The Admirer's Secret Read online

  A graying woman with crow’s-feet that reached from her eyes to her hairline peeked out from around the door with a coy smile.

  “Hale, do you want me to pack you a lunch for later?”

  So typical of her mother. Always sending Haley off with food.

  “No, Mom, I’m fine. I might stop for fast food or something on my way home later.”

  “Honey, fast food is no way to eat. You may as well grab a handful of lard.”

  “And your deep fried chicken is any healthier?”

  Gabrielle Montgomery rolled her eyes and shook her head, sending a few gray tendrils loose from her bun, then disappeared back into the house.

  Haley fingered the letter and pulled her journal from her faux Louis Vuitton handbag situated at her feet. With her journal in one hand and the letter in the other, she examined the word choices carefully.

  “So what is today’s clue?” she mumbled to the vacant space around her.

  Her anxious fingers slid down the edge of the rose-colored paper, coming to rest on the rough wooden arm of the porch swing. A pain jolted through her finger. The metallic taste of blood mingled with warm spittle as Haley thrust her bloody fingertip into her mouth and tucked the letter into her journal. A slightly wrong movement had jammed a splinter into her index finger, luckily still within reach. After plucking the wood sliver out, she nursed the puncture dry.

  Haley sat alone on the dilapidated swing that hung from the wraparound porch that had seen better days, the wounded hand now holding her leather journal and the other picking at the section of peeling paint that had attacked her bare finger. The secrets she kept tucked in her journal crinkled as Haley rocked the swing upward. Gravity pulled her back down. Momentum carried her back up.

  She hadn’t told her mother about the letters; she probably never would. It would only worry her. What mother would celebrate borderline stalker-ish letters of affection from some anonymous suitor? But lonely nights had left the door open to Haley’s online interactions, which shortly after led to the letters. Now she was hooked, despite the warnings that once played in her head. Instead of heeding them, Haley mentally muted them. Until she discovered the identity of her admirer, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it rest. Which was why her mother absolutely could not find out. Not yet, at least.

  Listening to the sound of rusted metal grating at its hinges as she let physics do its work on the swing, a tinge of guilt over her secret shifted Haley’s focus to the swing’s deterioration, the rusted porch railing, the never-ending to-do list of repairs.

  How can I let my mom live like this?

  The neglect showed as time took its toll on the rotted stairs and crooked shutters. Money had been too tight for her mother to hire out renovations, and Haley lacked the time or energy to do it herself. Even her sister Courtney, who accepted a full ride to college, was full of excuses on why she couldn’t come home to help. It seemed like everything needed attention on the family’s western New York vineyard.

  But now it seemed Haley had the solution to their problems. The one person who could help them. It was a promise her admirer had made in each of his letters—a promise to make their financial troubles disappear. She just had to find out who it was and why he had chosen her.

  “I will figure you out eventually,” she said to herself as she pushed the swing upward.

  The up and down motion felt so soothing today. The heaviness of her eyelids began to weigh them down; her internal clock hadn’t quite adjusted to an early rise on Saturday morning. With eyes closed she imagined her father beside her, protecting her from this morning’s bitter breeze, but she couldn’t make out his face. It seemed that as the appearance of the house deteriorated, her memories of her father went with it. Conjuring up images of his face got harder and harder as the years passed. It was strange how her memory worked—the feel of weathered wood could take her back in time to a distinct event with him, but remembering how his hair parted seemed so difficult.

  A gunshot pop of a car backfiring spurred her eyes open and her body to jerk, sending the journal—and the letter—to the floor. The neighbors working on their collection of junk cars again. The Montgomery family’s two-story faded red farmhouse sat half a mile back from main Route 5, almost out of view of all passing tractor trailers, but unfortunately not out of sound’s reach.

