“Yes. Yes! I’m sorry, I’m—I’m speechless—How long have you been planning this?”
“Not that long. Maybe a few days.”
“I don’t—How can I ever—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t say ‘repay.’ Nasty word, ‘repay.’ What you’ve given me already is beyond price. So not one word.”
I pulled back, kissed him, flung my arms back around him, pulled back again. Tried to gather my thoughts back together. Parted my lips to speak.
John laid his finger over my mouth. “Not one word, Blake.”
I laughed for pure joy. “Stop, all right? Just stop, or I’ll yank you into the grass and show you repay.”
“I’ve no objection to that.”
“But I can’t!” I kissed his hand and pulled away. “I’ve got to hop, or Jared’s going to think I’ve stood him up and he’ll never stop bugging me. Just—while I’m gone, have another look at that concert program, okay? I left it on the desk. And the movie. There’s something there, but I don’t know what. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Talk, hmm?”
“Or whatever you want.”
“Unless, of course, you decide to run off with this persistent bloke of yours down the pub . . .”
I laughed and started away. “Trust me. I’m sticking with the bloke who’s spent a week at sex camp, learning the nuances of the female orgasm.”
“Remember, there’s more where that came from!” he called after me.
I fluttered my fingers and bounded up the slope. John’s Range Rover sat by itself in the driveway, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t given any thought to Rupert and Nigel since last night. Presumably they’d driven off together, into the sunset. Or the sunrise, more likely.
I smiled and trotted down the lane in the direction of the Ship Inn. Happy endings all around, then.
The May sun was warm, and by the time I burst through the ancient doorway—twenty minutes late—I was sweating through my blouse. The fug of stale beer and fried food enveloped me. For a second or two, I stood blinking, as my eyes adjusted from the sunshine to the dim, cramped pub lighting. The dark hum of conversation ebbed away, and I felt the weight of a dozen disapproving male gazes on my breathless figure.
“He’s over there,” said a voice near my shoulder.
I turned. “Davey! Nice to see you, too.”
I knew Davey wasn’t exactly well disposed toward me, but his expression of disgust surprised me. He shrugged those stocky, tight-clad shoulders and jerked his head in the direction of the pub’s most obscure corner. “Been waiting this half hour. Must have something important to natter about, mustn’t you?”
“Which is none of your goddamn business,” I muttered, turning away. In a stroke, my good spirits dissolved, replaced by the same uneasy sensation that had woken me this morning. Maybe it was something I ate, I thought, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything, hadn’t stopped for so much as a crumb of food on our way from London last night.
So maybe that was it. Fasting. Nigh unto starvation.
I reached the corner and drew in a deep breath. Jared hadn’t seen me yet; he was hunched over his phone, wearing a gray sweatshirt and a navy baseball cap. Funny, I could hardly even remember what he looked like. Just his dark hair and those sharp eyes, dark blue. Medium height, still sort of skinny, the way he’d been at Columbia. A runner’s build. He’d done the marathon one autumn, hadn’t he?
“Jared! So good to see you!”
He jumped out of his seat and turned to me, smiling. “Sarah! Wow! There you are. Look at you, you look amazing. Sit down, sit down. Can I order you a beer or something?”
The words came rapid-fire, in between the clumsy movements of clasped hands and a two-cheek kiss. I caught a blur of familiar large ears, and a memory flashed past—Jared arguing with some friend about freedom of the press in colonial America or something.
“Oh, gosh. No thanks. Maybe some coffee?”
“Late night?”
The heat rose in my cheeks. “Sort of. I’ve been doing some research out here, and we found a really good lead, which always happens right before bedtime, right?” I laughed feebly. “So I’m starving and undercaffeinated. Watch out.”
“Sure, sure.” He twisted his body to wave in Davey’s direction. “I gotta say, the waiter is kind of flinty. Even for a Brit.”
“Davey. He’s the publican, actually. The owner. He sort of hates me.”
“Hates you? Why?”
