The Memory Keeper of Cricket Cove
by Kamichi Jackson
Dylan Carmichael had the perfect plan: graduate with a degree in Journalism from NYU, ditch the roommates by moving into an apartment of her own, and work for Madeleine Davenport, the Managing Editor of one of New York’s most prestigious lifestyle magazines. Only sometimes, as she was quickly learning, things don’t always turn out the way they’re planned. Sometimes―even when a person has a job offer letter in one hand and a check for two months’ rent and one month’s security deposit on a furnished Soho loft in the other―Life can deal the most unexpected blows, and a girl can suddenly find herself unemployed and homeless before she even slips out of her cap and gown. Thank goodness I have Mom, Dylan thought to herself, glancing over at her mother, who had reclined her seat and closed her eyes nearly two hours ago. Her breaths were even but shallow and Dylan knew she’d be waking soon. Just in time, actually, because Dylan had driven as far as she could from memory and needed her mother to direct her further. She hadn’t been to Cricket Cove since she was a little girl and the roads looked so different now. And because it was a relatively small town, it had barely registered on GPS and only took them into the general vicinity of the tourist village. Mrs. Carmichael would have to provide turn by turn directions beyond this point. “Mom,” Dylan said gently as her mother stirred beside her. “Mom, one more exit and we’re there.” “Really?” Mrs. Carmichael yawned, adjusting her seat as she sat forward. “How long have I been asleep?” “A couple hours. And I made up for the time we lost at that country store you couldn’t resist an hour into our trip.”
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The Memory Keeper of Cricket Cove Kamichi Jackson
Mrs. Carmichael smiled, waving a half‐empty paper bag in Dylan’s face. The smell of cinnamon and butter wafted throughout the car again and Dylan took an exaggerated deep breath. “Okay, so it was worth it,” she grinned. “Now which way do I go?” “Take a right off the exit and it’ll lead you straight into town. Main Street. As soon as you go through the stoplight, start looking for a parking space. I need a cup of coffee, and there’s this great diner on the corner. I’m going to call Kinley and tell her to meet us there. I can’t wait to introduce you two. You’re going to like her right off.” Dylan nodded quietly, taking in the scenery as her mother whipped out her cell phone and began dialing. A second later she was giggling and gossiping the way Dylan and her best friend Cameron did whenever they got together. It was nice to hear her mother laugh that way. Ever since Dylan’s father had died six years earlier, there had been fewer and fewer moments like that. “Kinley is actually right around the corner at the bank. Let’s get inside and grab a table before the lunch rush,” Mrs. Carmichael said as she disconnected the call and snapped her cell phone closed. “Smack Dab?” Dylan said, pulling into a parking space in front of the diner and wrinkling her nose as she read the words painted across the bright purple awning above the door. “As in smack dab in the middle of town. What―I think it’s a cute name!” Mrs. Carmichael protested as her daughter rolled her eyes and tossed her shoulder‐length blonde hair. “It used to just be called Diner until new owners took it over, updated the space and gave it a new name. Now it’s the second hottest spot in town.” “What’s the first?” “The Brambleton Inn. I’ll take you there later. It’s just the kind of place a writer would hole up in to work.” As a child, Dylan had never appreciated Cricket Cove, which was why, after her ninth birthday, she’d insisted on staying with her grandmother whenever her parents took their annual trip to the small town. But now, as an adult, the writer in her had to admit that something about the quaintness of Main Street alone appealed to her. She found herself anxious to see what the rest of the town and its outskirts looked liked after all these years. No, it wasn’t the type of
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place she’d ever consider moving to, but she suddenly understood why her parents had visited so many times over the years, and for a moment she wished she had thought to continue the tradition with her mother once her father had passed away. Dylan made a silent promise to herself to correct that. “This place has the best banana pancakes in the world, honey. Even better than mine,” Mrs. Carmichael said as they were seated in a booth at the rear of the room. She was back on her feet a second later. “Oh, yay, there’s Kinley!” Dylan turned as her mother rushed to embrace a tall, well‐dressed woman coming through the door. She was striking, almost model‐ like, and even though her modest white blouse and dark pinstripe slacks understated her obvious beauty, she wore them as only a truly refined woman could. Their excited squeals caused others around the room to turn as well and they quickly became the center of attention. Both women realized it at the same time and they lowered their voices, rushing over to the table with hushed giggles. “Dylan,” Mrs. Carmichael said as she and her friend sat down across the table. “This is McKinley Tate. Kinley, this is my daughter.” “So nice to finally meet you, Dylan. Your mom has told me so much about you. I feel like I already know you. I hear you just graduated from NYU. Congratulations on that.” “Thank you,” Dylan replied, noting the woman’s warm smile and sincere eyes. Her mother was right—Dylan already liked this Kinley woman. “So you were in the Journalism program.” “Yes,” Dylan nodded. “My specific area of study was Magazine Writing, which I really want to do. But I took some random Creative Writing courses as well because I also want to be a published author one day. Soon.” “I sent Kinley a link to your work on the NYU Publishing Zone. And I hope you don’t mind, honey, but I also emailed some of your unpublished stuff to her last week,” Mrs. Carmichael admitted sheepishly. “We got to talking about you and I mentioned how talented you are.”
