Page 6 of The Mystery Guest

“Uh-huh,” the youth replied before turning his attention to the famous man at the front of the room.

Sweat gathered at my brow as the line dwindled and ecstatic employees rushed off with signed copies of J. D. Grimthorpe’s latest book tucked preciously under their arms.

“It’s your turn, Molly,” Mr. Snow said over my shoulder. “Step up.” And so I found myself standing directly in front of the writer himself.

“Your name?” Mr. Grimthorpe asked as he sized me up with raptorial eyes.

“M-M-Molly,” I managed.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am J. D. Grimthorpe,” he said, as if I didn’t already know.

He scribbled my name and his signature in my book, then passed it to me, making eye contact one more time. I waited, but recognition never dawned.

How was it possible that I remembered everything about him but he did not remember me?

Before

In my mind’s eye, I return to a memory.

I am ten years old, riding with my gran in the back of a taxi with squeaky faux-leather seats. I grip the door handle tightly as we head out of the downtown core of the city and into the suburbs, where each home seems larger and more exquisite than the last. We are on our way somewhere very special, and I’m performing a well-practiced magic trick in my head, the one where I sketch a recent and unpleasant experience on a chalkboard and then erase it, making it disappear from my thoughts, if not forever then at least for a little while.

Gran, hair tinged with gray, her glasses perched precariously at the end of her nose, sits beside me embroidering a pillowcase. This is a favorite pastime of hers. I once asked her why she likes to embroider.

“To transform the ordinary into something extraordinary,” she replied. “Plus, it relieves stress.”

She works away with her needle, pulling brightly coloredthreads one by one through the plain white fabric. She’s completed the first line on the pillow—God grant me the serenity—and has begun the line after it.

“What comes next?” I ask her.

She sighs and stops her sewing. “If only I knew.”

“It’s something about change,” I remind her.

“Oh, you mean what’s next on the pillowcase.God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can…”

“…and the wisdom to know the difference,” I say.

“That’s right,” Gran replies.

“Are you sure we can afford it?” I ask, as I wiggle in my squeaky seat and readjust the seat belt digging into my waist.

“Afford what?” she asks.

“This taxi. It will cost us dearly, won’t it? Waste not, want not?”

“We can splurge every once in a while, just not all the time. And today, your gran could use a little splurge.” She smiles and takes up her needle once more.

“Tell me again what it’s like where we’re going,” I say.

“It’s a well-appointed grand estate with rolling lawns, manicured gardens, and many rooms.”

“Is it bigger than our apartment?”

She pauses, needle raised. “Dear girl, it is a palatial mansion with eight large bedrooms, a library, a ballroom, a conservatory, a study, and a parlor filled with priceless antiquities. It’s the antithesis of our modest apartment.”

I still cannot picture it in my head, the scale of it, the grandeur. I try to call up the fanciest house I have ever seen on TV, a home on an episode ofColumbowith dormer windows, English gardens, and creeping ivy. But it’s only when the taxi driver turns one lastcorner and Gran says, “We’re here,” that I realize I have never in my life seen a home like this, not in real life or on TV.

The taxi stops in front of imposing wrought-iron gates topped with menacing spears. The gate is flanked by two austere stone columns. Farther along is a gray, three-story security watchtower with dark tinted windows.

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