Newport, Rhode Island
September 2019
It was gone. My notebook containing the script with all of my markups and notes—essentially my production bible—had vanished. In our haste to leave the previous day, I had forgotten to put it in my backpack. I was positive I’d left it on the Louis XIV escritoire in the bedroom, even recalled the scratches in the marquetry made by careless writers with sharp nibs as I’d placed my notebook carefully on the surface. But it wasn’t there or on the bed or the chaise or the dressing table or anywhere else. Not that it should be somewhere else because I had definitely left it on the escritoire.
I’d arrived early with the new plan and script changes I’d worked on the night before to insert into the notebook and had now wasted a precious twenty minutes searching for it. Approaching tires on gravel heralded the arrival of the crew, the sound making me sweat. Being prepared and calm were the most important qualities I brought to this job, and both had just deserted me.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside the bedroom, turning my sweat cold. I stood, unmoving, waiting for someone to appear. A full minute passed before I could find my voice. “George?” The word squeaked through dried lips, the high pitch barely recognizable as my own voice.
The only reply was the light tap of retreating footsteps, the pace quickening as the unseen feet reached the stairs. There is no such thing as ghosts. I had to repeat that to myself twice before I took off at a swift run toward the servants’ stairs. A door closed on the landing beneath and I propelled myself recklessly downward, throwing open the door that hadn’t had time to fully latch.
I found myself standing in yet another back hallway of the house, this one unfamiliar to me. The space was deserted and I paused, wondering if I should go back to Maybelle’s bedroom and continue looking for my notebook. A gentle snap at the end of the hallway had me running toward two facing doors. I yanked the first one open to find myself staring into a broom closet filled with ancient cleaning implements and an elaborate tapestry of spiderwebs. I slammed it shut and opened up the other door.
I paused, feeling a bit like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. The room I found myself in was as shabby and devoid of furniture as the rest of the house, the ceiling mural as faded and flaking, the woven rug as threadbare. But these walls were lined with tall dark wood shelves filled with row after row of dust-covered books. I remembered reading in my research that John Sprague had added a library to showcase a valuable collection of books he’d acquired from—depending on where one found the information—either an indebted friend, an estate sale, or gambling. Judging from what I’d learned so far about Mr. Sprague, I’d bet on the last.
A rolling ladder rested at one end, tempting me to climb up and examine the books more closely. Resisting the impulse, I pulled a book from a shelf, being careful not to dump the layer of dust on my shirt, and read the title on the leather cover: Fall of the Roman Republic by Plutarch. The spine wasn’t creased—nor were the spines of the adjacent books, all volumes in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives series. Despite the dust, it appeared the books had been placed in the library under false pretenses.
Looking down, I spotted a set of small footprints in the dust heading toward the large bay window at one end of the room. Subtle goose bumps pricked the skin at the back of my neck. As far as I knew ghosts didn’t leave footprints. Or did they? I’d have to ask Meghan since she seemed to know a lot more about the subject than I did. A solitary writing table, an apparent recent addition to the house due to its lack of ornamentation or any style whatsoever, sat tucked inside the bay window, a lone book sitting on the surface. I didn’t need to get closer to see that it was my missing notebook.
I quickly retrieved it, flipping through the pages to make sure it was all there, my relief almost overtaking the uneasiness tugging at me. What was it doing here? There was a logical explanation. There had to be. Because everyone knew that ghosts weren’t real.
Looking at my watch, I realized I’d wasted too much valuable time. Hugging the notebook to my chest, I turned around, feeling disoriented. The servants’ door from which I’d entered was apparently disguised on this side by a bookshelf—I just wasn’t sure which one. The one thing I was sure of was that if I left through the main door, I’d never find my way back to Maybelle’s bedroom.
A lone volume on a bottom shelf caught my attention if only because it seemed it might have more dust on it than any of the other volumes. As if it had been even less read than any of the other books. Despite my urgency, I slipped it from the shelf to read the title on the cover. Prunella Pratt Schuyler Potts—Cultural Icon and Society Doyenne: Memoirs of a Great American Heroine and Survivor of the Lusitania. Curious, I glanced at the author’s name. Prunella Pratt Schuyler Potts. I raised my eyebrows as I quickly slid it back into its space, no longer wondering why I’d never heard of her. Even without opening the cover and creasing the spine, I had no doubt that Mrs. Potts, whoever she was or thought herself to be, had used a vanity press.