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The Memory Keeper of Cricket Cove Kamichi Jackson
“And I asked her to share it with me because I know a couple publishing execs who are always looking for raw talent,” Kinley added. “You have a natural ability, young lady. It’d be exciting to see you reach your fullest potential.” “I do have big dreams,” Dylan smiled. “I know this is one of those questions you get asked all the time— but now that you’ve graduated, do you know what you want to do next?” “Well, I was offered an Editorial Assistant position with Maven Magazine—“ “Maddie Davenport’s publication,” Kinley cut in. “You know her?” “I do.” “I really wanted to work with her,” Dylan said earnestly. “Unfortunately, things fell through at the last minute. Something about her niece wanting to work in the family business.” “Ah, yes,” Kinley said with a wink. “I know Anya too.” “Small world.” “Very,” Kinley agreed. “So now I’m looking again but I’m kind of at a disadvantage because all the paid internships are gone. I passed on two of them myself to accept the job with Ms. Davenport. I could kick myself, but who knew it would fall through? I’m hoping things will begin to open up again in the fall. In the meantime, I’m planning to get a little gig back home until I can find something in my field.” “Don’t give up on working with Maddie just because of this one temporary setback, Dylan. As I said, I know Anya Davenport. Give it a few months. She’ll be on to something else. My guess is Maddie will be calling you again in the not so distant future,” Kinley mused, waving a waitress over to the table. Dylan nodded, giving her menu one last look as the waitress reached them and introduced herself. She didn’t write anything down as the women fired off their food requests, and yet after she took Dylan’s order, she was able to repeat all three orders back to them perfectly. Dylan knew she could never do that. She would definitely not be looking for that particular type of interim job when she got back home, she decided.
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Kinley and Mrs. Carmichael chatted incessantly about everything and nothing as they waited for their food to arrive. Somewhere in the conversation, Dylan was able to pick up that her mother’s friend worked for an eccentric old woman named Dorothea Standish—“Miss Dorrie” to the people of Cricket Cove. Kinley spoke of the woman fondly, but it did sound like she kept her busy. “I manage her estate and her financial affairs,” Kinley said, pulling Dylan into the conversation. “She doesn’t have much family. But she refuses to give up Chantilly—that’s the name of her home—so her nephews hired me to take care of her personal and business matters. I moved here from New Jersey. I had just gotten divorced, and to be honest, this was the last place I was thinking about moving to. But once I was introduced to Miss Dorrie, everything just kind of happened. I’ve been here fifteen years now.” “You should see Chantilly, sweetie,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “An old twenty‐two room Victorian house seated on nine acres of land at the farthest end of the cove. Absolutely gorgeous.” “Twenty‐two rooms? And just the two of you live there in that house?” Dylan asked Kinley in amazement. “Actually, Miss Dorrie lives alone. I live on the estate, but not in the house itself. There are five guest cottages on the grounds and I’m in one of them. Miss Dorrie may be eighty‐three, but she’s fiercely independent. She won’t let anyone live with her. I did hire a small full‐time staff to take care of some of her basic day‐to‐day needs, though. It took some doing, but her nephews and I had to insist on it. For her own good.” “Kinley has arranged for us to spend the weekend at Chantilly, isn’t that great?” Mrs. Carmichael said, taking a sip of her coffee. “In one of the other guest cottages. And she’s even going to give us a tour of Miss Dorrie’s house. I think you’ll love it. You could use it as a setting for one of your stories. In fact, you could probably write an entire book using a small town like Cricket Cove as the backdrop. A murder mystery, maybe. Of course, you’d probably need to spend some time here so that you can soak up local customs to include in your stories. So they have the ring of authenticity, as you always say.”
