“Coffee.” Francesca smiles. “And your company.”
Upstairs Mateo wakes and calls for his mama. His calls drift down the staircase and into the hallway as they walk toward the kitchen. Francesca turns but Henry reaches for her arm.
“I’ll get him,” he says. “We’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Francesca gives him a weak smile. “Thank you.”
As he hurries up the flight of stairs, Henry allows himself—if only for a moment—to pretend that he still lives in this house with the two people he loves most in the world. And he hopes, with each step, that he’s closer to that wish coming true.
“You made the right choice,” Etta says.
“I knew you’d say that,” Cora says, “saint that you are. Personally I’d prefer to see him dying of malaria or cholera or something similarly torturous. But I suppose I’ll get over it.”
At the word saint, Etta sits up. She still has to break the news of Sebastian and, in the echo of all that Cora has just told her, Etta isn’t sure that her granddaughter will be able to take any more shocking news for at least another few years.
“He did save your life.”
“There wouldn’t have been a fire if he hadn’t been there stealing my parents’ research.”
“But he’s going to give up the Nobel Prize?” Etta asks. “And he’s going to name Maggie and Robert as—”
Cora nods. “He gave me his word, he would. So, instead of prison, I suppose I’ll have to settle for public humiliation instead.”
Etta smiles.
“I’ve got something else to tell you,” Cora says, finally ready to forget all the pain of the last twenty-four hours, at least for a while. Now she wants to wipe out death with love.
“Oh?” Etta asks, desperately hoping it’s good news.
They are sitting in Etta’s sewing room, a half-finished dress of moss green satin on the table between them. Cora absently runs her finger over a hem of 179 stitches, then bends down to pick up the bag at her feet and pull out Walt’s notebook. She hands it to Etta.
“What is it?” Etta asks, staring at the symbols adorning the pages. “I don’t understand.”
“I found it in your dressing room a few days ago. It belongs to Walt, see.” Cora points out his name on the cover. “It’s in code. I deciphered it.”
Etta closes the notebook. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have done that. It’s a private diary, not a mathematical puzzle.”
“I know,” Cora says, “I know, I just couldn’t help it. But don’t worry, I won’t break any confidences by telling you what it says.”
Etta smiles. “Tease.”
Cora gazes down at the table, her fingers on the edge of the satin. For this confession she can’t look her grandma in the eye.
“I love him,” Cora whispers at last.
Etta leans forward. “Sorry? What did you say?”
Cora gives a little smile. “You heard me.”
Etta grins. “Touché.”
“And when I return his notebook, I’m going to tell him.”
“Well, in that case, I think he’ll forgive the fact that you read it.”
“Do you think he loves me back?”
“Oh, my dear girl, of course he does.” Etta laughs. “You know, for someone so exceedingly clever, sometimes you can be incredibly stupid.”
“Shut up.” Cora’s smile reaches her fingertips. And, all of a sudden, Etta realizes that this is the perfect time to tell her granddaughter the great secret, while she’s distracted by expectant happiness. Cora stands.
“Wait,” Etta says. “Before you go, I’ve got something else to tell you.”
Walt and Milly sit on a picnic blanket spread out on the floor of the Nineteenth-Century Literature section of Blue Water Books. They’ve finished the ham sandwiches Milly brought and are now slowly but steadily munching their way through the cherry tart Walt made an hour ago.
“Great pie,” Milly says, though she’d meant to say something else.
“Thanks.”
“Will you read something for me?” Milly asks, brushing away a crumb from her lip, though this isn’t what she’d meant to say either. The confession is proving harder to admit than she’d thought.
“Sure.” Walt nods, pushing the image of Cora and that man out of his mind as he stands. “What do you want?”
“Close your eyes and pick something.”
Walt steps toward the shelf, closes his eyes, reaches up and wiggles a book into his hand. As he sits down again, he reads the spine. “The Age of Innocence.”
“Wonderful,” Milly says, grateful for the distraction. “One of my favorites.”
