by Julia Whelan
Jamie turns onto his side and props his head on his hand. There’s a silence, just the creaking of the planks and the lapping of the river. “When did he die?”
“Almost twelve years ago.”
Jamie pauses. I can tell he’s treading carefully. “Illness?”
“Mine, not his.” Jamie’s look of confusion pushes me onward. “It was my thirteenth birthday party. Except there was no party. We had to cancel it. I’d been sick for over a week and I was climbing the walls. No dragon slaying with Dad, just bed.” I’ve never told this story before, but I don’t stop talking long enough to convince myself that I shouldn’t. “He felt bad that I wasn’t having a party, so we spent the day watching our favorite comedy duos. We’d recite the routines and never end up getting through them because we were laughing too hard.” Just saying this out loud has me grinning like an idiot. “Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis, Burns and—” I catch myself and shake my head. “These names don’t mean anything to you, but for us—”
“Allen?”
I stop. “You know Burns and Allen?”
“I prefer Abbott and Costello.”
That live-wire current between us charges again. That it’s happening in the middle of telling Jamie about my dad’s death is odd, to say the least.
“Sorry, please continue,” Jamie urges.
“We’re putting a pin in this discussion,” I murmur.
“Noted.”
I take a breath. “So, there was this place in town, this café that made my favorite thing in the entire world and my dad wanted me to have it for my birthday. After watching the videos, he only had about an hour before he had to be at the bar, but he was determined to get me my birthday treat. Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch. A knock on the door woke me up. Red-and-blue lights were flashing around our living room, coming in through the windows. My mom went to the door. And she started screaming. Just screaming her head off. I don’t remember standing up or walking to the door. Just my mother on the floor with a policeman on his knees trying to hold her up.” I pause for a moment, considering this, the genesis of the rift between my mother and me.
She just completely fell apart. Which I get, trust me, I get it, but she never got herself up off that floor. One of the policemen took her away, into the kitchen, and another one took me out into the freak, late-winter storm to my aunt’s house and I didn’t see my mother again for almost three weeks. I kept waiting for her to show up, to take me home. I went back to school, where I was suddenly the Girl Whose Father Died. I pulled away from everyone. I’d slip out through the gym at the end of the day so I wouldn’t have to face anyone and I’d walk back to my aunt’s house and I’d sit on the porch and wait for my mom to show up. I did this for two weeks. One day, to cheer me up I guess, my aunt bought me an issue of Seventeen magazine.
When my mother finally did show up, she got out of her car and I came to my feet, the chipped blue paint I’d been picking off the porch still under my fingernails. She walked up to me and I reached out my arms, but she stopped moving and started sobbing, bringing her hands up to her face. I went to her. I hugged her because I wanted—needed—to feel her arms around me. But her arms didn’t move. I held her as she held her face and sobbed, and when she could finally talk all she said was, “Help me, Eleanor,” over and over and over again, like a chant.
That was the last time I ever let myself need anything from anyone.
I realize I haven’t spoken in a while. Jamie has been quietly waiting. I remember where I left off in the story; cops at the door, mother crying, father dead. I clear my throat. “First thing I remember thinking was, ‘I’m never having my birthday hot chocolate.’” I had cried about that. I sobbed about it. I fixated on not having the hot chocolate so I wouldn’t think about what else I’d never have again.
Jamie inhales slowly, bracingly. I chance a look at him. He looks thoughtfully at me. I speak. “They said he was killed on impact. So it could have been worse.” Jamie just stares at me, looking for tears, I think. I stare back, trying to decipher what I see there. It’s not pity, exactly. It’s understanding. But it’s laced with a tentative regret. Like looking at an aging family pet that’s going to need to be put down soon.
“Anyway,” I breathe, and roll over on top of him. I push myself up and straddle him in one smooth move, barely rocking us. I lean down and kiss him, a kiss that says I have some good months left in me, don’t put me to sleep yet. I hastily undo his belt and lift my skirt up around my hips, reaching for the waistband of my wool tights.
