curling up with a nice hot chocolate, or a warm coffee, and a good long book to lose myself in for hours at a time. I enjoy the feel of a book in my hands, of flipping through the pages, and of that great smell older books have. They’re a bit musty, and hearken back to days long gone. It’s something that today’s modern digital reading devices just can’t duplicate. It might not be as important to other readers as it is to me, but I like the feel, and the smell of real good old fashioned books. It’s just part of who I am, and will always be. I had just taken one book—a large green hardbound volume—off a shelf, and was in the midst of flipping almost absently through the pages, when I first heard her speak to me.
“That one was always one of your favorites, wasn’t it Anderson?”
At first I turned toward the doorway, thinking she had just arrived, but no one was there. I quickly scanned the room, and soon saw her sitting in one of the high-backed chairs Orense had indicated to me just moments earlier. She wore a full length Victorian style dress, complete with long sleeves and collar, and her grey hair was pulled up and likewise styled in the fashion of that long ago era. Her time worn face was still undeniably beautiful with her pronounced cheek bones, her youthful and somehow mischievous smile and her soulful brown eyes that seemed to know me so well, even though to my knowledge we were meeting for the very first time. I knew, without being introduced, that this well aged, and striking woman could be no other than Eliza Grande.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I continued to stare at her from across the room, searching for any familial resemblance or any visual clues as to how she and I might know one another.
“I was quiet,” she chuckled softly, almost as if telling an old joke that we should both understand, but that I was unfortunately at a loss to recognize. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your reading. I know how much you enjoy that particular book.”
I closed the book and looked for the title of the spine.
“The Collected Stories of Robert A. Easton,” I read the title aloud. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never even heard of him.” I quickly put the book back on the shelf where I’d found it. “You sure have an impressive collection of books, Ms. Grande.”
“Most of them were actually my husband’s,” I heard her reply from her chair as I looked closely at some of the book titles on the shelf before me; some I recognized, others I didn’t. “He loved his books, almost as much as he loved me and the children. Family was his greatest joy, but books were a very close second. He was the best writer I ever knew.”
I suddenly caught the distinct smell of food in the air, and it compelled me to turn back around where I was amazed to see a full breakfast on the table between the two chairs by the window. Eliza still sat in her chair now sipping on a cup of tea that she hadn’t been holding just seconds earlier. “Won’t you join me, Anderson?” She asked after a long sip from her porcelain cup. “I can’t possibly eat all this food alone. I’m not a young woman anymore, you know.”
I wanted to ask how the food had suddenly just appeared in the room, but decided not to. Eliza would no doubt just tell me the servants had been quiet and laugh my question away casually.
I abandoned my search of the book shelf, and took my seat across from Eliza near the window. Outside there were horses grazing in the yard, and a large brown stable sat off to the distance. I looked at the horses for a moment before turning my attention toward the selection of foods laid out on the table before me. It was an impressive selection of fresh cut fruits, muffins, waffles, eggs, bacon and sausages. I could feel my stomach growling for food; all I’d had to eat or drink was that one sip of nasty Sweet and Low infested coffee back at home two hours earlier. I was pleased to see the coffee pot accompanied by cubes of real sugar.
For a while we ate in silence, and I feared suddenly that I was being awfully rude to my gracious host. After all, I did have a fifty thousand dollar check from her in my pocket. I finished my final waffle, washed it down with a last gulp of coffee, and then I looked up at Eliza and smiled. “Thank you for the breakfast, Ms. Grande,” I said politely, not sure what else to say. “That was very good.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Anderson,” she smiled back, “but please dear, call me Eliza.”
“Okay, Eliza it is,” I said. I didn’t know what more to say, and for a few moments we sat there in awkward silence. Finally I thought up something more to say. “So, you said your husband was a writer? What books did he write? Perhaps I’ve read some of them.”
“I’m afraid the only books he ever published in his life were under a pen-name, and he wasn’t very proud of them,” Eliza explained. “It’s his final work that he was actually proud of. Unfortunately, he passed away just after its completion.”
“Is that the manuscript you sent me?”
She nodded.
“I haven’t read it yet. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Orense told me,” she smiled at me kindly. “It’s alright. You’ll read it when you’re ready to.”
“Why me?” I finally asked her. “Why did you send your husband’s manuscript to me? Why is it so important that I read it? I’m a published writer, sure, but not a great one. My books make money, yes, but not J.K. Rowling money. I write formulaic drivel, Eliza. Not one of my books is going to be seen as a classic in the future. I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“I know that I haven’t, Anderson. It must be you who reads that manuscript.”
“But why must it be me, Eliza?”
“That, you will only know when you read it.”
“Did you really get an extension from my editor?” I had to ask her.
“Yes, I did,” Eliza assured me with her indisputably sincere voice. “Lance is a very understanding man.”
Suddenly my cell phone began ringing and vibrating from my inside jacket pocket. I took it out and was about to press the button to ignore the call, when I saw that it was from Lance Thompson himself.
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered, and then looked over at Eliza. “It’s Lance. Would it be alright if I take this call?”
“Please do,” she smiled warmly. “You can call him back from the garden. No one will disturb you there. Orense will show you the way. It’ll give me a chance to clean up in here.”