I looked down to see the familiar set of footprints—definitely a woman’s—leading toward the dark and imposing double doors that sat under a broken pediment, the thick plaster scrolls no longer imposing. Dots of bare wood peered from underneath what I’d at first assumed was solid mahogany. Veneer, then.
Like the painted columns that were meant to appear marble, superficiality seemed to be the dominant architectural style of Sprague Hall. Despite my disdain for taking structural shortcuts in the same time period that the Vanderbilts were using platinum for wall panels, I found myself intrigued by the family that had called this place home for so long. For the first time, the folder of newspaper articles and Google searches about the Spragues that I had assembled but not read held at least some interest. Maybe even enough for me to actually crack it open and study. I knew sooner or later I’d have to mention something salacious enough to attract viewers, slip it in between architectural terms and try not to squirm in front of the camera. Yet I still held the distant hope that my passion for architecture and history would come through in the telling, alleviating any need to embellish the script.
Walking quickly, I retraced my footsteps and fumbled for only a moment to open the bookcase, finding myself in the back hallway. I took two wrong turns before I discovered the staircase and then followed the crew’s voices to Maybelle’s bedroom.
Pretending I wasn’t late, I took out the copies of the changes I’d made and handed them to George, Devon, Sheila, and the impeccably dressed Meghan, who looked like she’d just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. She handed me a Styrofoam cup from the catering truck, knowing it was for everybody’s protection that I was supplied with a steady stream of coffee, unadulterated by sugar or creamer.
Without looking at the paper she said, “I have an idea.”
Knowing that Meghan had been hired to function as technical advisor, I prepared to listen even though I knew what she’d say before she opened her mouth.
“It’s about the wallpaper,” she said. “I did some research and it’s an actual Brunschwig & Fils paper—one of their earliest designs. I have a contact at the company, and I’ve already put in a call. I think that before we strip any more of it we should find out if they have ideas on how to arrest the decay, to leave what’s already there to give a better idea of the historical context . . .”
“No.” I sent her a warning look, aware that the crew was listening. “We’ve gone over this before, remember? Historical context is not what our audience wants.” I considered my words, attempting to sound enthusiastic at least in front of the film crew. As host, I was responsible for their morale and excitement over the project. If there was one thing my mother had taught me, it was how to fake it as if you meant it. “The audience wants bright and light and modern—think how transformed and beautiful this space will be without all of that old wallpaper drooping all over the walls.”
Meghan looked at me as if I’d just sprouted two more heads. In her usual dramatic fashion, she plastered herself against the wall like a mother bear protecting her cubs. “That’s obscene! I can’t believe you said that out loud.”
Before I could respond, I was distracted by the sound of a woman’s voice, the clipped words of a true New England Brahmin. She was speaking loudly, presumably into her phone, as her footsteps approached the doorway. “The cake frosting must precisely match the lavender of her party dress. Emmeline specifically selected that color as it’s her favorite. I want you to visit the caterer in person with the dress to make sure it’s the exact color and go ahead and order the custom napkins in the same shade. It’s not every day a young lady turns four, so we need this to be . . .”
Luke’s sister, Hadley, stopped in the doorway, a Kelly bag swinging on her arm, her gaze taking in my stacks of flooring, fabric, and paint samples, the bright lights, the cords, the crew, and—finally—Meghan hugging the wall. “I’ll call you back,” she said, then lowered her phone. Her icy gaze rested on me. “What is going on here?”
“We’re making an episode of Makeover Mansion.” I waited for her to nod or say something, but only the flush of color in her pale cheeks indicated that she’d heard. I continued, wondering if she’d just forgotten. “We’re restoring three rooms—”
“Renovating,” Meghan interrupted. “Restoring is something other people who care about history do.” Meghan crossed her arms, her gaze reluctantly settling on Hadley’s purse. Even in times of crisis she always noticed the details, especially regarding fashion.
“I don’t care what you call”—Hadley stuck out her phone like a fencing saber, swishing it in a slicing pattern—“this. I need you people to glue back that wallpaper, remove any evidence that you were ever here, and eradicate yourselves from the premises. We are not doing anything with this albatross except selling it.” Before she’d finished speaking, she’d raised her phone and stabbed her finger on the screen, waited a moment for someone to answer, and then calmly—although at a higher decibel—said, “Get. Here. Now.”
My phone pinged with a message from Marc.
Meet me at the yacht club ASAP. We need to talk.
I looked up to see George’s red light on the camera, the lens pointed at me. I wondered how much he’d filmed and if it included Hadley’s histrionics. “Turn that off,” I said, but he’d already rotated the camera just in time to catch Luke strolling into the room wearing only running shorts and sneakers, a sweaty T-shirt hanging over his shoulders.
