Permelia Cottage

by Carole Lehr Johnson

  He reached for the journal. “You may be right. You’ve been very kind. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.” He fingered the edges before placing it on the booth seat beside him.

  April was pleased—relieved even. Her face relaxed as she slumped into her seat. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  He took a sip of tea and leaned back. “It leaves Gatwick at eleven, so I’ll have to take the early train and be there by about eight. Guess it’ll be an early night for me.”

  “I suppose this is our last meal together. Please allow me to get the bill. You’ve been kind, patient, and generous. I appreciate it.”

  “You don’t have to do that, April. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Please let me … I want to do something to show how much I value it. I would never have been able to get the cottage without all you’ve done.”

  “If it’d make you happy, I accept.”

  Over lunch, they chatted about insignificant things—the cottage, life in Neville, the history. Both steered away from the topic of Ryan’s mother. Once finished with their meal, Ryan made the first motion to wind down the afternoon.

  “It’s been a nice day, April. I wish you all the best and hope you have many happy years in Permelia Cottage.”

  They stood on the sidewalk outside Talbot’s, both fidgeting nervously, avoiding the inevitable goodbye.

  “It was nice meeting you, Ryan. Thank you for signing the papers in advance of my loan going through so I could go ahead and move in. I hope you have a nice flight home, and that your mourning will be lessened as time goes by. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

  Ryan muttered under his breath. “Thank you, that’s very … um … caring.”

  April saw the pain in his eyes when she’d mentioned prayer. Remembering her own now dulled pain, she added, “Ryan, I promise the pain will lessen. I never talk about it, but I lost someone once.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the tiny, plastic-encased doll. “This belonged to my little sister.”

  His gaze lingered on the doll. “April, you don’t have to say anything. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, please. Let me explain. Although our situations are different, we have a shared pain in our hearts, except I felt responsible for my sister’s death.”

  His eyes widened, and he shook his head.

  “I was only thirteen, and she was but three.” She pulled in an unsteady breath. “I was too absorbed in a book when I was supposed to be watching her at the playground. She was a quick little tyke and got out of sight for only a few seconds—but not before someone …” April stumbled over the words, her voice heavy with anguish and regret. She closed her eyes as tears pushed through. “… hit her in the parking lot. The sound of screeching brakes still unnerves me to this day.”

  Ryan tenderly grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  April shook from the memory of that day as the tears came. His warm, comforting embrace eased the hurt. She lingered in his arms before she slipped away and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to think on it. Time does help. At least with God’s strength to hold you. Time will lessen the heartache. That’s what I wanted to say before you leave.”

  One of her hands rested against his chest, his warmth tingling her skin before she let her hand drop. When she brought her gaze up to meet his, she saw a tender look in his eyes.

  “April Conyers, you are a kind and compassionate woman. It’s been a pleasure knowing you. There’s no one else I’d rather have my mother’s cottage than you. You’ll love it as much as she did, and I hope it makes you as happy as it made her.”

  April wiped a tear from her cheek, and with a smile, told him goodbye and walked away. Her hands trembled, and an undeniable ache deepened within her as she headed toward Permelia Cottage without him.

  ∞∞∞

  Ryan opened a newspaper as the train pulled out of Neville. The sun was rising and cast a soft golden glow over the village. He actually liked it here despite its much slower pace than New York. He understood why his mother wanted to move here. As he grew up, he was aware of her love of England—its villages, countryside, and history. Neville embodied all of it.

  His eyes grew heavy with the gentle motion of the train. He was still dozing when the announcement came that they were pulling into Victoria Station, where he would make his connection to Gatwick Airport. Within the next three hours, he would be through security and settled into his comfortable first-class seat headed back to normalcy.

  A few hours into his flight, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Ryan was relaxed with a full stomach, and he searched his carry-on bag for something to read. His hand touched his mother’s journal. An urge overtook him. He warily pulled it from his bag. His mother’s handwriting jumped out to him—bringing back an avalanche of memories. Should he read this? Or was it inappropriate?

  The first entry recorded was on the date of his birth.

  Today my precious son was born—Ryan Weatherly Wilkinson. I never knew such love until now. I thank my God for giving me such a child. I cannot see that love in Aaron’s eyes. He appears to be jealous of my time with Ryan. Why can’t he see that this infant is helpless and needs total love and care—from both parents?

  The journal moved on day-by-day, skipping months at times. She wrote in some detail about his growth and advanced learning abilities. He skimmed over several months. The next few pages were a bit harder to read, the ink smeared in spots. Ryan noticed the subject and realized the reason for the smudges—tears. They coincided with the date his dad had left them. She poured out her heart on the pages, along with the tears that flowed onto her words. Words that rained out heart-breaking pain. He could barely read from through the mist in his eyes. He was about to slam the book shut when he saw the words that said he had progressed into his teen years.