  Route 5 passed through endless miles of farms—corn, grapes, and more grapes. Only a couple miles up the road and one would be entering the heart of Westfield. Westfield, New York—her hometown and the only place she’d ever seen in twenty-seven years of life—was a sleepy town nestled against Lake Erie known for grape farming and quiet living. As the Grape Juice Capital of the World, Westfield took special pride in its vineyards. The Montgomery estate once upon a time fit right in, she thought, as her gaze rolled over the expanse of land. It had been masterfully tended with her father’s years of experience and dedication, and had shown in every tenderly matured vine. But those days were long gone.

  Haley’s love for Westfield had always been a double-edged sword. The village offered a quintessential quality of life exclusive to small towns, but it wasn’t exactly prime breeding ground for an aspiring screenplay writer like herself. But it had its charm. Westfield was the closest thing to southern hospitality north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Cars patiently waited at crosswalks for the elderly to cross without entertaining the idea of beeping to quicken slow and steady gaits. Kids shamelessly wore hand-me-downs. Meals were home-cooked and families ate together at the dinner table. It was as if the days of Leave it to Beaver never left the close-knit lakeside community. The Montgomery family had been no exception.

  Until right before Haley’s twelfth birthday, when everything changed.

  The door opened again, startling her.

  “Hey, sweetie—you’re still here. You change your mind about going?” Her mother at it again. She’d never liked the idea of Haley’s Hollywood aspirations.

  Haley’s glare answered no.

  “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” Gabrielle chuckled.

  “You never try to help yourself, Mom.”

  “But you love me to a fault anyway,” Gabrielle retorted with a wink.

  “Eh, that’s debatable.”

  Gabrielle shuffled to the swing and sat down. “You really think this class will help?”

  “I hope so.”

  Wishful thinking hadn’t worked yet, but she still clung to hope. After two years of submitting proposal after proposal, Haley had tried to sell the rights to several of her screenplays, and the pile of form letter rejections would have sent any other aspiring screenplay writer to suicide. But not Haley. She was determined to find a way—no matter what the cost.

  “You comin’ over for supper tonight? You can’t have fast food twice in a day, y’know.”

  Haley shrugged. “Depends on what you’re cooking.”

  “Who are you kidding? We both know your fridge is empty, Hale. And when was the last time you cooked a decent meal for yourself? You’re all skin and bones, honey.”

  Haley chuckled… because it was far from true. Her mother’s frequent home cooking lingered around Haley’s midsection, the pinch of her jeans being a depressing reminder that missing a couple meals wouldn’t hurt.

  “Fine. I’ll see you later this evening, then. Well, I probably should get going.” Haley grabbed her journal and shoved it in her sagging handbag, then hoisted her briefcase over her shoulder, not noticing the letter that fluttered at her feet beneath the swing.

  Pebbles crackled beneath her footsteps as she strode to her car. The sun’s hazy reflection bounced off the lake several feet below the cliff that her family’s vineyard sat atop. Her ears picked up the slosh of whitecaps splashing against the boulders below, spraying icy droplets halfway up the rock face. Icy wind tousled her hair, and distant clouds threatened the sky, making a steady advance. A storm was brewing, most likely bringing ice and snow with it. Her brow crinkled as she imagined driving in it.

  Sm
oothing loose brown curls away from her face, Haley made her way down the long sparsely graveled path to her car. The wind bit her cheeks as growing excitement fueled each stride. Today felt like a step into an adventure—a much-needed adventure. Twenty-seven years she spent living in the same small town, blending into the same unpalatably predictable existence. Until now. No more Lifetime movie-thons alone on the couch while singlehandedly downing quart-sized containers of Cherry Garcia ice cream. Her father had once told her to dream big and pursue her heart’s desire, and today would be her first step.

  Haley tossed a quick wave good-bye to her mother, who knelt down near the porch swing. As Haley turned back to her car, it didn’t occur to Haley that the action behind her held any significance. It didn’t occur to her that her little secret would be let loose that day as her unsuspecting mother bent over, picking up a flittering paper from the porch floor. Haley turned to her car, unaware of what was unfolding behind her as her mother read the paper, eyes wide with fear, her hand covering her gaping mouth.

