The Storyteller's Muse by Traci Harding
Journals aside, Peter looked to the other three books he’d pulled from the shelves that he planned to abscond with also. He was browsing through the book on early twentieth century art, when a piece of paper flicked from the pages and floated down to settle on the carpet.
Peter fetched it up and when he flipped it over he found it was an old black and white photograph of four young people looking chic. By their dress, Peter guessed the picture was taken in the 1950s.
‘Hang on.’ He scrutinised the faded picture under the lamplight; one of the women in the photograph was a very young Penelope Whitman. She was seated on one end of a chaise longue, pen in one hand, notebook and cigarette in the other. Another woman was lying at the opposite end of the lounge, her knees bent up towards the ceiling, showing off the ballet slippers on her feet. Behind where the ballerina was seated a suave, Italian-looking fellow was leaning over the lounge, paint brush in hand, pretending to paint her, as she gazed up at him adoringly. Beside the Italian was a cool-looking guy with a saxophone in one hand and a drink in the other.
‘Holy shit!’ Pangs of realisation and excitement shot heat through Peter’s body in ever deepening waves as he recognised the characters of 4 Kismet Way.
RESEARCH
The sunny day was in distinct contrast to the mood of the occasion. Penelope had chosen to be cremated privately and have a memorial service held in a spectacular reserve not far from her house. Chairs of white were laid out in neat rows, and beautiful bright flowers were woven all through the gazebo where the microphone was positioned. Gabrielle had received the memo this morning about wearing colour and not black, as had everyone by the look of it, for it appeared more as if the crowd were descending upon a wedding than a wake.
‘Penelope would have loved this, don’t you think? All her friends in one place?’
Peter looked to the left to find it was Denise Yin who had taken hold of his free arm to walk with himself and Gabrielle.
‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘And she certainly took care of the weather for us.’
‘We never got to catch up after the awards.’ Denise appeared regretful about that. ‘I have a bunch of writer friends who all do dinner every month or so; you should come,’ she suggested, as other guests waved her over. ‘I’ll give you a call.’
‘Absolutely,’ Peter assured her, and with a smile of delight she moved onto her next round of greetings. He was rather excited about that invitation, and already couldn’t wait.
‘I have to say this is not quite the sombre affair I’d imagined.’ Gabrielle sounded relieved about that. ‘Do you think her family will come?’
‘If they wouldn’t come to her deathbed, I doubt they’ll come to her funeral.’
The day proved Peter right about that.
It was Fabrizia who had made all the arrangements; Penelope had made her executor of her estate. Still, Penelope had been dearly loved by her friends, colleagues and peers, and it was rather cathartic to hear those who knew her well during her expansive career telling stories of the good times they’d shared with her. After all the invited speakers had said their piece, the microphone was left open to anyone at the gathering who wanted to say a few words.
At first it seemed like no one was going to take up the offer, and Gabrielle gave Peter a nudge to suggest he should get up. But Peter didn’t feel he’d really known the author long enough to speak at her funeral.
‘You, sir.’ Fabrizia spotted a hand in the crowd, and waited patiently for the old fellow to make his way to the platform with the aid of a walking stick. He was small of frame, and even in younger days would not have been a tall man. He wore a golf cap over his depleting grey hair, which had most likely been fair in his prime.
He didn’t bother climbing the gazebo stairs, and Fabrizia took the microphone to him. ‘My name is Billy Boyle, and I knew Penelope way back when she was still aspiring to write her first book.’
There was a sigh of awe from the audience as none of the previous speakers had harked back so far in Penelope’s life.
‘She was the life of the party then, I can tell you!’ He paused to allow the rumble of amusement to pass. ‘Well, we all were, really. A bunch of starving artists, high on art and life . . . and just about anything else we could get our hands on.’ He raised a finger to his lips, urging those present to keep that bit quiet. ‘But Pen lit up a room with her presence, and any conversation with her wit and insight. She made us consider the greater mysteries of being a spiritual consciousness trapped in a human form. I was just a boozy sax player back then, I had no idea what Pen was on about half the time . . .’ He hammed up the fact to lighten the mood.
There were those heated pangs of shock again. I couldn’t be that lucky. Peter reached into his pocket to retrieve the photo, disappointed to realise he’d left it in his other jacket. But he really didn’t need to reference the image — he was close to certain that he’d found the musician from Penelope’s story.
Synchronicity happens more frequently when you are on the right path. That’s what Penelope believed. But of course, first you had to commit to that path. Peter hadn’t even told anyone about his decision to leave nursing and pursue writing, and yet here was another important aspect of his chosen task, just thrown into his path right on cue. The fact was blowing his mind and by the time his attention turned back into the service, Billy Boyle was stepping down and Fabrizia was saying a few closing words before she directed everyone towards the bar and refreshments in the grand marquee that had been erected on-site.
‘I need to speak with Mr Boyle,’ Peter uttered aside to Gabrielle, as they rose from their seats.
‘That’s fine.’ Gabrielle pointed over her shoulder. ‘I’ve just spotted a few of the nurses —’
Peter kissed her cheek and took off. ‘I’ll be back.’ He spotted Mr Boyle heading around the outside of the marquee and made haste to pursue him.