Walt glances down at the book again. “Really? But it’s not by Jane Austen.”
Milly laughs. “I do read more than just Jane, you know. Anything with romance and sexy men, and I’m game. Though, as heroes go, Newland Archer isn’t much of one, I’ll grant you.”
Walt sits down beside her. “Exactly how many times have you read this book?” he asks, giving her a sideways grin. He will learn to love these books, Walt tells himself, he will.
“I nearly know it all by heart,” Milly admits.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Milly raises an eyebrow. “Okay, test me. Open a page at random and read.”
“All right, boss.” Walt holds the book between his palms then slides a finger between the pages and lets them fall open. He looks down and inhales:
“ ‘That is, if the doctors will let me go … but I’m afraid they won’t. For you see, Newland, I’ve been sure since this morning of something I’ve been so longing and hoping for—’ ”
Walt breaks off. “Okay, what comes next?”
“Your voice when you read, I can’t get over how beautiful it sounds,” Milly says, though her own voice sounds strangely flat as she speaks. “You always make me feel so …”
“Enough of the flattery, you’re stalling,” Walt says. “What’s the next line?”
“Her color burned deeper, but she held his gaze,” Milly says, soft and steady. “ ‘No; I wasn’t sure then—but I told her I was. And you see I was right!’ she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory.”
Walt looks down at the book, flicking the pages. He frowns. “No, that’s not it. That’s the last line of the chapter. Word perfect, I’ll give you that, but not the right line, so I’ll have to deduct points for …” He looks up at Milly, suddenly sensing how quiet she is, aware only now of the shift in the air between them.
“What’s wrong, Mill?”
“She knows he’s in love with another woman, so she traps him by—”
“By what?”
“The usual way they did in those days.”
“Oh.”
Can we have a baby? is what she means to say. But when she opens her mouth something else comes out.
“Walt?” Milly says softly. “Will you marry me?”
Utterly dumbfounded, Walt just stares at her, openmouthed. He had absolutely not seen this coming. He’s not ready. He can’t do it. He’s in love with someone else. But such is the heartbreaking hope in her eyes and such is the conviction that Cora will never, ever love him that, before he quite realizes what he’s doing, Walt begins nodding. And when Milly’s face lights up as if she’s just won the lottery, he’s glad for this at least.
Cora runs the length of the alleyway separating Etta’s dress shop from Walt’s bookshop. She holds his notebook tight in her hands and its words in her mouth, sucking them like sweets—the facts to back up her feelings, scientific (sort of) proof to show she and Walt should be together. Etta’s momentous revelation about her unknown grandfather, a priest no less, is still shaking through her head but, incredible and crazy though it is, even the fact of a new family member is submerged by the weight of thoughts of Walt and what she’s about to do.
When Cora opens the door and steps into the bookshop she’s out of breath. He’s not standing at the counter. Cora glances around the shop, at th
e bookshelves she can see from the entrance. When she can’t see him a wave of nerves floods her body and Cora focuses on the shelf closest to her, counting to calm herself. 278 books divided over 6 shelves, an average of 46.33 recurring on each shelf.
Thirty-three is Cora’s favorite number and its appearance reassures her. It’s an auspicious sign. She will find Walt, give him back his notebook, show him what it says, and they will be in each other’s arms before another moment passes. At this thought, Cora realizes how long it’s been since she’s been in anyone’s arms and the sad fact spurs her on. She hurries toward her favorite section: Scientific Biographies. If he’s standing close to a biography of Gerty Cori then that will be it, their fate will be sealed. She’ll run up and hug him without saying a single word.
As she passes the Nineteenth-Century Literature section Cora stops and doubles back. The first thing she sees is Walt, down on one knee, perhaps picking up a book fallen from the shelf. Cora’s heart bangs against her chest. And then she sees the woman, the one she saw before eating cherry pie, on the floor next to Walt and smiling, her face radiant with shock and joy. The woman gets onto one knee and takes his hand in hers.