  Chapter 3

  Haley’s fingertips tingled from the cold as she reached the car and pried at the handle—stuck again. After a couple strong pulls, the door finally popped open and she slid into the stiff vinyl seat. She turned the key, the engine sputtered, then stalled. Three tries later, the engine finally groaned to life.

  You’ll be the first to go once I sell a screenplay, she vowed to the car. I’m thinking a brand new, shiny Porsche. It felt refreshingly good to believe it.

  As she pulled onto the highway, she reflected on the events that led up to this particular day. It had been a long journey, but worth the wait. Holding tight to dreams of breaking free from her mundane existence, every moment outside of her nine-to-five, gray-walled secretary’s cubicle was spent writing. It was her addiction, her escape. And it came easy to her. She wrote about anything and everything from the time she first learned how to hold a pencil. Documenting her life in ink-filled journals since she was eight years old, she recorded the scribbled thoughts of her simple mind and childish crises. It all began with her first entry demonstrating perfectly large-lettered penmanship:

  Entry 1

  You are my new best friend. Angie Meyers used to be my best friend but today during recess she took back our friendship bracelet and gave it to Michelle Langdon. So now I am nobody’s best friend. But at least I have you. I promise to write every day.

  A gold lock concealed the diary’s secrets and Haley used all her eight-year-old ingenuity to find the “perfect” hiding spot for the key: under her pillow. Little did she know that the lock could easily be picked with a hairpin. But even as a child, she had a dream of becoming someone special.

  Since those days, the years rolled by quickly and quietly, like waves lapping the yellow sand beaches. Each day the same, each day forgettable. But then destiny had orchestrated her tutelage under a larger-than-life Hollywood screenplay writer, her dream incarnate: Allen Michaels. One of her blogging friends had first brought up the idea of attending a writing class. Then lo and behold, an ad had appeared in last month’s Westfield Republican promoting a screenplay class with the successful Hollywood film writer, which read:

  Are movies your passion? Prominent Hollywood screenplay writer, Allen Michaels, seeking enthusiastic, creative students. Learn all you need to know in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build a career in the movie business. This four-session Saturday morning class will be held at Jamestown Community College. Inquire for details.

  The name Allen Michaels rang a bell with everyone in Hollywood, along with average Joes nationwide who read any of the popular movie credits in the past decade. Even non-movie buffs recognized his name from the tabloids. Though Haley typically didn’t read the scandalous fodder, Allen Michaels’ name recently made front-page news after his wife went missing, and gossip spread like wildfire. Eventually the latest Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan drama distracted the media enough to take the limelight off the Hollywood movie god. Despite his bad press, Haley knew Mr. Michaels would be her ticket out of Westfield. She just felt it.

  Upon reaching JCC—as the locals called it—Haley pulled her car into the first parking spot she could find and swiftly strode toward the building. She ducked her head while the wind franticly tossed her hair. Ungloved hands firmly clutched a sheet listing all the information—building name, room number, and schedule. She rushed up the stairs of a sixties-inspired mustard-colored brick building on the north side of campus and entered, her footsteps announcing her arrival as they echoed throughout the empty corridor. With the students still on winter break, the college looked like a ghost town.

  After meandering through the hallways, Haley found a classroom where several people sat quietly reading, some engaged in whispered conversation. The room number matched her sheet, so she headed inside.

  A few seats were available in the back next to other students, but feeling introverted and older than the early twenty-somethings around her, she chose an isolated spot in the front corner. As she fumbled through her bag in search of a pen and paper, her hands quivered. Her stomach churned. She was sure her heartbeat was audible to the entire room. Familiar anxiety—and a cascade of nausea—returned with full force as she felt eyes watching her every move.