‘Mr Lemond?’ Peter was waylaid when he noticed Fabrizia summoning him towards her. He was torn for a moment, but if this powerful woman was requesting his attention he was not about to ignore her.
‘Ms Zenton.’ He diverted from his course to address her.
‘Call me Fabrizia, I detest formality.’ She smiled warmly.
‘Then call me Peter, Fabrizia,’ he obliged her. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
‘I read the manuscript.’
‘And?’ Peter prompted her to speak her mind, even if it was unfavourable.
‘And . . . I want the ending!’ She frowned, disappointed. ‘It’s a crying shame for us both, I’m so sorry.’
‘So you like it!’ Peter ventured to assume.
‘I loved it!’ She sounded very genuine. ‘I hope that you plan to do something with what Penelope taught you?’
‘Well . . .’ Peter confessed. ‘I decided this morning that I’m going to quit my job, and do exactly that.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Fabrizia emphasised in a jovial fashion. ‘Do you have an idea for your first novel?’
‘Actually,’ Peter considered, ‘I may have to ask your permission to do this, but I’d like to base my novel around the life of the ghost in 4 Kismet Way.’
‘What a fascinating idea,’ Fabrizia mused.
‘So it would be okay with you, if I did that?’ Peter’s excitement welled, but he tried to contain it given this was supposed to be a solemn occasion.
‘Okay?’ she scoffed. ‘Peter, this could be the default ending for the book! It’s absolutely brilliant!’
‘Really?’ He hadn’t dared consider that he’d be allowed to have a stab at writing the conclusion.
‘Do you think you can do it?’ Fabrizia was far more interested in his pitch than he could possibly have imagined.
‘I’m going to give it my best shot.’ He felt suddenly shell-shocked in realising that, in complete contrast to the day Penelope had died, her memorial, which should have been one of the worst days of his life, was turning out to be the best day ever.
‘It would be on th
‘Are you saying you’ll be my agent?’ Peter couldn’t help but gape in astonishment at that prospect.
‘And partner on this one, if you’ll have me,’ she allowed graciously.
‘Are you kidding? Having you as my agent would be entirely my honour.’ Peter held a hand to his heart, not to be endearing, but because it felt as if it was about to pound a hole right through his chest.
‘Then welcome to the stable, kiddo,’ she served him a wink, and pulled a business card from the inside pocket of her designer coat and handed it to him. ‘If you need help with anything, plot lines, legal advice, personal counselling,’ she joked about the extent of her services. ‘Call me any time, day or night.’
‘But how shall I pay you?’ Peter had no clue how having an agent worked.
‘Fifteen per cent when I land you a publishing deal.’ She set all his fears to rest. ‘Until then, you get all of this free of charge. All you have to worry about is nailing the story.’
‘Wow.’ Peter held his head, as it felt like it was spinning. ‘You’ve just made my lifetime dream entirely possible!’
Fabrizia smiled warmly, seeming glad of that. ‘Well, now you know, fairy godmothers really do exist.’ She held out a hand to him, and Peter was so excited about their arrangement that he kissed it.
‘Thank you, so much.’ Peter was overwhelmed by her encouragement. ‘Penelope was the first person who ever really made me take my passion seriously, and now you taking me seriously is such a vindication and just the impetus I’ve needed.’
‘The door is wide open.’ She understood his meaning perfectly well. ‘Now all you have to do is step through it.’
‘I should let you return to the other guests.’ Peter could see people hanging at the periphery of their conversation, waiting for their chance to speak with the hostess.
‘Let them wait, I haven’t finished with you yet.’ Fabrizia took his arm to walk away from the marquee and to speak more privately with him. ‘The reading of the will is taking place tomorrow and I need you there.’
‘Did Ms Whitman leave me something?’ Peter found the request curious.
‘Quite possibly.’ Fabrizia raised both brows. ‘I’ll have my secretary send over the address.’
Peter was a little perplexed by the answer, knowing Fabrizia was the executor of Penelope’s estate and would have seen the will. ‘I’ll be there, of course.’
‘And Miss Valdez also,’ she added.
‘I’ll let her know.’
‘Splendid.’ His new agent let him go. ‘I shall see you there.’
Peter watched Fabrizia return to the marquee, feeling rather like he’d been picked up, tossed around inside a tornado and spat back out in paradise. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as Gabrielle walked towards him.
‘What was that all about?’ She huddled up close to him, keen to hear the gossip.
‘I just scored myself an agent.’ He heard the words coming out of his mouth, but he still couldn’t believe it.
‘Oh my God, Peter,’ Gabrielle lowered her voice to repress her excitement. ‘That’s amazing! How?’
‘I just pitched her my idea,’ he said, still stunned. ‘I wasn’t even planning to.’ Another synchronous moment . . . a BIG one! he noted, before recalling one of the day’s opportunities he’d yet to catch up with. ‘Oh, damn.’