  Susannah had struggled over Ryan’s attitude toward her. The words she penned said she felt he hated her, blamed her for his dad’s departure. He stared at the back of the seat in front of him. He saw the flight plan on the small screen showing they were now halfway over the Atlantic, to New York. Turning back to the journal, he continued:

  Ryan is so angry all the time. It concerns me greatly. I pray for him every day. My heart breaks seeing him this way. Is it my fault that Aaron left? Was I spending too much time taking care of Ryan? I discussed it with my doctor, and he said I was not to blame and that some men cannot manage the competition of a child. They cannot grasp the concept of a child needing so much attention, and they feel left out. I tried to get a sitter one night a week, so Aaron and I could have some time alone, but he always scoffed at that. It was as if he wanted all my attention all of the time or none. Till the day I die I will never understand.

  Ryan read on, agonizing though it was. He read about all his antics that hurt his mother in a variety of ways. He wondered why she had put up with him. Why couldn’t he see it? Her last entry was the day she moved into the cottage. She seemed truly happy, yet some of her last words were of him.

  Getting settled into my English cottage has been one of the happiest times in my life. The only others were when Ryan was born and his childhood, the sweet years. I miss my son and my heart aches. If only he could forgive me for Aaron’s leaving. If only I could make him understand that his father was not cut out for fatherhood. He seemed to withdraw even further after Aaron died. It was such a shock to find out he had died and left us so well off. The guilt must have been the reason he had made a will to favor us. I’m so glad we could use some of it to pay off Ryan’s student loans, give him a nice, healthy, savings account—and enable me to move here.

  He couldn’t go on. There wasn’t much left to read anyway. The journal was full at this point. There might be another one at the cottage that continued where this one left off—but it would’ve had details of the short time she lived in Neville before it ended with her arrest.

&n
bsp; The arrest that prompted his Aunt Diann to visit his office, a memory he wished to forget. He’d sat in his black leather desk chair in his corner office overlooking Central Park, one ankle rested on his knee, a file folder opened across his bent leg, lost in thought, when his office door burst open and slammed shut.

  He’d jumped and swung to face his Aunt Diann’s flushed face. She flung her purse onto the taupe leather sofa, fire in her eyes, her voice nearly a scream. “What’s wrong with you.”

  The door burst open again, and his secretary, Janet, rushed in. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “It’s okay, Janet. Hold my calls, please.”

  Diann didn’t wait for the door to close. “I cannot believe you’ve done nothing to help your mother. She’s in jail, and you haven’t even gone to see her, tried to get an attorney, or …” Her voice trailed to nothing, and she broke down. Sobbing, she fell into the chair in front of his desk—elbows on her knees, chin on her chest. Her shoulders shook as tears darkened the carpet.

  “Aunt Diann, she knew what she was doing when she stood with that mob. Being part of a riot is punishable with a prison sentence. And, by the way, what are you doing in New York?”

  Her head rose, and their eyes met. “I’m not your aunt by blood, but I’ll speak plainly. How can you say that with such cold, steady words? I came here to talk about your mother. She worked herself to death to care for you after your father left—never keeping for herself, always giving all her time and resources to take care of you. I’m not saying she was perfect, but you always came first in her life.”

  Ryan shuddered, the memory eating at him. He glanced around the plane, all the people with their own lives, their own troubles, but how many of them had turned their back on their own mother. What had he done?

  He sighed. After his aunt’s visit, he’d tried to ignore her, but going out with his friends was not the usual pleasant time he’d anticipated as a diversion. Even dinner with Genevieve, a gorgeous advertising executive, introduced to him by a friend, hadn’t made him feel any better.

  Now, days after his return to New York the shame of his actions consumed him. His office door banged open to reveal his business associate, Cordell Brimberry.

  “Ryan, now that you’re back, let’s grab some dinner and go to Harper’s for some drinks tonight. Genevieve will probably be there.” His friend prodded.

  The mention of her presence was the deciding factor for Ryan. When they got to the club, Ryan ordered his usual drink, but something about it was off, the whole night seemed off, and he wasn’t certain if it was only from jet lag.

  Cordell elbowed him in the ribs. “There’s Genevieve.”

  His gaze traveled across to the congested bar to the tall blonde beauty. She’d not seen them yet, and a fleeting thought surprised him. He hoped she wouldn’t see him. That was a revelation. Mere weeks before, he’d been more than happy to gain her attention and even planned to ask her out to dinner again when he’d returned from England. But now what? He wasn’t thinking straight. It had to be the jet lag, he told himself, before he pushed through the crowd toward her.

  Genevieve made eye contact with Ryan and glided through the crowded room to meet him. She wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek. “Thought you’d never return,” she said with mock exasperation.

  He smiled, uncertain what to say, so he awkwardly said, “Well, here I am.”

  She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Here you are.” With an arm around him, she led him toward a table where Cordell had already joined some of their work colleagues. They sat, Genevieve scooting next to him, and they all greeted one another over the din of music and voices. Their server arrived and took their drink orders.

  Ryan had no idea what to say to Genevieve. He ignored her and talked to Cordell on his other side.

  Genevieve shifted in her seat until she was hip-to-hip with him and draped her arm behind his back. He glanced at her, and this time his gaze took in the low-cut of her dress. She caught him looking and gave an alluring smile. “Do you like my new dress?”

  “Yes, it’s—uh—nice.”

  Genevieve gave a faux pout. “Well, I’d hoped to get more of a response from you.”

