Emma turned to Guinness. “Yes?”
He looked down at his plate, unable to speak, it seemed. Jameson spoke for him. “The kids make fun of him, Mom,” said Jameson.
“Stop,” whispered Guinness.
“They call him a moonpig, because he draws cartoons,” said Jameson. “They hit him and they put poop in his locker!” Jameson started to cry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” said Emma. “Is that true?”
“Don’t make me go back, Mom,” said Guinness.
“Doesn’t anyone care about my emerald headpiece?” cried Donna.
3
from the desk ofSimon Rampling
Dear Sylvie,
I am a coward, so instead of telling you the truth while I look in your eyes, I am going to write it down.
I just hung up the phone with Thisbe. In order to explain what she wants, I need to tell you what I’ve done. I had wanted to be the one person who did not disappoint you, yet here we are, in this bleak castle, where everything always goes to hell.
How can I explain the situation with Thisbe? In broad strokes, Thisbe’s father works for dishonest politicians. I don’t know the details, but I know he is ruthless. All their money—all my money—is corrupt.
Christ, this is not what I want to be doing right now. Leave it to Thisbe to ruin even this day.
Thisbe and I met in college. She had a boyfriend and I was her best friend—I was not-so-secretly in love with her. One night during a fight with her boyfriend,Thisbe ended up at my place, and we conceived Penelope. I don’t know why she married me; she had many options, but she said she wanted me—us—and so we were married in the Miami Four Seasons Hotel.
My father came to the wedding. He was utterly mystified by the ironic ’80s cover band, the bright sun, the enormous guest list, and multilayered cake. He looked so small in the ballroom. At one point, I brought him a whiskey and he said, so quietly, “Whoareall these people?”
I had no idea. Thisbe’s family is enormous and influential. They own properties in Miami, London, New York, Caracas, the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, and Houston. (And that’s just the ones I know about.) Thisbe’s father bought us a home on Indian Creek Island and we welcomed Penelope. I thought I was happy.
I sent money to Mumberton instead of going home. (Thisbe’s father’s money, of course: A company he created now owns Mumberton, but the company is willed to Penelope.) My father replaced the roof and refurbished the rooms one by one, completing all the plans my mother had left in notebooks (even completing projects my grandparents had dreamed up). He told me he was proud. I don’t know where my mother is but I imagine she is pleased if she is anywhere.
Thisbe told me she was leaving me when Penelope was eighteen months old. She surprised me one evening, appearing with her ex-boyfriend in our home library, declaring their rekindled love. Thisbe wanted a divorce and she wanted to bring Penelope to New York full time. She offered me a lump sum to sign a nondisclosure agreement—she had all the papers ready to go. I would get Penelope for all of her school holidays,including the upcoming summer break, and I would never have to work again.
I did consider telling them I would expose her father and fight for full custody. But there was no doubt I would lose and I didn’t want my father to know I’d essentially sold the family property to a man who was using Mumberton Castle to launder money.
I avenged nothing. Sylvie, as they stood in front of me, in my library, I wept. And then I signed the papers, all of them. I left my home that night. Penelope and I flew to England for the summer. I hated myself.
In the fall, Thisbe sent for her daughter. Penelope is not a pawn: I let her go. I began to focus on my photography. I read for hours. Thisbe’s father gave me our house on Indian Creek Island and I had it torn down and built my cabin.
Thisbe called this morning to tell me she is leaving New York. The US government is investigating her assets; her father is relocating her, probably to the Bahamas or Cayman Islands. She wants Penelope to move in with me until she can sort out her affairs. So in addition to my filthy money (which may well disappear or land me in jail), I now have full-time custody. I won’t lie, this thrills me, but it’s nothing you signed up for.
It was never about the money for me—I hope you know me well enough to believe that. I want to sit with you, and read, and be still. I know the wedding is rushed. It was yet another trick my brain tried to play: If I could give my father a new Lady Rampling, he would not die, or would die happy.
I am a liar. Tell me what is next, and I will accept it. My love is yours if you will have me. The front desk can arrange whatever transportation you need if you just want out.
Yours,
(Forever)
Simon
P.S. Attached is a map to the castle, with a star next to a side entrance that leads directly to my room, if you want to talk.
To find this entrance, approach the base of the castle’s northern wall. There, you will see a small, ivy-covered door, almost hidden amongst the rocks. The door is unassuming, with no handles or locks to indicate that it is an entrance. But if you push it open, you’ll find yourself in a tunnel that winds its way beneath the castle walls.