“You will?” she asks. “Really?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I will.”
For a moment Cora is rooted to the spot watching. When the woman falls onto Walt, hugging him, laughing and exclaiming “yes” over and over again, Cora turns to sneak back across the floor without a sound, now no longer feeling her heart in her chest at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’m not sure I want a white dress. I don’t think it’s appropriate for a second wedding,” Milly says. “What do you think of cornflower blue?”
Etta nods, trying to hold her tongue and suppress her shock.
“I think a bride should have whatever she wants. But then perhaps you should give yourself time,” Etta suggests. “There’s no need to rush anything.”
She wonders if she should be more direct, if she should tell Milly that she’d be making a horrible mistake marrying a man whose heart belongs to someone else. But Etta worries that, since she’s far from impartial on the matter, saying something would be wrong. Etta has always regarded her role to her customers as rather like Sebastian’s role to his parishioners. She is there to offer objective advice and emotional support. She’s not afraid to say exactly what she thinks and, if this were any other woman, she would. She’d say that Milly shouldn’t get married, that she should find someone else, a man with an undivided heart, a man who doesn’t also love another woman. But since that other woman is Etta’s granddaughter, it doesn’t seem quite right to say anything. Not directly, at least, so instead Etta suggests and implies, as heavily as she can without compromising her integrity.
“How long have you known him?” she asks. “I think it’s best to wait at least a year before jumping into anything. You want to be sure—”
“I am sure,” Milly interrupts, “and we’re not rushing. When I met Hugh I knew straightaway, before we’d even said a word to each other. And I fell in love with Walt the first time I heard him on the radio—actually, no, when I read his letters. That’s when I knew. I would have married him then, if he’d asked.” She giggles. “And then, somehow, I asked him instead.”
“Okay,” Etta says, “but I’m only saying, there’s no need to do it so quickly—”
Milly’s face lights up with a secret smile. Tonight is the night. This time, she’s sure of it. “Well,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, even though they are alone in the shop, “I’d like to fit into my wedding dress, so we can’t wait forever.”
Etta frowns. “You’re … pregnant?”
Milly smiles. “No, not yet, but I’m hoping it won’t take very long.”
Just then the music shifts from the slightly melancholic tones of “Since I Don’t Have You” to the sparkling notes of “All I Have to Do Is Dream.” Etta glances up to see Cheryl walk through the door. Grateful for the chance to avoid the sorry situation of Walt’s impending nuptials, Etta leaves Milly at the rack of dresses in every shade of blue—rustling and whispering to one another of shifting hearts and broken promises—and crosses the purple velvet floor.
“Hello,” Etta says. “How are you?”
Seeing Milly, Cheryl blushes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mill, I only nipped out of the shop for a moment.”
“That’s okay.” Milly smiles at her assistant, still distracted by the dresses. “Take your time.”
Cheryl beams, then turns back to Etta. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
“You have? How lovely. I adore gifts.”
Cheryl opens her linen shoulder bag, glancing up at the green-blue walls of raw silk that shimmer bright yellow toward the ceiling.
“Changing colors for changing seasons,” Etta says, as if this explains everything.
“Ah, okay,” Cheryl says. She pulls a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string out of her bag. “Anyway, I made this for you. To say ‘thank you.’ ”
“You made it? How perfectly lovely,” Etta says, pulling off the string and ripping off the paper. She holds the picture poem: vines of violet wisteria wind around the words, leaves coiling through black letters. The dresses cease rustling and the music falls silent. Etta reads aloud:
When you speak
I will listen
You will be heard by me.
When you reach out your hand
I will take it in mine
You will be held by me.
While you live
I will be there
You will be seen by me.
Today, tomorrow, and
All the days of my life
You will be loved by me.
“I thought, perhaps …” Cheryl says, glancing down at her feet snug in the deep velvet carpet. “You could give it to the man you love.”
Etta smiles. “How do you know I have one at all?”