  In an attempt to distract herself from sickness that enveloped her, Haley observed the placid atmosphere. Eggshell white walls revealed clusters of cracks climbing, spider-like, up to the ceiling. A clock on the wall ticked down the minutes. The floor revealed black scuffmarks in contrast to the beige ceramic tile. Her glance finally settled on a blonde older man facing the class from the front of the room—his eyes locked on her. His forehead was wrinkled with intensity and she shuttered under his attention. His skin was pale and hung loosely around his neck. His fingers interlocked, clenched for dear life, as his knuckles whitened. Haley noticed oversized glasses slide down his nose slightly before his skinny crooked index finger pushed them back into place. As her mind calculated, she realized this was him—this was the Allen Michaels.

  Chapter 4

  Pushing his glasses up his pointed nose, Allen Michaels diverted his stare from the front row beauty and glanced down at a collection of story synopsis ideas as he waited for the last of the students to arrive. After spending time getting to know Westfield, he found it the perfect setting for his next suspense thriller screenplay. He knew from skyrocketing box office sales that audiences loved a small-town murder mystery, and he was determined to deliver.

  A tremble overcame his hands and he hastily wiped moisture from his clammy palms onto his Dockers. Self-consciously checking his collar, he straightened it out and checked to make sure his attire was in place—an obsessive habit since youth. His nerves got the best of him this morning, but it could have been a combination of the breakfast sausage he ate and his body’s sluggish adjustment to the bitter climate. But getting acclimated to the northeastern winter wasn’t the only thing on his mind; he had a class to teach.

  The last of the students drifted in, and everyone sat comfortably in their seats. Allen inhaled, rose from his chair, and formulated each word in his head before he spoke. He paced across the room, examining the pairs of intense eyes peering up at him. He drew a blank. Stage fright.

  “Welcome, class.” It took every ounce of strength to push the words past his chapped lips. His world had been turned upside down in the past few weeks. I shouldn’t have come here, he brooded. But after all that happened, this was the perfect diversion from the paparazzi. He could lay low, get some fresh perspective, and start over. Maybe get a good story out of it as well. He would take it day by day.

  As his thoughts threatened to smother him, the strain in his shoulders crept up into his skull. Reality was harsh, and the mere thread that held him together in front of this roomful of strangers weakened. He knew he had to get through these next few weeks unscathed. So he proceeded, shaking off the discomfort that swept over him.

  “My name is Allen Michaels.” He looked over his gla
sses at the group before him. “So you all want to be screenplay writers?”

  That was easy enough.

  A pause, then a mumble of affirmations rose around the room.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m a writer, director, and producer. And now your teacher. I’m going to help you make your dreams come true. To begin, I want each of you to write out a single word that expresses why you want to be a writer.”

  He waited for the shuffle of bags and whine of opening zippers to die down, then studied their contemplative faces. So eager. So brimming with enthusiasm. It reminded him of his own beginnings, and how similar circumstances led up to this very moment.

  The teaching venture first came to him several weeks back. Needing a break from Los Angeles and the acidic memories associated with it, he decided to take a brief sabbatical. It was no big deal to uproot like this; he’d been doing drifting around for years, moving from one city to the next, shifting one life into another. However, this time was different. It wasn’t his usual step up to bigger and better; after all, he had grown accustomed to certain luxuries, and under normal circumstances he’d be searching out a location that would accommodate his trendy lifestyle of fancy restaurants and regular pampering—Milan or a Caribbean island resort. But his latest emergency afforded him no such time. The weight of Los Angeles and its insatiable press suffocated him, and he knew if he didn’t get out soon, he would choke. All he needed was a few weeks. Just some time to recoup.

  After considering options for passing the time, he liked the idea of lecturing. He thrived in front of an attentive audience, once he overcame the jitters. So the next order of business was where. Far enough away to leave the past behind. Though he rarely frequented the east coast, he welcomed the thought as things got rocky with his soon-to-be ex-wife. That, along with all the right doors opening, led him to Westfield, New York.