Page 72 of The Manor of Dreams

Nothing in the house was working. There were yellowing patches of grass in the garden no matter how much they watered it. The fountain water had plugged up and gone stagnant. Her car wouldn’t start the day she needed it for an audition. And now the word processor was finnicky again.

Vivian fiddled with the knobs and buttons. It had shut down after she’d printed the latest page and wouldn’t turn on. Of course Richard was the one who always wanted the newest model of these things. Their old typewriter was just fine. She surprised herself by wishing that her husband was home to fix this. But he was away at another one of his meetings and she wanted to revise a page of her screenplay. She had the page next to her, with her notes in pen. She worked on the script in her spare time, even though it hardly amounted to anything but rejectionletters. Her grand hope had dimmed over the years. After this filming in September for yet another background role in an action film, she had nothing booked for the rest of the year. At least if her roles ran out, she still had this.

The door creaked open. Vivian looked up to see Ada slip into the library, but she stopped short when she saw her mother. “Bao bèi?” Vivian called out, but the door had already closed behind her.

Vivian turned back to the machine and was observing it curiously as the phone rang.

She heard footsteps shuffle toward the library, and then stop. Ada again? She picked up the phone.

“Richard?”

Vivian cleared her throat. “Richard isn’t available right now. May I take a message?”

“It’s the accountant. Tell him to call me back.”

Vivian paused and cradled the phone receiver. “This is his wife, Vivian. Is there a problem?”

The accountant paused. “Well, there’s a discrepancy on the tax forms for this year on his income and he needs to file an amended return. Anyway. No need to stress, Mrs. Lowell. Tell him to call me back. ASAP. We’ll sort it out.”

“Okay.” She hung up and stared at the family portrait across from her. His income. Vivian had never questioned it. It had been enough. There had always been enough. But now with the production company, he was spending money on his trips to see studios and executives instead of earning money through roles. The production company wasn’t doing well. Maybe things had changed.

It wasexactlythe sort of thing he wouldn’t tell her about.

Vivian unlocked the file cabinet drawer built into the bottom of the desk. Everything important was in here: her daughters’ birth certificates, their marriage license, the deed from when they first bought this property. The files were neatly organized with labels in her husband’s script. She found the folder with the tax returns and pulled it out.

Don’t worry about it, her husband always told her.I’ll take care of it.This house, their lives, the money.

And she trusted him.

She paged through the returns. She took in the numbers, slowly, and summed them up in her head. They’d taken in far less income last year than she’d thought. At this rate, if they paid for the twin’s college tuitions, in addition to Elaine’s, they’d struggle to pay Edith and Josiah’s salaries. She shoved the folder back in the cabinet. Pushing the files back, she caught a glimpse of a manila folder at the bottom of the drawer. When she pulled it out, a piece of paper fluttered out with her name on it.

Dear Mrs. Yin-Lowell,

Thank you for submitting All Happy Families for consideration. You clearly possess a gift for storytelling, but I’m afraid I can’t quite place this script. With deep regret I must pass—

Vivian sat back. Had her husband been collecting her rejections? She knew where she put them; in an envelope, buried underneath the scarves in her vanity drawer. She’d folded up every stinging rejection letter and tucked it in there.

But this letter had no creases. No signature.

Vivian sat back. Slowly, she flipped through the papers. None of them were creased. They were perfectly crisp sheets of paper, all in the same font. The words were different, but they all held the same sentiment.

With deep regret I must pass.

I apologize.

I regret to say—

None of them had signatures.

These letters had never been sent. They could have only come from one place.

Cold sweat prickled on her palms, her forehead. With shaking fingers, she picked up the page she’d printed from the word processor and stared at the matching font.

Vivian stumbled out of the library. In the foyer, Edith stoppedsweeping to watch her go up the stairs. In a stupor, Vivian retrieved the envelope with all of her rejections.

They were all on thesame paper.Same font.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears like the thunder of an approaching train. The clock on the wall continued to tick.

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