Newport, Rhode Island
November 2019
I smoothed my hand over the brightly painted Vista Alegre porcelain dinner plate, remembering the holidays and birthdays when my mother had still lived with us and she’d allowed us to use the good china. The six place settings and two serving pieces were the only things worth any value brought over by my Portuguese great-grandparents. They were my inheritance. Or had been before I’d found a buyer online who’d offered me enough money for the entire set that would allow me to replace our furnace before winter settled in.
My father stood behind me and placed his large hand on my shoulder. “You don’t need to do this, Andie. I’ll find more work, and you’ll get a new job.”
I set the plate on a square of bubble wrap and taped it tightly. “I hope that we will. But I think we’ve both learned that there are no guarantees in life. The only thing I do know is that we will freeze this winter if we don’t get a new furnace. We’re already sleeping in our sweaters and it’s only November.”
I put the package next to the felt-wrapped sterling silver coffeepot on which my mother had spent a month’s worth of grocery money when we were children. She’d given it pride of place on the scarred sideboard in what she’d called our dining room in her attempt to detract from the shabbiness of the rest of the room, but instead the result had looked like she’d simply put lipstick on a pig. I wished I’d known that expression back then to explain to my mother what we were all thinking, but I hadn’t learned it until I met Meghan. The first time I heard it I thought immediately of the coffeepot and what had been the first loose thread pulled from the hem of our unraveling lives.
We listened to the sound of Petey in the next room playing with his toy boat and plastic dinosaur figures, happily absorbed inside his childish fantasy world where everything was possible. I felt that I had failed him, and that I was responsible for shortening a fragile childhood and leaving him with permanent scars just like his mother’s.
The sound from the street of car doors shutting was followed by Petey’s shouts of “Luke! Lucky!” and then his sneakered feet running across the vinyl tiles toward the front door.
My father and I shared a look as I stood. By the time we reached the door, Petey had already pulled it open—despite the thousands of times we’d told him not to open the door to anyone—and had his arms firmly wrapped around Luke’s legs.
“I am so sorry to intrude without warning, but Luke didn’t want to wait.” Lucky spoke with her deep voice and mid-century prep school accent, and for the first time, I noticed a slight inflection that might have been Italian.
“Come in, come in.” My father pulled the door wide and ushered in the visitors along with a cool blast of November wind. “Perfect timing, too. I’ve just taken a pan of my famous pastéis de nata out of the oven and they are waiting to be eaten. Andie, take their coats and show them into the living room and I will bring coffee and plates. Make sure you seat them next to the space heater. Petey, come with me so you can help.”
“Ah, Portuguese custard tarts,” Lucky said. “I remember them from my childhood in Italy. Our chef had a Portuguese grandmother who’d taught her how to make them, and so she made them for me because I had such the sweet tooth. I adore them.”
I briefly met Luke’s eyes as I took his jacket, a fissure of electricity passing through me as my fingers brushed his. We hadn’t seen each other since the day of the mudslide and the destruction of the boathouse, which had forced the revelation of over a century’s worth of Sprague family secrets. I found it ironic that if Makeover Mansion had waited one more day before pulling the plug, they would have had front row seats to the biggest social register scandal the country had seen since the outing of the Mayflower Madame.
When he bent to kiss my cheek, I quickly turned away, reaching for Lucky’s heavy mink coat. Luke and I had only spoken briefly in the two months since the remains of two bodies had been discovered beneath the boathouse. National attention had suddenly been directed at Sprague Hall in its secluded corner of Sheep Point Cove, with reporters camped outside and police swarming like termites. Local and national newspapers splashed the Spragues’ dirty laundry on their front pages, forcing Hadley and her family to decamp for an extended European vacation.
For weeks, the bodies had been the lead story on the evening news, but the first time I’d seen Luke’s picture splashed on the screen, I’d flipped off the television. Even my father didn’t have the stomach to hear what he referred to as unfounded rumors and speculation.
Luke called once to let me know that he would be staying away, just to make sure that my name wouldn’t be dragged through the muck along with his. I’d understood his reasoning, especially because I had Petey to worry about, but that small part of me, that young girl who’d been abandoned by her mother, couldn’t quite believe that Luke was telling me the truth even with the evidence of the continued media presence clogging Bellevue Avenue. Our time together had been short, yet I thought I knew the person Luke really was. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been wrong about someone. So as the days ticked on without any word from him, and the story disappeared from the front pages and the number of media trucks dwindled, I grew more and more certain that once again I’d been left behind.