“Because—” I bit back the sentence and frowned at Davey’s approaching figure, which reminded me of an afternoon thunderstorm cresting the horizon. “Oh, I don’t know. Hates all Americans, probably. You know the type.”
“Do I ever.” He raised his voice. “She’ll have some coffee, right? Americano?”
“Americano, sure.”
“And I’ll have another beer. Sarah, you ready for lunch?”
“Just a burger, I guess. With chips. Lots of chips.”
Jared turned back to Davey. “Make it two.”
Davey scowled even more deeply and snatched the menus from the table. He departed without a word, storming back to the kitchen, dish towel flung over his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ,” Jared said. “What did you do to him? Steal his dog?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” I picked up the water glass, which contained no ice but plenty of liquid, thank God. After that jog in the sunshine, I was parched. “So. Here we are in England, huh? Long way from grad school. How’s it going? What are you up to?”
Jared laughed. “Isn’t that the wrong question? It’s not what I’m up to, Sarah. It’s what you’re up to.”
“Me?” I swallowed, choked, coughed. Reached for the paper napkin. “I’m just researching a book.”
“Um, at the country house of a member of Parliament who just sort of happens to be at the center of the year’s biggest political scandal. How the hell did you meet? Are you, like, together?”
“Of course not!” I squeaked, using the choking thing to disguise my wanton lack of veracity. “I just—well, he very kindly agreed to let me into the family archives for this book I’m doing about the Lusitania. His great-grandfather was on the ship, and so was mine—”
“The family archives? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Jared waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, Sarah. ’Fess up.”
“There’s nothing to ’fess. Jeez.”
Jared threw up his hands. “Fine! Have it your way. Nothing going on in the family archives. So what’s he like?”
“I don’t know. English.”
“Oh, come on. You can do better than that. Why did he even let you in the gates? I mean, please. The Lusitania?”
“It’s true. That’s exactly what it was. I tracked him down at a Costa Coffee in Oxford Circus and—” I stopped. “Wait a minute. How did you know I was even here with him?”
“What, seriously? You haven’t heard? Sarah, sweetheart, your photo was in all the damn papers!”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. Meeting him in some shitty bar in Shepherd’s Bush. I mean, I didn’t see your name in there. You’re just the ‘Mystery Brunette,’ as far as anyone else knows.” He wagged his finger. “But I recognized you, gorgeous.”
“Well, aren’t you the clever one.”
“Hey, chill out. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
He leaned forward over his empty pint glass. “So tell me more. Tell me the dirt. What’s going on with that wife of his and the Russian dude?”
By now, I sat rigid in my chair, arms crossed. I’d finished my water, but a sour, sticky taste was invading my mouth, and I wanted desperately to wash it out. To wash myself off. Why the hell had I ever answered Jared’s text? Allowed even one curious friend—all right, friend with benefits, but that was way back in the way-back—to invade the private, magical world I’d inhabited these past ten days? Go to hell, I should have texted back, instead of thinking I owed him anything, owe
d him a face-to-face send-off, a professional favor of any kind. I was an idiot.
“Come on, Sarah. We’re old friends.” Jared grinned and flipped his hand back and forth between the two of us, illustrating the close nature of our bond. “Give me the scoop. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Sure, I’ll give you the scoop,” I said. “I’ll give you the scoop when—”
I was going to say hell freezes over, but a coffee cup crashed into the table before me, sloshing wildly, followed by a pint glass of pale amber ale that promptly discharged half its head of foam over the rim.
“Oops, sorry,” said a female voice, not sorry at all, and I looked up into the violet-streaked hair and narrowed gaze of that bonny, buxom lass, Davey’s sister.
“Jesus Christ,” Jared said. “What the hell?”
I pushed my napkin over the spill. “It’s all right. Just an accident. Thanks—um, thanks, Julie.” Her name returned to me just in time.
“Any time,” she snapped, and walked away, wiping her hands on her teensy apron.
“Awesome pub,” Jared said. “Can’t wait to write my Yelp review.”