“Ella . . .” he says, against my mouth.
“Yeah?” I pant.
He pushes me back slightly. Looks at me. “You don’t have to do this now. We don’t have to do this.”
“This is what we do.” I kiss him again, but he doesn’t join in.
His hands find my hips, gently stilling me. “Ella, excuse me, but . . . well, one ought to use protection for sex. Not the other way round.”
I flush with anger. Instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I climb off Jamie and cross my arms over my chest.
Jamie comes up on his elbows, shaking his head. “You told me you’d never had your heart broken, and clearly—”
“Oh God, this is why I don’t talk about myself! ‘Poor Ella, lost her dad and locked her heart away, never to love again.’ Genius, Jamie. Really, very astute. You’ve got it all figured out. So tell me, why don’t you want a relationship? What’s your excuse, huh?”
Jamie’s eyes drill into mine, hands fanned out in supplication, voice low. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t know if he’s answering my question or if he’s just trying to stop the argument, but his gentle compassion takes some of the heat out of me. After a quiet moment, we both take a breath. Then we look at each other. He smiles tentatively and says, “Was that our first row?” I chuckle. He takes my hand and murmurs, “I have an idea. Let’s do something a bit daft. I’m going to lie back down and you’re going to lie down next to me. I’ll set the punt adrift. Go where the current takes us.”
“No talking?”
“No talking.”
Jamie pushes us off the shore as I slide back down into the bottom of the punt. After a moment of stargazing, I find my head turning in toward him, resting on his chest. My body turns as well, my front finding his side. Immediately, his arm folds around me like a protective wing. I let my arm cross his body, my hand finding the curve of his shoulder and resting there. “May I say one more thing?” Jamie’s chest rumbles with the richness of his voice. It vibrates through my head, almost making me dizzy.
“As long as I don’t have to say anything.”
“Just say yes, then.”
I pause. “That depends on what—”
“Say it.”
This makes me smile. I’ll bite. “Yes.”
“It’s settled. My house. Tomorrow. Seven.”
I lift my head to look at him. “Your house house?”
“You’re talking.”
“I’ll bring dessert,” I whisper.
His hand finds a perfect spot to rest on the curve of my ass as he murmurs, “You better.” His other hand cups the side of my head, smoothing back my hair. With gentle pressure, he guides my head back down to his chest. I close my eyes.
The sounds of water, wind, trees, and night insects swell around us. Under that, the sound of Jamie’s heartbeat in my ear, his breath lifting my head in an elemental cadence. There’s a fragrance in the air that I didn’t notice before, a constricting. Earth preparing for winter. I open my eyes slightly and can just glimpse the water over the side of the punt, the moonlight on the surface a study in light and dark. I gently rub the wool sweater at Jamie’s shoulder, absently fingering the burls.
It’s amazing how much you notice when you’re not having sex.
Chapter 14
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set
them free,
Exactly as we were.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (“Lewis Carroll”), “Untitled,” 1855
This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah.” Jamie scratches his eyebrow.
“No, I mean . . .” I walk into the center of the empty ballroom, throwing my arms out. “This is ridiculous, Jamie.”
“I quite agree.” He nods.
“You have a ballroom.” A Victorian town-house-sized ballroom, but still. I stare at him. “How did this happen?”
Jamie worries his finger over a chip in the carved marble-faced fireplace. “My mother’s aunt, Charlotte. She had no children. When I came up to Oxford for undergraduate I was kind to her. Went marketing, changed lightbulbs, did the washing up, that sort of thing. She died last year. I’d no idea she’d bequeath it to me. I started coming up from Cambridge at the weekends to work on it.”
I take in the large room with its gleaming wood floor, huge windows overlooking the quaint street, and very real crystal chandelier. “It’s beautifully preserved. It’s like a set from a Jane Austen movie.”
