Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  I settled on a third option: clean up quickly, then find Tomas and confess all, and offer to pay for the tea set. Maybe the table. He would think me an idiot, and that would be that. It was a relief, in a way; no more longing for what I couldn’t have.

  I set my phone against the wall on the floor, to give me enough light to work. The table was beyond redemption, the leg cracked. I gathered the tea-set parts and put them just outside the door. I righted boxes, stacked suitcases, picked up shoehorns, and collected old light fittings and spare doorknobs and jumbled them all away as neatly as I could.

  Then I lifted an overturned box and found myself looking at an old gramophone. Corroded clips on three sides and a broken handle told me it had once been portable. As I carefully picked it up I saw that the side had cracked open in the fall. As I set it down on the floor near my phone, the light caught on something white, half hidden in the exposed crack. I poked inside, and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes tied with a discolored velvet ribbon.

  I untied the ribbon and leafed through them. None was addressed, but there were clearly contents in all of them. I lifted the flap on the first, and slid out crackling, yellow pages. Handwriting in ink had been made sepia by time.

  My darling, what torture it is that I cannot come to you tonight . . .

  Love letters. Old love letters. Suddenly my heart swelled. I had stolen a key, broken into a deserted building, and found old love letters. I felt wonderful, heady, alive. Take that, Mum. This was just the kind of excitement I had missed in life by being too cautious. Take that, Dad. I retied the ribbon. Take that, Adam. A sudden barb of guilt cooled my joy. How could I think that? None of what happened had been Adam’s fault. He had never wanted to cast such a shadow: nobody on earth would have wanted to cast such a shadow.

  I put the bundle of letters by my phone, and did my best to reorganize the storeroom, including propping the broken table against the wall. Then I pocketed the letters in my jacket and left, closing the door behind me. My torch helped me find my way back to the scullery, to the single unboarded window. I leaned across the sink and tried to push up the sash. It gave a little. I climbed onto the bench and stood in the sink, an inch deep in mud, and pushed up with all my might. With a groan the sash rose, the window opened, and I could smell the fresh evening air. I climbed out and closed the window behind me, then headed around the back of the building and through the car park to the street. Night had fallen while I’d been inside, and under the streetlight, kicking mud off my shoes, I could see that my clothes were covered with dust. As I patted at it ineffectually a car beeped at me from behind, and I turned to see headlights approaching. I stepped off the road onto the damp grass, and the car pulled up beside me. It was Tomas.

  “Need a lift?” he said, in his faint accent.

  I felt so ashamed I could barely speak. “I . . . look, I need to talk to you about something.”

  He raised his eyebrows with a hint of a smile. “Hop in, then. We’ll go back to my place. I live close by.”

  Back to his place. I sighed. “Okay.” Then I was in his car, the love letters in my pocket, and we didn’t talk for the short drive to his cottage.

  A security light switched on as we approached the porch. I expected him to ask me what I’d been doing at the Evergreen Spa, but instead he said something about the lovely night, about how much he liked it here in the Blue Mountains, about how different it was to living in Copenhagen; I’m sure I answered, but my brain was racing, trying to figure out how I was going to confess to him what I’d done.

  He slung his keys on a sideboard and led me to the kitchen. I slipped off my shoes in case there was still mud on them, and tried to brush off more dust.

  “Can I make you something? Tea? Cocoa? I wouldn’t dream of making you coffee: you usually make it for me.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to make cocoa. I make it the way my mother did. It’s very nice.”

  I forced a smile. “Okay, then, you’ve twisted my arm.”

  “You sit down and tell me what it is you have to talk to me about.”

  I sat at the kitchen table and watched as he searched for a cast-iron pot, which he put on the stove. While he turned to take milk from the fridge and I couldn’t see his face, I said, “You left your key to the west wing at the café today.”

  “Ah, so that’s where it went. I searched my office for it twice.”

  “I’m really sorry. I put it in my apron and then my mother called and . . . she’s very . . . high maintenance.”

  “It’s no matter.”

  “Do you . . . go into the west wing often?”

  He poured the milk into the pot and then came to sit with me while it warmed. “Not often. We’re not scheduled to work in there for another six to twelve months.”

  “I went in.” My heartbeat thundered past my ears as I said this. I remembered a time I’d woken Adam from a deep sleep and Mum had roared at me and I felt just like this. In serious trouble.

  He smiled. “Naughty girl.”

  “It gets worse. I couldn’t get out. I opened another door and it turned out it was a storeroom and I . . . knocked some things down.”

  “What things?”

  “A lot of things. I broke an old tea set. God, I hope it wasn’t an antique.”

  He was still smiling, which gave me a little comfort.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this, I promise you. I have led such a straitlaced life. You can’t even imagine how straight I’ve been. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Curiosity, perhaps?” he said, rising and returning to the stove to stir the milk. “It’s all right. No harm done.”

  “But I broke things.”

  “The west wing was cleared out long ago. It’s probably old bric-a-brac of no value. Certainly nothing irreplaceable. Put it out of your mind.”