Cheryl looks up, her eyes shimmering like the silk walls. “I don’t, it’s just a feeling I have.”
“Well then, you’re clearly a psychic poet,” Etta says. “So, thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Cora ambles along the pavement behind her grandmother. Etta glances over her shoulder and urges her on. They are walking along Trumpington Street, on their way to the Catholic church. Cora slows to a stop outside the 14 grand white pillars and 4 stone lions of the Fitzwilliam Museum.
“I haven’t been in there since I was at school,” she says. “Why don’t we go? I feel like lingering in the Egyptian Room, maybe slipping into a sarcophagus.”
“Stop being so morbid and hurry up,” Etta says, trying to sound flippant and light, as if her heart isn’t aching for her granddaughter.
“I think we should postpone,” Cora says. “I’m not in the mood to meet anyone, let alone a secret priestly grandfather I’ve only just found out about. Can’t we wait for a time when my heart isn’t cracked in half, when I’m in better spirits?”
“And when will that be?” Etta asks, knowing that the last few days have been the worst of her granddaughter’s life but needing to push her on. “If we wait forever you’ll just sink into a pit. I won’t have it.”
She reaches out and begins pulling Cora along with two hands, determined not to let her granddaughter spend any more time than she has to in mourning for lost love. If she made a mistake about Walt, if she got Cora’s hopes up when she shouldn’t have, then she’s more sorry than she can say. But Etta will do everything in her power now to make sure that, before too long, Cora can put it all behind her and get on with her life. Etta desperately doesn’t want her granddaughter to spend a lifetime pining away for a man she can never have. Etta lived that life and she won’t have Cora living it, too.
“You sprung this new grandfather on me too quickly,” Cora moans as she’s dragged along. “I need to think about how I feel and what I’m going to say …”
“That’s the last thing you need,” Etta says, aware of how bullish she’
s being but believing that it’s the best way to help her granddaughter right now. “If I leave you to stew in your own juices you’ll shrivel up and die. You need to move on. Meeting Sebastian will help you do that.”
Cora sighs loudly as they shuffle past the fancy French hotel on the corner. She glances in the restaurant window: 28 tables, 118 chairs, meaning 472 pieces of silverware …
“Speaking of which,” Etta continues, “have you decided what you’re going to do with yourself workwise yet?”
“No,” Cora snaps. “I’m taking a bit of a break, okay? Perhaps I’ll have a holiday, go traveling in Asia or some such thing.”
Etta laughs as she pulls Cora into Lensfield Road. “That actually sounds like a great idea, but you’ll never do it, not in a million years.”
“Why not?” Cora glares at her grandmother. She’s about to say something witty and withering in return but when she glances up at the sky for sudden inspiration she sees the spires of the church and instead holds her breath.
“I was thinking of a summer wedding,” Milly calls out from the kitchen, “the first of August. What do you think?”
“Sure,” Walt says from the sofa, “whatever you want is fine with me.”
The television is on and the opening credits for Howards End play. Milly walks into the living room carrying a china bowl brimming over with popcorn. Little kernels drop to the floor as she crosses the carpet.
“If we’re really lucky we’ll get one of those beautiful, breezy days,” she says, “and a confetti of flower petals. It’ll be lovely.” She sighs happily as she snuggles in next to Walt, balancing the bowl on his lap then taking a handful.
“Oops, I forgot the salt.” Milly stands again and hurries back to the kitchen. “Pause the film for me, will you?”
“Yep.” Walt leans over to the tiny desk upon which the remote controls are balanced, picks up the bigger one and points it at the television. “It’s not working.”
“What?” Milly calls. “I can’t hear you.”
“It’s okay.” He reaches for the smaller remote and notices that the desk drawer is open. Glancing inside, Walt sees it’s stuffed full of letters addressed to Milly, the postmark on the top dated only a few weeks ago. Frowning, Walt reaches in and removes a letter. He slides three pages out of the envelope and begins to read.
The Dress Shop of Dreams Page 23