I heard Meghan’s intake of breath, which hopefully covered my own. At the boatyard, hanging out and watching my dad do his restoration work, I’d seen lots of shirtless men. But most of those men had dad bods and the only six-packs were those in their coolers. Considering the dissipated life I felt fairly sure Luke Sprague led, I had to admit he had an admirable set of abs. And legs, if I was to be completely honest. Not that I was paying any attention to his body at all because I was trying to listen to the heated conversation he was having with Hadley.
“It’s a done deal, Hadley. Lucky wants this renovation because the money will allow her to live here a little while longer. She’s an old woman and has had to deal with many losses over her long life. Do you want to take away the one thing that she has left?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This place is crumbling down around her. It’s not safe for her to be living here. There are some lovely assisted-living places where she’d be much more comfortable—I’ve brought some brochures with me to show Lucky. And I’m sure we can find some idiot with more money than brains dying to get his hands on one of these crumbling piles of rock.” She straightened her shoulders. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve already contacted a real estate agent and I’ve come to tell Lucky that I’ve set up an appointment for the agent to have a walk-through to give us an estimate of what he might be able to get for Sprague Hall.” She slid a derisive glance in our direction. “Because selling Sprague Hall would be better than having strangers in our home. Nosing into our business.” I could almost see her internal shudder.
Luke followed her gaze, settling on George, who had been busy filming the entire interaction. “Hey, man, turn that camera off. Personal interactions are off-limits, do you understand?”
George made the mistake of looking at me for corroboration, giving Luke the opportunity to grab the camera so that they began to play tug-of-war with a very expensive piece of equipment that could quite possibly end my tenure in reality television if it got broken on my watch.
“Stop it,” I said, moving between the two men and trying to keep my gaze focused on Luke above the neck. “Please put it down, George. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
“Whatever,” he said, pulling the camera away from Luke and switching it off. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I rest my case,” Hadley said. “I’m going to speak with Lucky right now. You are welcome to join me, but you’re not going to change my mind.” She left the room with Luke following, and I had to force myself to not stare at his bare back as he exited.
I looked at my watch. “Okay, everybody. Please see the notes I just gave you and get set up so we can start filming at twelve thirty on the dot. I have to leave now so let’s do an early lunch break. Just make sure you’re back on time. The change has put us behind schedule and we’ll have to hustle to catch up.”
I grabbed my backpack—making sure that my notebook was tucked safely inside of it—and left, taking the servants’ stairs so I wouldn’t run into Hadley. Or Luke. Then I jumped in my Civic, crossing my fingers that it would start on the first try, and headed toward the yacht club.
I was nearly there when I realized that I might not be dressed properly to be admitted inside the club. Didn’t these places usually have a dress code? My favorite pairs of jeans and grungy work pants were currently tumbling in my washing machine at home and I’d been forced to wear actual dress pants, so there was that. Beneath my Death Cab for Cutie sweatshirt I wore a plain white blouse that was at least clean and sported a collar. I also had a pair of black short heels in the back of my car. That was the second thing I’d learned from my mother.
When I reached the club and realized there was no self-parking and only valet, I felt grateful for the foresight that had made me pull onto the side of the road before I reached the club to take off my sweatshirt and change my shoes. I’d dug into my backpack for a brush then tamed my hair back with a rubber band I kept on the gear shift, and with a quick glance in the rearview mirror I’d decided I at least looked presentable if not particularly yacht club material. Not that I would ever want to be.
As I approached the club, I grudgingly admired the gray shingle walls and slate peaks of the rooftop, crisp like starched sheets against the blue of the water and sky behind it. Spiky masts from the harbored boats in the marina lazily nodded, reminding me of the well-dressed set at cocktail hour waiting for something exciting to happen.
The valet did a good job of not recoiling in horror at the sight of my car and took my key with a smile. I wasn’t completely surprised when I was guided to the bar instead of the dining room. I told myself it was too early to be serving lunch, but a quick glance into the dining room with occupied tables told me I was once again pretending that everything was fine.
A half-empty tumbler of amber liquid sat on the polished surface of the Burmese teak bar in front of Marc, its resemblance to the deck of a yacht not an accident. I greeted Marc and sat on the stool next to him, ordering a soda water with lemon so it wouldn’t appear that he was drinking alone.
