The Admirer's Secret (2 page)

Chapter 2

February 2009

Westfield
, New York 

Dear Haley:

I know. I know
your darkest secrets, your dull existence. The loneliness that haunts you at night, when you turn your head to find the other side of the bed empty … again. How can a stranger possibly know you better than you know yourself, you ask? I’ve been watching. Watching as you shiver at the creepiness of my vast understanding, yet tremble from the sheer thrill as I probe you so deeply. Like you, I feel so contradictory, yet compelled to clear my head on paper, which is why I write you. Unfortunately, it’s not working today. My mind is plagued with thoughts of you, Haley. I breathe for you. I bleed for you. Please let me help you. You need me. Your mother needs me. I believe it was E. L. Doctorow who said, “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” Should I be awestruck or afraid at my crazed feelings for you?

Love,

Crazy for Yo
u

A
nother
day, another letter. Chillingly beautiful. Cryptically open. And spattered with blood.

Haley Montgomery pulled her eyes—for the dozenth time—from the perfectly cursive script to the red droplets that lined the torn edge.

I bleed for you.

The message should have sent her running to the cops, but by now she’d gotten used to her writer’s eccentricities. While bloodstains were a far leap from cologne-scented notes evolved into tear-stained letters, she resonated with his passion—like being pen pal blood brothers. Somehow turning these letters over to the police felt… wrong.

Her eyes traveled back to the words. Not the writing of any average man. Too pretty. Too sensual. Definitely the work of a true romantic. The handwritten script curled and swirled across the page in perfect harmony. The words were beautiful yet haunted. She really didn’t need to read it; she had memorized the message when it showed up in her mailbox two days ago. No stamp. No return address. No known sender. Just like the others.

Holding the worn paper in her hand, creased from being folded so many times, gave her a sense of intimacy with the nameless sender. He knew about her father. He knew about her screenplays sitting in a pile on her desk at home. He even knew about the thoughts she had, the thoughts of loneliness and yearning.

He knew so much, and yet she knew so little.

B
logging had a way of divulging those secrets to any number of readers, so it wasn’t a surprise when the interested responses came pouring in. But something about this one was different. He had actually spent the time looking her up, seeking her out. Then snail-mailing her… no impersonal electronic mail from this guy… Yes, he was definitely above average.

Haley’s secret admirer had been writing almost every day for
nearly two weeks, each one leaving a deeper footprint on her mind. Each letter held a clue to his identity, a clue that she documented in her daily journal entries. She’d profiled quite a character—eloquent, romantic, highly intelligent—but with each new message she found herself disturbed with the reality that no one she personally knew fit the bill… yet.

Haley sucked in a few deep breaths. Scattered
rays of sunshine creeping through the overhead gaps of her mother’s front porch roof warmed her dimpled cheeks against the crisp wind. She pulled her legs up to her chest, hugging them against the February cold, then closed her eyes, allowing the stiffness in her shoulders to lift with each breath. Clearing all thoughts, she let the sound of rustling leaves and the smell of lakefront air take her captive.

Nature’s lull was jarred by the sudden creak of the screen door. Haley shoved the letter under her jeaned thigh.

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.

Smoothing 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

H
aley’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 pen
cil. 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.