Wishing Well(90)

Only it wasn’t heaven to me, it was a ghost of a memory, a nightmare I had to face if I ever hoped to breath easy again. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize any of the clerks who stood waiting.

“Bonjour! Welcome to the Wishing Well. Are you checking in?”

“Um, no,” I answered, attempting to smile politely at the pretty brunette clerk. “I’m actually here to see Stephen Chase. He was the attorney for-“

“I know Mr. Chase,” she answered, interrupting me before I could mention Vincent’s name. “He’s in a meeting with the hotel manager, but if you’ll have a seat on one of the sofas in the waiting area, I’ll let him know you’re here. May I tell him your name?”

“Meadow Graham.”

Her eyes widened just barely before she gained control of her expression. “Of course, Ms. Graham. I’m sure it will only be a short wait.”

She wasn’t wrong. Within ten minutes of my having taken a seat on a large, white sofa that had elegant curves and carved wood detailing, Stephen Chase, with his salt and pepper hair, and his power suit glory, came strolling out to the waiting area with a manila envelope in hand.

“Ms. Graham. How nice to see you again.”

Sad laughter tumbled from my lips as I stood to shake his hand. “I can’t believe you’d actually say that to me considering the horrible circumstances. I noticed your absence today at the -“

“Why don’t we go out into the garden to discuss this?” he suggested, interrupting me just as the desk clerk had. After glancing over his shoulder to ensure no guests had overheard us, he motioned for me to walk ahead of him. “It’s just outside these doors. The gardens are stunning actually. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.”

Apparently, he’d neglected to remember the gardens are where my sister had died. I would have to ask him at some point if he would like some salt with his shoe.

Walking became more difficult with every step we took toward the gardens, not only because of the images flashing through my thoughts of what I’d seen the night my sister died, but also because I could hear Vincent’s laughter, his accented voice that was always teasing or mocking me. Regardless of what happened that morning, Vincent was still very much alive inside this building, his memory engrained in the walls, his vision still standing in elegant wonder as his body turned cold.

And more painful than that was what lay beneath my feet, in a basement where the man I would always love had taken his life when he believed that everyone who’d ever cared for him was gone.

I was struggling for breath by the time we made it outside, gulping down the fresh air as fast as I could drag it into my lungs. My distress was not lost on the grim faced attorney who followed behind me.

Lowering his voice to a gentle whisper, he said, “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through today, Ms. Graham. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.” He placed his hand on my back as if to escort me, but I pulled away from the contact.

I didn’t want to be touched or comforted. I wanted to feel this pain for what it was if only to purge it from my body. “It is what it is,” I answered. “And I’m here to retrieve my recorder from you as well as whatever items Vincent had set aside for me.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Handing me the manila envelope, he explained, “Mr. Mercier asked me to give this to you. I’ll ask that you take it somewhere away from the guests’ view. We’re attempting to keep mention of Mr. Mercier’s name to a minimum, and you’re rather recognizable this morning due to pictures of your sister being shown on the news. While you look at that, I’ll go back and speak with the hotel manager to determine where the other items can be located. I’ll return momentarily to take you to them.”

Nodding absently, I stared at my name written in masculine script across the envelope. Not my name, really. My sister’s. Mr. Chase walked off and I continued along the cobblestone path until arriving at a familiar place. The wishing well in the center of the garden looked exactly as I remembered it.

“If you could wish for anything in the world, Penelope, what would you wish for?”

Memories assaulted me. Of Vincent. Of Maurice. It took everything I had not to buckle where I stood. Finally moving to sit on one of the iron benches, I tore open the envelope to pull out a single sheet of paper.



Penelope,



If you’re reading this, then I must be dead. Okay, so it’s an awful way to start a letter, but my gifts in life had never been in writing. My point in the sentence is that I know this letter wouldn’t have been given to you unless my execution had taken place and you’d gone to Wishing Well as I hoped you would.

I also hope you don’t expect some long-winded apology or some other similar nonsense. Whatever I had to say to you I’m positive was said in our interview. But knowing myself, and knowing my refusal to give any person leverage over me while I’m still alive and breathing, I know there was one thing I wouldn’t have brought myself to tell you.

I want to thank you, Penelope, for everything you were to Maurice and me. Despite the less than honorable reasons for pulling you from that alleyway the night I met you, and despite your atrocious manners and rebellious behavior, you turned out to be a blessing I never saw coming.

As you well know, both Maurice’s and my lives had been mired in many tragedies. We’d both suffered the grief of his issues, the loneliness not only affected him, but me as well. I may have had wealth, women and businesses to keep me company, but I was never truly happy until you came along. I’ve spent many years trying to figure out what it is you did for the two of us, and then one night while I remembered an afternoon spent in the yellow room that I’d watched my brother smile as I teased you, it hit me.