  Relief flooded through me. “You’re very kind.”

  “Did you think I’d wag my finger at you?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “I’m just glad you’re not hurt. I don’t know if you would have been covered by our insurance.”

  “I stayed away from the stairs.”

  He busied himself with cocoa, honey, and two enormous cups. “How did you get out?”

  “One of the windows in the scullery was unboarded.”

  “Resourceful girl.” He brought the cups and sat down again.

  I sipped my cocoa. It was silky and sweet. “Oh, my,” I said. “This is wonderful.”

  “I’ll tell Mama you like it next time I talk to her.”

  I smiled at him, then remembered the letters. “Look,” I said, pulling them from my jacket and sliding them across the table. “I found them inside an old portable gramophone.”

  “What are they?” He carefully untied the ribbon and opened one of the letters. After a moment his eyes met mine with a smile. “Love letters?”

  “I think so. I only looked at one.”

  He cleared his throat. “My beloved. Today I lay in the sunshine behind the tennis court and in my mind I was with you again as we were last night, and my mouth was filled with the sweet dew of your—” Tomas laughed. “I can’t read this aloud. Too sexy.”

  My face flushed warmly as he refolded the letter and passed the bundle back to me. “You keep them. But I’d better get my key back from you.”

  “Are you sure I can keep them?”

  “I insist. Read them all and give me a summary of the best ones. See if you can find out who they were from and to. If they were hidden, perhaps the love affair was hidden, too. You may have happened upon a secret.”

  The thought made me glow a little with excitement. Or perhaps the excitement was from sitting with Tomas at his kitchen table, drinking his mama’s cocoa. Happiness.

  We chatted. He told me about his mother and I told him—a little—about mine. I wasn’t ready to give him my whole life story. Not because it would take too long—I could have written it on the head of a pin—b
ut because I wanted him to get to know the real me first.

  Whoever the real me was. I still didn’t know.

  He offered me another hot cocoa. I dearly wanted to stay, but my mother was due to call at any moment, and I didn’t want to talk to her in Tomas’s presence, or ignore the call and have her panic again.

  “I’d best get away,” I said. “But thank you.”

  “Do you need a lift?”

  “No, I don’t live far away. I have a flat behind Mrs. Tait’s house. You know, the elderly lady who’s always at the café?”

  “Yes, I do know her. She had me over for tea one afternoon when I first moved to town.”

  We were at the porch now. Moths banged themselves against the light.

  “Well, good night,” I said.

  “Friday,” he blurted suddenly. “Can I take you to dinner?”

  My brain took a moment to catch up with my heart, which was already singing yes in a grand opera voice. “Friday evening? Yes. Yes, I’d love that.”

  “Good.” He looked relieved. His smile was wide. For me. I found it impossible to believe. “I’ll pick you up at six?”

  “Yes. That would be . . . well, I’ll see you tomorrow morning in the café, won’t I?”

  “I’ll be in Sydney for the next few days. So . . .”

  “So . . .” I grinned stupidly. “See you Friday night.”

  Then I was making my way home in the dark, buzzing with excitement. When my phone rang and I knew it was Mum, I didn’t even groan.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There were eleven love letters in the bundle, each full of a passion so scorching that I had to fan myself to cool down after reading them. Dark clouds had closed in outside, and the steady beat of rain on the tin roof drowned out the music I had put on. One by one, I pored over them, looking for names, dates—anything that would help me place them. All I knew by the time I’d finished was that they were written by a man whose initials were SHB; that the man had a sister who was never named (she was “Sissy” throughout); that they were written in or shortly after 1926 (a quick Internet search for the first “Miss Sydney” winner told me that: apparently she was staying at the hotel at the same time); and that their love affair was definitely forbidden. Oh, and that SHB was borderline obsessed with his lover’s “rosy nipples,” which received a mention at least once per letter.

  I tied the letters with the ribbon and put them on my bedside table, then switched off my lamp and snuggled down. Being in bed on a rainy night was one of my favorite pastimes, which tells you a lot about how few pastimes I’d had.

  I lay awake a long time, thinking about Tomas. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him doing some of the things that SHB had done to his lover. I was not completely without sexual experience: I’d had a few fumbling relationships that didn’t get past a second date, and a one-night encounter with a much older man who had taught me things about my body I didn’t know it could feel. But no long-term boyfriend, no going “all the way,” no getting swept away. How could I? I’d lived with my parents, and if that didn’t stop men asking me out, it certainly stopped me saying yes. Every time a relationship became possible I would tell myself, Just one more year; it can’t go on much longer, surely. Then I’d hate myself for thinking it.

  Of course, when I was finally released I barely knew what to do with myself, and grief and guilt weighed me down.

  But I liked Tomas. When he was around, I felt shiny, as though something bright beckoned me from just around the corner. I suspected he might make happiness possible.

  I went to sleep wondering whether SHB and his lover had been happy, back in 1926.

  * * *

  I arrived home from work the following afternoon to a note pinned on my door. Boxes delivered to my place for you. Come for them when you can. LT.