I ushered our visitors into the TV room, quickly picking up old newspapers and scooping Legos and matchbox cars into a pile. I indicated for Luke and Lucky to sit on the threadbare sofa whose back my dad had thrown knitted doilies over to try to make it look better. It didn’t, but he’d felt obliged to accept them from the widows at church who circled him like vultures and had no other place to put them.
“This is charming,” Lucky said as she looked around the room, actually sounding like she meant it. She took the heavy ceramic mug, made by Petey in kindergarten, from my dad and took a sip from it as if it were fine Wedgwood. “Everything is so warm and inviting. I especially love the framed sketches of the cliffs. Such artistic insight! Did you do those?”
I shook my head. “My sister, Melissa. She was the one with all the talent in the family.”
Lucky reached out and took my hand, her dark eyes staring into mine like a fortune-teller’s. “We all have our talents, Andie. You might not be an artist, but you have a rare fighting spirit not seen in ordinary people. It allows you to pursue your dreams against enormous odds while at the same time being generous with your love and time to those who need you. And you have never quit despite the hardships. That is a rare and precious talent.”
She squeezed my hand but didn’t let go. “In my years on this earth, I have known too many weak people who folded at the first signs of distress, who lost their way because they were too distracted by small disappointments and couldn’t see past them to the love and beauty that existed in their lives. Nor did they have a consuming passion that went beyond money and status, a reason for existence. But you have all of that, Andie. And you have never quit.”
It was almost as if she could see through me to the packing box in the dining room, her last words sounding like an accusation. I pulled my hand away, grateful for the excuse to help Petey, who was carrying a large plate of pastéis de nata, his small arms wobbling as he approached. “Thanks, Petey,” I said, taking the plate from him. My heart hurt as I saw that my dad had used a platter from his wedding china, a pile of inexpensive plates and dishes that stayed in a low cupboard in the kitchen and never saw the light of day.
Dad followed Petey into the room with three more mismatched coffee mugs and placed them on the laminate coffee table before sending Petey back to the kitchen to grab the paper napkin holder. I didn’t even flinch when he thunked it down on the table and I recognized it as the one that had sat on the kitchen counter since I was a small girl, the wooden holder topped with what had once been a brightly painted rooster but had long since lost its luster and most of its paint.
Dad pulled a folding chair away from the card table where we always kept a puzzle in progress and set it next to Luke before sitting down in his recliner, mercifully covering most of its food stains earned from too many meals eaten while sitting in it and watching television.
Everyone took a napkin and a tart except for me. My stomach had tightened into too many knots from being so close to Luke that I could barely sip my coffee. Because no one seemed to be in a hurry to discuss the reason for their visit, I directed my attention toward Lucky. “I’m so sorry to hear about your husband. And your . . .” I stopped, not quite sure what to call the woman whose remains had been discovered in the collapsed boathouse.
“Maybelle,” Luke finished for me.
Lucky took a dainty bite from her tart, swallowing it down with a sip from her mug. “When I first saw the remains, I knew immediately it was her, of course. I recognized the cameo from her portrait. Although, can we really be sure?” She raised an eyebrow. “Thank goodness for modern DNA testing, although it couldn’t confirm who she was. All that they could say for sure is that she and I—even if she is the real Maybelle—are not blood related.”
She took another sip of coffee, watching me closely, seemingly able to see the inner workings of my brain as I flipped through what I knew of the Spragues—of Maybelle’s elopement with an Italian prince, and Lucky and her grandmother’s escape from Italy during the war. I sat up, my eyes widening in surprise as Lucky smiled, watching me reach the conclusion she already knew.
Before I could ask the obvious question, Lucky continued. “Unfortunately, they couldn’t find anything more specific regarding cause of death, or how she ended up in the boathouse.”
I looked over at Petey, who’d stopped chewing and was listening intently. My dad excused himself to take Petey into the kitchen and after a moment I heard the small portable television turn on to the sound of cartoons.