  Ryan noted the emphasis on you but said nothing as an image of April sprang to his mind. How different she was than Genevieve’s model-thin figure, tan skin and heavy makeup—nothing like April’s dark hair, intelligent eyes, and sense of humor. The women couldn’t be more different. But why was he comparing them?

  He rubbed his forehead. It was definitely jetlag.

  Trying not to hurt Genevieve’s feelings, he added, “You look great as always.” He read the pleasure in her face.

  “I need another drink.” Genevieve shot a seductive glance at Cordell, who had just returned from the bar. “Cordell, be a dear, and let me have that.” He nodded, and she leaned over Ryan to take it, her face close to his.

  “Thanks.” She squeezed Cordell’s bicep. “My, have you been working out?”

  His expression was appreciative. Smiling alluringly, she turned her gaze to Ryan, who wasn’t surprised by her flirting. She toyed with any man that came within a ten-foot radius. In the past, he would’ve ignored her flirtatious attitude, but tonight it rubbed him the wrong way.

  Genevieve misunderstood his expression for something else. She rubbed his shoulder. “Oh, Ryan, don’t be jealous. I was joking with Cordell.”

  Her attention no longer flattered Ryan. He steadily grew more repulsed by how strongly she was coming on to him. Was it his imagination she was bolder than usual? Or had he been blind?

  “What’s wrong with you this evening?” Her look was seductive. “You’re normally so attentive.”

  Ryan reached for his drink and took a sip, giving him time to think of a proper response. He swallowed deeply. “Sorry, I’m tired—it’s been a long couple of weeks for me.”

  Before he could go on, an opening for escape presented itself as one of Ryan’s workmates stood and shouted, “Hey guys! Bernie has invited us to his place … let’s go!”

  Everyone stood except Ryan. Genevieve waited for him to stand and escort her out. Instead, he said, “I’ll take a rain check. I’m still suffering from jet-lag.” He placed a generous tip on the table, returned his wallet to his pocket, and strode to the door.

  Boos followed as he waved over his shoulder toward the group, making sure he didn’t meet Genevieve’s eyes. He caught her reflection in the mirrored wall, and she wasn’t smiling. He noticed Cordell move to stand beside her.

  ∞∞∞

  Ryan locked his apartment, tossed his keys onto the table and left his shoes by the door. He released a deep sigh and strode to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed. He fell back.

  Was it jetlag? And why did April’s face reappear time and again in his mind’s eye? Genevieve was a gorgeous woman, and she was interested in him. He was interested in her. At least, he was before England.

  He stared at the ceiling and wondered what had happened in such a short time. First, Aunt Diann’s accusations, selling the cottage, meeting April … where was his life headed? He’d achieved his goals—a more than successful career, a great apartment, and living in an exciting city with a load of friends and colleagues. Life was full, his career challenging, and his income more than sufficient, yet something had shifted.

  Pulling himself upright, he arched his back to work out the kinks. He padded to the kitchen to make a good stiff drink, sloshing a generous portion of whiskey into a tumbler. A large gulp made him cough. The glass clinked as he returned it to the counter and proceeded to the living room. He knelt by his bookcase and ran a finger along the spines of books, but nothing caught his interest.

  He stretched out on the sofa and reached for the television remote, and crooked one arm behind his head. Flipping channels, he thought over his sudden aversion to the drink he’d made. That was some of the most expensive whisky available and had always been smooth. Still, it h
ad gone down rough and strong, unlike all the other times.

  A show he watched regularly made him pause in his search. It was nothing new, same old plot, cheap language, and scantily clad women. Watching for a while, he realized he was killing time with something that he found neither diverting nor humorous. Sleazy was the word that came to mind.

  He returned to flipping channels and stopped on an outmoded show that he remembered seeing with his mother when he was a child. It’d been an old show back then—a comedy in black and white. The remote slid from his grip when he stood. His stomach grumbled as he untucked his shirt, released the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

  The refrigerator revealed sparse contents—milk, eggs, a paltry piece of Swiss cheese, a sad-looking onion, and practically empty jars. The door gave a thump as he let it close. His pantry contained a partial loaf of bread, crackers, and a few canned goods. He grabbed the bread, tossed it on the counter next to the stove, and returned to the fridge. He could make an omelet with what he had. Yes, that did sound good.

  An excellent omelet was something his mother had taught him to make—something he’d never forgotten. It was a quick, inexpensive meal, and filling. Cracking three eggs into a bowl, he added a touch of milk and beat the mixture with a fork—adding a little salt, pepper … oh, what was it she said would always take it to another level? Oh yeah, cinnamon.

  A small pat of butter sizzled in the skillet. In no time, he had an omelet, toast and a glass of milk. He arranged all on a tray and returned to the sofa. He watched an episode of the old comedy as he ate. Amazed that he found himself smiling at the antics of the characters, it occurred to him that he was truly enjoying a quiet evening alone.

  ∞∞∞

  April arrived at Talbot’s by half six, early for her dinner with Tristan. Anxious to get the evening over, she ordered a cup of tea to calm her nerves when she noticed Hodge approach.