*
The
garden was huge, almost like a labyrinth of bushes, benches, walls, fountains,
statues and flower beds. I found a nice
stone bench near a charming angel themed fountain and sat down to return
Lance’s call. I had never heard such
excitement in his voice when he almost instantly answered. “Andy?” I heard him nearly squeak—his voice was so
excited. Lance was one of only a handful
of people to call me Andy. “It took you
long enough to call me back; where the hell have you been?”
“It’ a long story Lance. Just tell me why you decided to call me so early in the morning on a Saturday. What’s up?”
“Me! I’m what’s-up, Andy! I’ve been up all night reading your new manuscript!”
My new what…? I almost asked. I was only two chapters into my latest hack job, and hadn’t sent anyone so much as a page of it so far. What the heck was Lance babbling on about?
“Your new agent is right about this one, Andy! This book is not just good, it’s brilliant! I don’t even have words for it!”
“My new agent…?” I was beyond confused at this point.
“Yeah, that Eliza woman you just hired; much better than Scott ever was. That guy was just content to let you write assembly line garbage, and then collect his fat commission from your royalty checks. This woman is much more interested in your skills as a writer than he ever was!”
“Good to know, Lance…”
“This new manuscript of yours is pure gold, Andy! It’s both your and my ticket out of Goblins of the Wind and into a real respectable publishing house like Del Rey!”
“You think it’s that good, huh?” I decided to play along, instead of denying that it was my manuscript, or that I’d replaced Scott with Eliza.
“It’s better! It’s the best thing I’ve ever read! I mean that, Andy. It’s the best!”
“I’m glad to hear that. So what do you want to do with it, Lance?”
“I’m going to quit my job here at Goblins and take this thing straight to Del Rey along with my personal resume. Like I said, this thing is our ticket out!”
“Let’s not be hasty, Lance,” I cautioned, still wanting to figure out what was going on and not wanting to pass off someone else’s work as my own; no matter how brilliant and amazing it might be. “Give me a few days to think things over.”
“What’s to think over?” Lance yelled in my ear so loud I had to move the phone a few inches away. “This is our opportunity, Andy! We can’t waste it!”
“Just give me a few days,” I repeated before ending the call. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to calm Lance down, or talk him out of charging Bunker Hill during that exchange. I first needed to figure out what was going on.
I needed to speak with Eliza again.
No sooner had I turned my phone off, and put it back in my pocket than I found myself nearly face to face with Orense.
“Eliza sends her apologies, Mr. Gurney,” the sunglass wearing driver spoke before I could, “but she isn’t feeling very well right at the moment, and she asked me to drive you home now.”
“So I can’t speak with her before I leave?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Orense shook his head. “Eliza is sleeping and it’s best not to disturb her. She is not a young woman anymore.”
“No, I guess not,” I sighed. “Take me home, Orense. I have some reading to do.”
“It’ a long story Lance. Just tell me why you decided to call me so early in the morning on a Saturday. What’s up?”
“Me! I’m what’s-up, Andy! I’ve been up all night reading your new manuscript!”
My new what…? I almost asked. I was only two chapters into my latest hack job, and hadn’t sent anyone so much as a page of it so far. What the heck was Lance babbling on about?
“Your new agent is right about this one, Andy! This book is not just good, it’s brilliant! I don’t even have words for it!”
“My new agent…?” I was beyond confused at this point.
“Yeah, that Eliza woman you just hired; much better than Scott ever was. That guy was just content to let you write assembly line garbage, and then collect his fat commission from your royalty checks. This woman is much more interested in your skills as a writer than he ever was!”
“Good to know, Lance…”
“This new manuscript of yours is pure gold, Andy! It’s both your and my ticket out of Goblins of the Wind and into a real respectable publishing house like Del Rey!”
“You think it’s that good, huh?” I decided to play along, instead of denying that it was my manuscript, or that I’d replaced Scott with Eliza.
“It’s better! It’s the best thing I’ve ever read! I mean that, Andy. It’s the best!”
“I’m glad to hear that. So what do you want to do with it, Lance?”
“I’m going to quit my job here at Goblins and take this thing straight to Del Rey along with my personal resume. Like I said, this thing is our ticket out!”
“Let’s not be hasty, Lance,” I cautioned, still wanting to figure out what was going on and not wanting to pass off someone else’s work as my own; no matter how brilliant and amazing it might be. “Give me a few days to think things over.”
“What’s to think over?” Lance yelled in my ear so loud I had to move the phone a few inches away. “This is our opportunity, Andy! We can’t waste it!”
“Just give me a few days,” I repeated before ending the call. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to calm Lance down, or talk him out of charging Bunker Hill during that exchange. I first needed to figure out what was going on.
I needed to speak with Eliza again.
No sooner had I turned my phone off, and put it back in my pocket than I found myself nearly face to face with Orense.
“Eliza sends her apologies, Mr. Gurney,” the sunglass wearing driver spoke before I could, “but she isn’t feeling very well right at the moment, and she asked me to drive you home now.”
“So I can’t speak with her before I leave?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Orense shook his head. “Eliza is sleeping and it’s best not to disturb her. She is not a young woman anymore.”
“No, I guess not,” I sighed. “Take me home, Orense. I have some reading to do.”
*
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