Lucky continued. “The only damage to the remains was a small crack on the side of the skull, which makes it appear that Maybelle was either hit on the head by someone or sustained the blow by slipping on a rock as she fell into the water and most likely was knocked unconscious. At least long enough for her to have drowned.” She looked down at her hands, her fingers long and still slender. “Poor thing. I suppose we will never know exactly what happened. Or who she really is, as there are apparently no living blood relatives to compare with her DNA.” She leaned forward, her eyes staring intently into mine. “But I think it’s Maybelle. I know the Spragues better than most and understand what they’re capable of.”
A small shudder trickled down my spine, but I couldn’t look away. “If Maybelle never made it to Italy, then who was your grandmother?”
She glanced at Luke with a secret smile. “Who knows?” Before I could question her further, she said, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for the lovely note and flowers you sent for Stuy’s funeral. It was very kind of you, and I sincerely appreciated that the flowers came from your own garden.”
“You’re very welcome. I wanted to come, but Luke thought it better I keep any media attention away from me until things had settled down.” I avoided looking at Luke when I spoke, not wanting to see something in his eyes I didn’t want to see. I didn’t think I could take one more loss or disappointment.
“Have there been any new developments in his case?” I asked.
Lucky reached into her large Italian leather bag that she’d placed at her feet, but quickly drew out her hand. With an apologetic smile, she said, “I keep forgetting that I gave up cigarettes years ago, yet every once in a while I find myself craving one.”
“It’s been difficult for my grandmother since they found the bodies, as you can imagine,” Luke said, speaking directly to me for the first time since he’d arrived. “Once my grandfather’s body was identified, she became the focus of the investigation, which has been very hard on her, even though they found no evidence that implicated her in any way in his death. They did uncover a lot of gambling debts and are speculating that the people to whom he owed the money took care of the debt themselves when he told them he couldn’t pay them back.”
Luke pulled out a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to his grandmother. “Which is true. The estate was essentially bankrupt at the time of his death. It was only the discovery of the Italian art that gave the estate the necessary infusion of funds to keep it going for decades.”
“I can’t imagine your relief,” I said to Lucky, sensing Luke’s eyes on me, and beginning to wonder at the purpose of their visit. People like Lucky and Luke Sprague didn’t pay social visits to a town like Cranston, thirty-three miles away from their estate in Newport. After the initial excitement at finding Luke on my doorstep, I concluded that his showing up with his grandmother made it clear that his visit wasn’t going to be romantic in nature. I told myself I was fine with that since I had other matters more pressing than my love life. Like feeding my family.
I casually glanced at the rooster mantel clock, worried that I hadn’t been on LinkedIn since the previous night, and afraid I might be missing employment opportunities. I caught Luke watching me, a slight grin on his lips.
I turned back to Lucky, aware that she was speaking to me. “Luke and I stopped by today to discuss a business proposal we think you might be interested in.”
“Excuse me?”
Luke leaned forward. “I’m sure you can imagine that you’re not the only one who has been wondering that if the woman found in the boathouse is the real Maybelle Sprague, then who went to Italy and married the prince? Who is the real Principessa di Conti? Who is Lucky’s grandmother and my great-grandmother?”
“True.” I drew out the word. “But I’m not sure how that would involve me. I’m not a detective.”
“But you are,” Lucky said. “Don’t you see? Your passion is the history behind old buildings, the stories that happened within their walls that only they can tell. They really are the storytellers of history, aren’t they?”
I was speechless, remembering how I had shared my idea with them the day I’d met Lucky up in her rooms, and confided my dreams. “But . . .”
“That was your idea,” Luke finished for me. “We know. That’s why we also know that you would be the perfect host for our series.”
“Your series,” I repeated.
Lucky nodded. “Teddy and I want to bankroll a new series idea—either network or streaming—with you as the official host. The first installment could be you digging into the true identity of the Principessa di Conti—find out who she is. Bring her back to me, if you will. You can tell her story through the houses she called her home. Which is what you love best, yes?”
“As much as all of the media attention has been unbearable,” Luke added, “the fact that everyone knows who we are and that the skeletal remains of an unknown woman were found in our boathouse—along with those of my grandfather—means this could be something every network will want.”
“I—”
Lucky interrupted me. “I’ll give you time to consider our offer. But you should know that Luke and I have decided to sell Sprague Hall. A tech billionaire from California thinks it would be a fun—his word—project to restore it to its former glory and has offered us a ridiculous amount of money. I will be happy to share your contact information with him as someone whom I would recommend to help with such an undertaking.