Peter took off in the direction he’d last seen Billy Boyle heading, trailing him around the marquee. On the other side was a path down to a gate where taxis were waiting but there was no sign of Mr Boyle. ‘Bugger.’ The old fellow had probably decided to skip the wake.
It seemed that the universe was shooting opportunities at him so fast today that he couldn’t keep up with them all. Not to worry, he decided, as this was an invitation-only affair, Fabrizia was sure to have the man’s contact details. Still, he wouldn’t take up any more of her time today; he could ask her about Mr Boyle at the reading of the will.
‘No, he wasn’t on my list.’ Fabrizia explained, as they chatted on the stairs of the building where Penelope’s lawyer had offices. ‘He must have come with someone else or he would not have been let through security.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Peter concurred.
‘Why so interested in Mr Boyle?’
‘Research.’ Peter kept it simple, as his real theory was too insane to explain at present.
‘Research?’ She was surprised. ‘You have me intrigued already.’
‘I have a bit of a theory,’ Peter explained, ‘but not enough of one to share at present.’
‘Is this still fiction?’ She picked up on the subtle inference that it may not be.
‘Not entirely sure at present.’
‘I’ll make some inquiries for you.’ The agent decided she could be of service. ‘Are we waiting for Miss Valdez to join us?’
‘She’s probably upstairs waiting for us,’ Peter assumed.
‘A woman who doesn’t wait around for her man, I like that,’ Fabrizia commented, making a move towards the large revolving glass door.
‘Hey, men are not always late.’ Peter made haste to catch up with his agent. ‘And if we are, it’s usually a woman who has delayed us.’ After he made the comment he considered it might have been a bit cheeky, but Fabrizia only laughed.
‘Touché, Peter,’ she awarded as she swished through the door ahead of him.
In the law office of Martyn Webster and Associates, Gabrielle sat chatting to Penelope’s housekeepers, Mr and Mrs Eddington, and apart from the lawyer, they were the only other people there.
‘Good morning,’ Martyn greeted the late arrivals. ‘Now we are all present, we can get started.’
‘We are it?’ Peter was bemused. Did Penelope not have extended family? Or other close friends, at least? He looked to Fabrizia, who appeared to sympathise with his shock, but only suggested he sit down and allow the lawyer to explain.
‘It will be good news, I assure you.’
Peter wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt a little nauseous. He took a seat beside Gabrielle, who served him a huge reassuring smile and took hold of his hand, then all eyes turned to the lawyer to hear him out.
‘My client, Penelope Whitman, had two wills, one of which she submitted to me only a short time ago. Which of these two wills was to be read this morning was entirely dependent on who was present in this room at this moment. Miss Whitman’s family were notified of this, and have refused to even send a representative, thus Penelope’s second and most recent will and testament is the one applicable to our present circumstance.’ Martyn looked to the paper in his hand. ‘I, Penelope Whitman, being of sound mind, do decree that in the absence of my family at the reading of my last will and testament, do grant the sum of two hundred thousand dollars from my estate to each of those who are present.’
Everybody gasped, except Fabrizia who was already aware of the decree.
‘It is my wish that my devoted agent, Fabrizia Zenton, continue to handle the affairs of my business, fifty per cent of the proceeds of which are to go to her, the other fifty to my estate. The sum total of my remaining earthly possessions I bequeath to my writing partner, Peter Lemond —’
‘What!’ Peter stood, elated to the point of outrage.
‘— who will accept this gift, knowing how I hate the idea of everything I worked my whole life to achieve being reduced to government assets.’
‘Oh my God.’ Peter had to sit back down.
‘It is my hope that he will now have no more excuses not to write his story.’
‘Two hundred thousand would have done it.’ Peter was stupefied.
‘However,’ Martyn read the last stipulation, ‘all rights to my works will be retained by my agent, Fabrizia Zenton, including my most current work.’
Peter felt a little guilty for feeling like he’d tra
‘Well, Peter, that ought to make your departure from nursing far more easily explainable,’ Fabrizia stated once they were back on the front steps of the building.
‘You’re quitting nursing?’ This was the first Gabrielle had heard of it.
Peter cringed as Fabrizia waved goodbye. ‘I’ll call you if I discover anything about Mr Boyle.’
‘Many thanks,’ Peter called after her.
‘When did you decide?’ Gabrielle didn’t sound opposed to the idea.
‘Yesterday morning,’ he told the truth and got hit on the chest for it.
‘You’re supposed to share those kinds of revelations,’ she jested light-heartedly.
‘Well, at the time I didn’t have much of a backup plan,’ he explained. ‘But now . . . people would probably think me insane if I didn’t quit.’
‘I think it’s absolutely for the best.’ She made it clear she supported him one hundred per cent. ‘So you’ve had an idea for a story then?’
They began the walk to the car. ‘I think I want to write Em’s story.’
‘What?’ Gabrielle came to an abrupt halt. ‘But you don’t have the rights.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Peter bragged with glee. ‘Fabrizia gave me the go-ahead yesterday when I pitched the story to her.’
‘Hold on,’ Gabrielle urged Peter, while she held the top of her nose, as though she had a headache.
‘Is something wrong?’ Peter was worried about her for a second.