“Just drink your beer,” I muttered. I picked up the mug—she hadn’t left any cream, and I didn’t want sugar—and sipped cautiously. Tasted like regular coffee. But then the best poisons were undetectable, weren’t they? I swallowed and went on, trying to steer the conversation, “So tell me about you! What have you been up to these days?”
“Oh, you know. Making a living.”
“Doing what?”
“Writing, actually.”
“Writing! That’s great. Let me know if I can do anything for you. I know a few agents who owe me favors.”
Jared drew off a long drink of ale and set his glass down. “I’d hate to use up your credit.”
“Hey, what are friends for? I had to blurb some pretty awful books to win those brownie points, so you might as well put them to good use.” I glanced to the bar, where Davey and Julie seemed to be locked in some kind of heated discussion. Davey stood behind the counter, hands braced on the edge, while Julie leaned on her elbows and spoke near his ear.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
I sipped more coffee and said, “So what do you write? Working on the Great American Novel? The next Gatsby?”
“Nope. Nonfiction.”
“Oh, that’s great. What subject?”
Over at the bar, Davey shot a keen glance in my direction and pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.
“Ah, good question. It’s sort of the nexus between celebrity culture and politics and social media.”
“So, contemporary stuff.”
“Pretty much. Not your wheelhouse, I know, but I think you might be able to help me out. You know, lend a little insight based on your recent experiences. Damn, where’s my burger? I could eat an elephant right now.”
He picked up his glass again. His cheeks were beginning to flush, and as I watched him drink, as he swiveled to check on the possible arrival of his lunch, I remembered how little I’d liked Jared Holm by the time I left for Ireland. How brief and boring the sex was, how even more brief and boring the conversation afterward. He was the one you saw at all the Thursday night mixers, drink in hand, conversing with everybody and nobody because he was forever glancing over your shoulder at another prospect while he talked to you.
I shouldn’t have answered that damn text, I thought again. I should have remembered him better. I should have remembered how relieved I felt escaping for Ireland, because I wouldn’t have to see him again, and I hadn’t even had to endure the awkwardness of an official breakup scene. But now that bill had come due. We were still friends, technically. He could still text me and ask for help with his writing, like you do when your old friends reach high places.
“Here we go,” Jared said. “Finally.”
Julie stalked up, balancing two plates of burgers and chips at either end of the tall wooden ship that sailed across her bosom. I flinched under the scorn of her expression, or maybe I was just afraid she’d dump it on my lap.
But she didn’t. She set each plate down, grabbed a bottle of ketchup from a nearby table and slammed it down between us. “I hear you Yanks like this stuff,” she said. “So have at it.”
“Thanks, mate,” Jared said—heavy on the sarcasm, in case you hadn’t guessed—as he reached for the bottle. “Anyway. As I was saying. I appreciate your helping me out with this little project. You’re the best mole ever. Sent from heaven to deliver me the goods.”
Julie, who was just turning to stomp away, made a noise like she was trying to rip the head from a Barbie doll.
“Julie, wait!” I called.
She froze and swiveled her head. The look on her face suggested she was currently employing her Jedi powers to impale me against the wall, without success.
“Um, maybe I’ll have a glass of wine, after all,” I said. “Red.”
* * *
Looking back, of course, that was the wrong thing to say. I shouldn’t have stayed and had a glass of wine with my burger. I shouldn’t even have had the burger, though I could have eaten twelve of them by that point, I was so hungry.
I should’ve just risen from that table, told Jared he could stuff it, and walked away.
And I think maybe it was just a lingering case of impostor syndrome. I’d gotten lucky with Small Potatoes, no doubt about it. Yes, it was a good book—a really good book—but there were plenty of great books published that summer, plenty of authors putting out outstanding, original work, and I was the one who broke out. I was the lucky one. At the time, I told myself it was pure, raw talent, but I knew deep down that luck had played a role—good timing, an eye-catching jacket, the right reviewers—and so I felt a duty to stay in my chair and finish this conversation. The same duty that had impelled me to answer Jared’s text in the first place, the same duty that had urged me to the Ship Inn for burgers and chips this afternoon, as if by engaging in grubby shoptalk with a struggling, aspiring writer of no known ability, I could win back the elusive karma that had made Small Potatoes a success.