“Luke and I thought that we could use some of the proceeds to build a home and center for single mothers to raise their children in a healthy environment while they get back on their feet. The house has been a millstone around my neck for far too long and it’s time to let it go, and allow it to create something positive for a change.”
My mind raced with unasked questions, finally settling on the first one I could grasp. “But where will you live? With Hadley?”
Lucky barked out a raucous laugh and continued laughing until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes. “No. I’m offering her a job at the center because she is the queen of organization and getting things done, but I will not be living with her. I treasure my sanity far too much. Nor will I be moving in with Joanie, much for the same reason. But I’m putting Joanie in charge of the center because she’s the only one who can control Hadley and she does have a calming presence and so much to offer to struggling women.
“As for where I’ll be living, Teddy and I have decided to marry, and we will be moving to Italy. The Palazzo di Conti was abandoned years ago and it is our desire to restore it and live in it for the rest of our days. Together. It’s something we should have done years ago. It’s time to grab what happiness I can with what’s left of my life. And we will allow you full access for research and filming. We believe our idea is network gold, with all the mystery, history, drama, and a castle in Italy. Not to mention two buried bodies. And with our connections, there are many more stories waiting to be told in future installments, and with you as the longtime host. Like Robin Leach and his Lifestyles show, but with more history and depth.”
“And a much more charming host with the gravitas of an advanced degree,” Luke added.
I placed my hands on either side of my head as if to keep my thoughts from spinning. There was so much to think about—the furnace, and Petey’s education. My dreams that I thought I’d put on hold indefinitely. And I thought of Marc, and how he’d recently checked himself into a rehab facility, and my constant worry about what he would do when he got out.
“If I accept, would I have free rein to bring on board my own consultants?”
Lucky smiled. “Of course. It would be your show. You would call the shots, so to speak.”
I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, yet I didn’t feel the need to hide them.
Petey rushed in from the kitchen, his face smeared with custard. I immediately grabbed a napkin and wiped his face and hands before he could throw his arms around Lucky. “Lucky, ya wanna come play Minecraft with me? I’ll let you beat me, but only the first time.”
“I would love to, sweetheart.” Luke helped Lucky stand. She took both of my hands in hers and held them tightly. “Please think about it, Andie. Then let me know if you will accept. The series can’t exist without you. I see it as a way to save us all.” She smiled warmly then leaned over to kiss my cheek.
“I will,” I said, although I was pretty sure I already had an answer. I’d never once in my life backed down from a challenge and I wasn’t about to start now.
She followed Petey to his room, leaving me alone with Luke. I felt him behind me, that heady pull between us that existed whether or not I wanted it to. It just was. I didn’t turn around, unsure of what I’d see. If this was going to be goodbye. I would have preferred for him to continue ghosting me. As pathetic as I knew it was, at least that would have let me still hold on to some hope, however unrealistic.
“I wanted to thank you in person.” His voice came from directly behind me, and I knew if I turned, we’d be close enough to touch.
This is goodbye. I swallowed. I didn’t turn, not wanting him to see. “For what?” I managed, hating how my voice was thick with unshed tears. Mostly because I did not cry.
“I’ve decided to go back to being a pediatrician. And I don’t think I could have come to that conclusion without you.”
My surprise propelled me to face him as his hands came up to gently cup my shoulders. “Because of me?”
“And Petey.” His lips briefly lifted in a smile before his face became serious again. “I’ve missed you.”
I met his eyes, loving how they reminded me of an endless horizon. “How much?”
“Like the desert misses the rain.”
I smiled. “Did you make that up yourself?”
“No. I heard it in a song. But it’s true.”
“I like that. I’ve missed you, too.”
He grinned that sailor-boy grin that I had once hated, but now dreamed about in an almost annoying frequency. “I know we’re kind of doing this backward, but . . . can I take you out for dinner sometime?”
“You mean like a date?”
“Exactly like a date.” He lowered his lips to mine while his arms wrapped around my waist and my hands reached behind his head to pull him closer, not even stopping at the sound of my father clearing his throat or Petey’s whooping in the background, content to let it all fade away like old ghosts and forgotten disappointments, and a once grand estate still clinging to the high cliffs of Newport.