“I’m rather proud, really. Charlotte absolutely gutted it after the war. She was a dear woman, but had no sense of history. I’ve endeavored to bring it back to its original state. It’s almost done now. I’ve worked with a conservation specialist who refers me to accredited woodworkers, stonemasons, ironmongers, and the like. I also do a fair bit of the work myself.” He looks up at the ceiling.
“And now you get to enjoy it. Live here. Raise a family here.” He shrugs noncommittally. I blink. “You’re not going to sell it, are you?”
“No.” I relax slightly. “I’m going to donate it. It will make a fine museum once I’m finished. It’s finished.” He looks back to the ceiling for a quiet moment.
A moment I can’t help but interrupt. “Seriously? But why would you—”
He cuts me off, looking at his watch. “Must check on dinner. Come with?” He holds out his hand and I take it, following him out the gilded double doors and down the grand staircase, back to the first floor.
“ARE ALL THESE old portraits decoration, or actual family?” I call out from the drawing room to Jamie, who is in the kitchen doing something miraculous with chicken.
“Actual,” he calls back.
Amid all the staid paintings of women in ruffled frocks and gentlemen with their hands on sword hilts, there’s a photograph above the fireplace. An elegant woman sits in a chair, three men fanned out behind her. The setting, a book-laden room. I recognize Jamie, tuxedo’d and in his late teens. The staging reflects the stoicism of the figures in the antique portraits, but there’s one major difference: this family looks happy. Loving. Proud. Slightly mischievous. There’s an ease in Jamie’s face, something I only get glimpses of in adult Jamie. The mother and father are the definition of what the Victorians would call a “handsome couple.”
I look more closely at the father, the man I saw barreling out of Jamie’s office the day of our first tute. He’s about twenty pounds lighter in the photo, his hair only silver at the temples. Seeing the comfort of the family, even with the manufactured aloofness of the setting and wardrobe, I have to wonder what happened.
“Your mother’s gorgeous,” I call out.
“She’s taken, I’m afraid.”
There’s another boy in the picture, an athletic-looking younger one, also tuxedo’d. “Who’s the handsome guy?”
“Me.”
“No, the handsome one.”
“Right, my brother.”
I turn away from the fireplace, looking into the dining room. The table is large enough to seat fourteen. Jamie’s set a place at each end, indicated by the full glasses of wine, silverware, and napkins, all expertly set. He’s also lit a tall line of candles going down the center of the table, illuminating the swirling mahogany of the table’s grain.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was weirdly romantic. Wooing kind of stuff. Stuff that should have happened six weeks ago. Had we decided to actually date, that is. I tell myself that the setting is misleading. No wonder we haven’t come here before. He probably didn’t want me to misinterpret anything.
“Dinner is served,” Jamie says, sweeping into the room carrying two plates, bringing the most delicious aroma with him. Garlic and onions, wine and fire. “Please,” he says, nodding at the chair as he sets a plate down. I eagerly take my seat. He glides to the opposite end and settles in comfortably. He belongs here. The environment in no way overpowers him. He fits.
“Jamie,” I say reverently, staring at my plate. “This is amazing. Everything. Thank you.”
“You say that now,” he hedges. “You haven’t tried it yet.” He cuts gingerly into the tender chicken.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Coq au vin,” he answers, inspecting a piece of meat on his fork.
I sip my wine. Delicious. I take a bite of chicken. I had no idea chicken could taste like this. “Oh my God,” I moan. “Jamie!”
“Call my name like that once more and we shan’t make it to dessert,” he warns.
I look at him, raise a brow. “I’m ready when you are.” Even sitting fifteen feet away from each other, our eyes collide, threatening . . . what, exactly? I break first, turning back to my plate. “Where did you learn how to make this?”
“Smithy.”
“And who’s Smithy?” But Jamie’s more involved with his chicken than the conversation. “Jamie?”
“Hmm?”
“Who’s Smithy?”
“The cook,” he says absently.
“What cook?”