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Dylan narrowed her eyes, looking back and forth between her mother and Kinley. Both women had carefully blank expressions on their faces, but she wasn’t fooled. “Okay,” she said, setting her fork down onto her empty plate. For just a moment she silently scolded herself for having eaten all three banana pancakes and the two scrambled eggs and side of bacon that had come with them. Oh well. It was a done deal now. She’d just have to make sure to get her daily five‐mile run in at some point later in the day. “What’s going on?” she asked suspiciously. “I feel like you guys are up to something. Mom.” “Okay, here’s the thing,” Mrs. Carmichael said after a few moments. “I happened to mention to Kinley last week that your job had fallen through and that you’d be spending the next few months at home with me in Connecticut. Well, it just so happens that Kinley is looking for someone to work on a special assignment at Chantilly for a few short months. I told her you might be interested, but I know how you feel about Cricket Cove. I thought if I brought you up here and showed you how much it’s developed since the last time you were here as a kid, you might be inclined to consider her offer. Not that I don’t want you home with me, because I do. But I just think it’s such a fabulous opportunity for you, honey.” “Special assignment?” Dylan asked, her curiosity piqued. “What exactly does that mean?” Kinley looked around the room, clearing her throat as she leaned forward. Dylan leaned in closer as well. “I’m telling you this in complete confidence,” Kinley began in a low voice, “and I’m trusting that you’ll be discreet with this information.” Dylan nodded. “I promise.” “Miss Dorrie has developed a bit of a habit over the past seven years,” Kinley continued in her low voice. “She’s taken to, well, pilfering small items from people. Townspeople as well as tourists. She sees something she likes and she takes it! Rarely anything expensive or antique—though that has happened a couple times—but valuable nonetheless to the owners of these items.” “She steals?”
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“She pilfers,” Mrs. Carmichael whispered. Dylan wrinkled her brow. “What’s the difference?” “Several million dollars,” Kinley explained with a grin. “When you’re as wealthy as the Standish family is, the vocabulary changes. Miss Dorrie pilfers, and it’s considered an eccentricity, not a crime.” “Why?” Dylan asked curiously. “I mean, why does she do it?” “No one really knows,” Kinley replied with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “But I suspect it has to do with something in her past. In the meantime, I’ve always tried to discreetly return the items to their owners. It’s easy when it’s someone from Cricket Cove. Everyone here knows that if something comes up missing and Miss Dorrie has been anywhere in the area, then all they need to do is give me a call and I can poke around in the house when Miss Dorrie is out on one of her excursions. But for out‐of‐towners, it’s a bit trickier. Not impossible, but definitely more challenging. “I was making good headway,” Kinley continued, her voice dropping to almost a whisper, “and then when Miss Dorrie became ill a couple months ago and was bedridden for several weeks, I stumbled across a secret room behind a wall of books in the library. Shelves and shelves, Dylan, of items Miss Dorrie has collected over the years. I’m talking hundreds. And I just can’t do it by myself anymore. I need help. I need to focus on her household and financial matters and I want to be able to hand this project off to someone trustworthy. I’d heard so much about you from your mom, and when she told me your plans had unexpectedly changed, I immediately asked her if she thought you’d be interested. There’s a generous paycheck, of course, and I’d put you up in the apartment above the garage, so your accommodations would be taken care of as well.” “And Dylan,” Mrs. Carmichael said excitedly, “imagine the types of people you’d meet. And all the stories, all the memories behind those items Miss Dorrie collected. They mean something to someone. You could be inspired in ways you never even thought possible.” Dylan smiled widely, partly because both women were right. This was indeed the type of opportunity writers dreamed of and she’d be foolish to pass it up. But what really touched her was her mother’s enthusiasm for her work. Mrs. Carmichael truly believed in her daughter’s literary gift, and she’d become her personal cheerleader
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over the years as that gift had continued to blossom and mature. That meant more to her than anything else. “When do I start?” she asked. “As soon as you can,” Kinley said, visibly pleased. She flashed a bright smile and reached across the table, grabbing Dylan’s hands in her own. “And I want to make a promise to you, Dylan. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to get you that job with Maven Magazine.” “But Anya is already—“ “Anya has Hollywood dreams,” Kinley said with a dismissive toss of her head, “and she thinks working at her aunt’s magazine will put her in the same room with people who can help her acting career. Once she realizes the job involves actual hard, tedious work, she’ll find a way to back out of it. And I know Maddie Davenport. She’ll hold the girl to some sort of fake contract for at least four months just to make a point Anya won’t soon forget, but she’ll eventually let her out of that agreement. Then she’ll come back looking for you, and when she does, I’ll call in a favor that will get you a real contract with her that will make you the envy of your graduating class.” “I really appreciate that, Ms. Tate,” Dylan replied, squeezing the woman’s hands. “I really do.” “Please call me Kinley,” she said. “And remember, I’m not doing this just because I think you’re a nice girl. I’ve read your work. You deserve that job.” “Yes, she does,” Mrs. Carmichael agreed. “In the meantime,” Dylan said decidedly, “I want to see that hidden room.” “Okay, then,” Kinley nodded, picking up the check that the waitress had laid at the end of the table. “We’re off to Chantilly, ladies. And you’re in for quite a treat.”
to be continued…
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