He reeked of bourbon, and his bow tie hung diagonally at his neck, one end beginning to pull itself free of the knot. I wanted to reach across and fix it for him, but Marc’s sloppy smile made me angry. It was only eleven thirty in the morning, yet he had clearly been drinking for a while. Or maybe he just hadn’t stopped.
Without preamble, he said, “I had a long chat with Christiana last night. George has sent her everything you’ve done so far, and she had a lot to say.” He didn’t smile, telling me that none of what she’d said was good.
I straightened my shoulders, the equivalent of raising my defensive hackles. “Seriously? We’re following the script that she approved, and of course what she’s seen is the unedited version, so if she’s critiquing, I’d say it’s a bit premature. Was it about the changes I submitted yesterday?”
His response was to drain his glass and slide it across the bar before raising his finger to order another drink.
I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable with his silence and desperate to defend myself before I even heard the charges. I couldn’t lose this job. Too much depended on it. “Look, Marc. The reality here is that when I signed on it was to be the host and you the producer, guiding the production. Forgive me for pointing this out, but you’ve been pretty much missing in action. I appreciate your confidence in me, but I’m not qualified to be a producer—not yet, anyway—and I’m way over my head without your guidance. My only experience is from hosting that small production in grad school, which is hardly on the same level of what I’m doing here. I’ll admit that I’m struggling to wear both hats. But I promise to do better. Maybe if you could just stop by for a few hours each day . . .”
I let my voice trail off, realizing he was more interested in sucking down his drink than listening to me. I took a sip from my own drink, waiting for him to say something. Finally, he sat back, sliding his glass away from him. Avoiding my eyes, he said, “They want it to be more about the personal stuff, and less about plastering techniques and flooring options. Just . . . sexier.”
“Wait . . . what?” I swiveled my stool to face him, sure I’d misunderstood, although the pink ensemble that had been selected for me to wear should have been a warning. “Did you say ‘sexier’? Are you sure you’re talking about Makeover Mansion and not The Bachelorette? Because I can’t say I’ve ever heard the words ‘sexy’ and ‘renovation’ in the same sentence.”
I waited for him to laugh, to let me know that this was all some kind of a joke. Instead, he lifted his finger again to the bartender, then took another sip before answering.
“I’m sorry, Andie. I really am.”
I could only sit and stare, wondering how this icon in the world of historic restoration and my mentor could have fallen so far. He’d once been the Robin Leach of his field, hosting two successful television series that had gone into syndication, the author of coffee table books and textbooks found on the shelves of socialites and academics alike. I recalled again the rumors about a great personal loss, and how I’d been too focused on my own family’s crisis at the time to give them any credence. I should ask; I needed to ask, but now wasn’t the time. Not when so much was hanging in the balance. With a burst of anger, I asked, “So, she means to make this show more a Desperate Housewives meets Kardashian House Flip?”
That at least elicited a grin. But if I thought he’d contradict me, I was wrong. “Yes, actually. I think that’s exactly what she wants.” He swayed on his stool and I reached to grab him, thinking he might slide off.
“But . . . how?” I hated how desperate my voice sounded.
He dropped his head down to his chin and held it there for so long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. “Marc?”
He jerked his head up. “Yes, sorry. I was thinking. You need to get Lucky on camera. Interview her if you can. Ask her about Stuy.”
“Stuy?” I remembered vaguely thumbing through my research folder, seeing the name. Stuyvesant Sprague.
“Her husband,” he mumbled.
I shook my head. “You know I can’t. It’s not allowed in the contract to have any contact with her. We’ll get thrown out and then we all lose.”
His head bobbed up and down, his eyes now like slits. “No worries. I’ll get my people on it.”
Hot, impotent anger raced through me, and I was too worried and too frustrated to hold it back. “‘Your people’? Who do you think ‘your people’ are, Marc? I’m the only one you’ve got left. The only one who’s stuck by you. The only one who’s still here. You need to pull yourself together or we’re both going to find ourselves thrown out on our asses.”
Stinging regret pricked at the back of my throat as soon as the words had flown from my mouth. Especially when his lip quivered and I knew I’d hurt him. But my anger remained, the consequences of not solving this problem too dire. Lowering my voice, I said, “You’ve got to help me, Marc. You got me into this. How am I supposed to get to Lucky?”
His head sunk again, but he glanced up with bloodshot eyes. “Joanie. You need to talk to Joanie.”
“Joanie? Who’s Joanie?”
He answered with his once famous smile, then proceeded to slide off his stool like a stringless puppet, already snoring before he hit the floor.