“Our cook.”
“You had a cook?”
“Have. Still works for my parents.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you have a butler?”
Jamie takes up his wine and says, smiling, “Who has a cook and not a butler? Really, darling.”
I smile back. “What about a valet? A scullery maid? A first and second footman?”
He sighs heavily. “Let us accept the fact that my family is, I believe the American vernacular would be, ‘loaded,’ and move on, shall we?” Jamie air-toasts me, that charming smile still on his face.
“Does your mom work?”
“Ah!” Jamie says, standing abruptly. “I know what I forgot.” He disappears around the corner into the drawing room. Moments later, the opera La Traviata softly fills the house.
Goose bumps. All over.
Jamie returns and goes back to his food. I go back to mine. “So”—I try again—“does your mother have a profession?”
“She . . .” He searches for the word, scooping up broth on his plate. “Organizes.”
“What does that mean?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Charity things. Events. Life.”
I’m not dense. He obviously doesn’t want to continue this line of questioning. But I exposed myself rather spectacularly last night and his caginess rankles. So I shift gears. “Speaking of mothers”—I go back to my plate—“I talked to mine today.”
“Oh yeah?” Jamie holds his wineglass up to the candlelight, assessing the wine’s “legs,” as he taught me to do a few weeks ago. Honestly, I’d rather just drink it.
I nod enthusiastically. “She was happy that you were finally asking me over to your house.”
Now his head snaps up. “You’ve talked with her about us?”
“Jamie. She’s my mother.”
He stops chewing. “What did she say?” He takes a careful sip of wine.
I smile broadly. “She’s thrilled! She told her whole quilting circle. She’s picking out onesies.”
Jamie does the closest thing to a spit take I’ve seen in real life.
I laugh. “Like I’d talk to my mother about us? Are you insane?”
Jamie glares at me across the table, which just causes me to laugh harder. He grins teasingly, silently promising retribution. “Not very nice,” he lilts warningly.
I lift my wineglass, pretending to assess t
he legs as well. “I think we can agree that the last thing I am, Dr. Davenport, is nice.” My tone is certainly anything but nice.
“I like that,” he murmurs. Our eyes meet again. “I like you.”
I look down at my plate. It’s empty. I’m surprised there are even bones on it. I’m surprised that I stopped when I hit plate and didn’t just eat my way through to the mahogany. I can feel him staring at me.
Why not say it? I glance up. I shrug. “I like you back.” He continues to stare at me. I look down at my wine, finish it. “Everything was delicious.”
Jamie stands, picks up his glass, and walks over to me. He sits in the chair to my left, the table’s corner between us. His silence is fraught.
“You did promise dessert,” he murmurs.
“I did,” I confirm, my breath already going shallow.
“And?”
I glance down at his hands, then back up into his eyes. “As I said, ready when you are.”
THE NEXT MORNING, the bell over the door jingles as Jamie and I hustle in out of the rain.
“JD!” Simon bellows.
“Simon, my good man,” Jamie says, moving to the side and revealing me. I watch Simon’s welcoming smile freeze, then bloom into something even bigger.
“Ella from Ohio!” Simon exclaims as we walk over to the counter.
I come here at least once a week, but never with Jamie. Simon and I haven’t discussed Jamie, so the look on his face right now is priceless.
“Fish and chips for breakfast, is it? I knew it!” he says, pounding the counter. “That first day, sparks were flyin’, they were!”
“We’re just friends,” I say. “He’s my professor.”
Simon cocks his head, eyeing us suspiciously. “And I’m Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
Jamie shrugs. “What can I say? She keeps turning me down. Can you imagine?”
Simon sighs and puts his hands on his hips, giving up on us. “The usual?”
“Cheers,” Jamie says, sliding cash over the counter. I reach for my wallet, but Jamie shakes it off. I hesitate, wondering if I should fight this. I don’t know the rules anymore. Especially after last night.
I stayed over. Actually slept. In his bed.