By the time John arrived, pink-faced and thunderous, I was on my third glass of wine, which Julie had delivered promptly after the second. She and Davey had backed away to the bar, where they probably filled up a large bowl with popcorn and passed it between them. I don’t know. I didn’t see anything but John, didn’t have any room in my head for any other observation.
I remember the way he paused in the doorway, blinking as I had done, breathless as I had been, searching for me. I think Davey pointed him toward the table I shared with Jared, but maybe it was Julie. Maybe it was both of them together. Luke and Leia, I thought. I realized now that John was Han Solo. Of course he was, despite his privileged bloodlines. Gruff on the outside, tender on the inside. Mistrustful of others. Capable of great devotion, once you gained that trust, and loyal to the core.
Anyway. Not that it mattered. He spotted me, and the misery on his face equaled the misery I felt inside. He inhaled deeply, gathering himself, and strode across the room. He wore his green cashmere sweater over a white T-shirt, and in his hand he carried a piece of paper and a book.
“John!” I said, and then the stupidest thing I could possibly have said, even more stupid than asking for wine with my burger. “What are you doing here?”
He took his cue, of course.
“I might ask what you’re doing here, having lunch with a Daily Mail reporter, but I’d be wasting my breath, wouldn’t I, as the answer is more than obvious. Mr. Holm, I hope you’ve gotten your story by now?”
“Actually—” Jared began, apparently not quite understanding that the question was rhetorical.
But John had already turned back to me. He tossed the book and the paper on the table. “Here you go. If that even matters anymore. I’m assuming it was all just a cover story, but you never know. Two birds with one stone, as they say.”
I stared down at the book—a copy of
An Affair in Paris, Robert Langford’s third book—and the paper, which seemed to be the Talmadge concert program. The two items had fallen in such a way that the photographs—Mary and Robert—lay next to each other, in the same studied, monochrome pose.
“I don’t understand,” I said hoarsely.
“You’re a bright girl, Sarah. I think you can figure it out, if you inspect it carefully enough.”
He turned and walked away.
Jared whistled softly and picked up the book. I was too stunned to stop him. Too stunned to run after John. I just looked blankly at my wineglass and thought, It’s half-empty.
“Wow,” Jared said, holding up the book and the concert program, side by side. “That’s kind of a weird resemblance, wouldn’t you say?”
And I was falling again, except this time it was real.
Chapter 29
Caroline
At Sea
Friday, May 7, 1915
She was falling; twisting, turning, weightless. There’d been the sound of a hymn being sung, then an abrupt snap followed by screaming and crying and shouting and the sensation of being held suspended in space and time. For a fleeting moment Caroline wondered if this is what death felt like, to be neither here nor there, all senses held in check while the earth stops its rotation so a person could merely step off.
But the screaming was real, coming from the mother with the young boy in the lifeboat beside her. She turned her head to watch them tumble over the side, as they disappeared into the same dark gray water rushing up toward her. The last thing she was aware of was the sound of their lifeboat scraping against the steel and rivets of the side of the ship and of Gilbert beside her, squeezing her hand and telling Caroline that he loved her.
And then she was alone, submerged in the cold water, with bodies and debris piled on top of her. The water numbed and consoled, terrifying her. Muffled sounds penetrated the water, adding to her dreamlike state. She thought of Gilbert, of the promise of their future lives, and she began to kick furiously toward the milky light of the sun on the ocean’s surface.
Something dragged at her ankle, fighting against her kicking and her life belt’s attempts to rise to the surface, slowly pulling her deeper. Reaching her fingers down to her ankle, she felt a rope, thick and strong, wrapped around her foot, the other end of the rope disappearing into the murky water, attached to an unseen object and making its slow way to the ocean’s floor, intent on dragging Caroline with it.
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