  It took me a moment to figure out. Mrs. Tait. I had no idea what her first name was, but now I knew it started with L. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Tait and that’s what everybody called her.

  I changed out of my work uniform and made my way down the side of the house to Mrs. Tait’s front door, and rang the bell.

  “Oh, hello, dear,” she said, fumbling with the door. “Come on in. You’ve got some packages.”

  “They’re books, I think,” I said, seeing the boxes stacked neatly inside the doorway. “My mum sent them up. She’s, ah, clearing out my brother’s room.” I found myself standing inside an immaculately kept, restored 1930s cottage, painted in pale blue and cream, with sun streaming through the windows. “Wow, your house is beautiful.”

  “Not really my house. I inherited it from my mother. I came to it by good fortune, not hard work. Would you like tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  “Is a tea bag all right? I’m afraid I don’t stand much on ceremony.”

  “Perfectly fine. I’m white with one.”

  “Sit down, I’ll be right back.”

  I sat in a plush lounge chair, and sank into it deeply.

  After a few minutes she returned with two mugs, placing one on the side table next to me, then settling on her sofa. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore a plain navy shift dress, which made her pale skin seem almost translucent, and her eyes very bright blue.

  “That’s a lovely color on you,” I said.

  “I did always love navy,” she said. “Not many can wear it.”

  I smiled. “You wear it very well.”

  “You should do something about those eyebrows.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Just because they’re pale doesn’t mean you can’t tame them. Go and see Vana on the high street. She’ll find them for you.” She raised her own eyebrows. I had to admit they were beautifully shaped.

  “My mother had no eyebrows at all,” she continued, sipping her tea. “Plucked them out completely in 1928 so she could draw them back in. It was the style at the time. Had to draw them in for the rest of her life, and as her hands became less steady . . .” She laughed. “God rest her soul.”

  “How long ago did she die?” I asked.

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  “She lived here?”

  “Oh, no. She never lived here. It was one of her investments. My mother had quite a lot of money, and she worked very hard for it.” She shook her head. “I never worked hard enough for her taste. I disappointed her, I think.”

  In that moment, she seemed not a woman in her eighties but a sad child, and I felt a twinge in my chest for her. “I’m sure that’s not the case. She must have loved you.”

  “Oh, she loved me. But I think she wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer or something special, but I didn’t have the brains for it, you see. Ah, well. All in the past now.” She smiled, brightly. “You said these books were your brother’s? Is he moving up here with you?”

  I hesitated over what to say next. Why did I always feel as though it were a secret, something that we couldn’t talk about? Perhaps it was the way my mother had kept the world away that had made our lives seem somehow furtive. “He’s dead,” I said finally. “He died about four months ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. How old was he?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Such a shame at such a young age. An accident?”

  “No, he was sick for a long time. It was . . . not unexpected.” I sipped my tea, hoping to close down the discussion. “Tell me more about your mother,” I said, forcing a smile. “She sounds formidable.”

  “Yes, that’s a good word,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at a set of framed photographs on the sideboard. Smiling people in old-fashioned clothes. “When I came along, she decided she wanted me to have a better life than she’d had. Dad was often unwell, so he stayed home with me, and Mum went out to work in a perfumery in Sydney, and worked her way up, then when the business was in trouble she convinced a bank to loan her enough to buy it. I barely saw her: she was at work from dawn until lat
e in the evening. She was a real career woman at a time when women didn’t have careers. Made her own fortune.”

  “Wow. What a wonderful life she had.”

  “Yes. You’d think so. That’s the official version.” Her voice was wistful.

  “Official version?”

  “There was a lot she didn’t tell me. There’s a lot I still don’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugged off my question. “Dad raised me, and we were very close. She often traveled and we got on without her. I always remember how she smelled when she came home, as though the perfumes she worked with had all seeped a little into her pores. She’d lean over me and press cool lips to my sleeping cheek, and I’d wake just enough to smell her and hear her say she loved me . . . Oh, dear. I’m getting quite teary. It happens these days. I find myself remembering things from so long ago. So long ago.”

  “It’s all right. Cry away.”

  “Such happy memories, all bright and sharp at the edges. They’ll all disappear when I die.” She trailed off. “I’ve said far too much and you must be bored.”

  “I’m not bored. You should write it all down.”

  “For whom to read, my dear?”

  “Your children?” I suggested, then hoped that she had children and wasn’t alone in the world.

  She sniffed dismissively. “They wouldn’t be interested. They’re off living their lives. One in London, one in New York, one in Vancouver. A bunch of high achievers. Not a single grandchild for me between the three of them.” She frowned, looking into the bottom of her teacup. “One cup is never enough.”

  “You need a pot, and some bigger cups.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  I rose, and made to clear away our cups.

  “No, no,” she said, “don’t bother. It will give me something to do. Do you need a hand with those boxes?”

  “I can manage them.”

  “Good,” she said. “I was only being polite.” Then she laughed at my expression, and her face creased into a thousand lines.