by Jen Printy
I park in the small paved lot and grab our bags. A crushed-granite pathway cuts through the garden and leads to a black lacquered door. Inside, the nostalgia ends. Walls have been deconstructed. Small rooms have been expanded into a large foyer to accommodate a long, dark wooden counter and a sitting area clustered with overstuffed armchairs. Although the changes sadden me, I know I shouldn’t have expected my old, modest home to make it through the years unaffected.
We check in and deposit our bags in our room before heading out to explore on foot. An embellished stone wall guides us to a small country church, where I slow my stride and stop by the rough timber gate.
“This is where my father was a vicar. Would you like to go in?” I ask.
She nods.
The gravel path crunches under my feet. I lead the way toward the propped-open door. The gravestones around us catch Leah’s attention. I step into the church’s small foyer and realize Leah isn’t behind me. The excitement drains from my system, leaving a dull nervousness in its wake. I know where she is.
I step out into the sun to find Leah making her way to the far left corner of the graveyard. I snake through the maze of headstones, reading the names of acquaintances, friends, and family. My fingers skim along the graves’ weathered curves.
In front of an arched slab of marble with an intricate engraving of a weeping willow tree with its long branches hanging over an urn, Leah stops and stares at the name carved into the white stone—Lydia Ann Ashford.
As my arms envelop her, her head falls against my chest. “It feels weird being here. It’s not that I didn’t know this was all real, but standing here, looking at this grave of a woman whose life I have memories of is… surreal,” she says.
“I can understand that. It’s a normal reaction.” My voice is more wary than I wish.
“How much are Lydia and I alike?”
At first, I’m quiet, weighing what I should say. I know she wants the truth. “She had your kind nature. When she cared about something or someone, she did it with all her heart, just like you. She saw the good in people.” I run my fingers through her hair, and she tenses. Her expression is unreadable. “What are you thinking?”
She shakes her head. “It’s stupid. Foolish insecurities, that’s all.” Her shoulders slump, and a short sigh puffs through her lips.
“There are similarities, but there are differences, as well,” I say, glancing over to gauge her reaction. Her eyes brighten, and the tautness leaves her shoulders. I’m fairly certain I’m on the right track, so I continue. “Leah, you’re not Lydia’s clone.”
She shoots me a pensive gaze. “So when you look at me, you don’t see Lydia Ashford of Wind Rush House?”
“No, I see Leah Winters of Portland, Maine, strong with her own set of beliefs,” I say with a smile.
Her expression lightens, filling her with an inner glow. “Honestly, I thought I’d already dealt with these insecurities when I found out Lydia and I shared two things—a love for you and one soul. But sometimes, the doubts creep in, latches on, and whispers, telling me you only care for me because I’m Lydia’s carbon copy.”
I look down at her, hugging her tightly. “Haven’t you realized everything I love is right here? Lydia’s and my story wasn’t flawless. We had our problems, like everyone. We were both stubborn with fiery tempers. She’d fly off the handle without thought. It’s probably what sent her into the field that fateful night. The fact is, you’re much better suited for me than Lydia ever was. If those insecurities bubble to the surface again, please tell me, so I can chase them away.”
“Deal.” She pauses, arching her neck to look up at me. “So you’re not blaming yourself anymore.”
“I’m working on it.”
We stand at the foot of Lydia’s grave for a long while, listening to the birds sing. Her body presses against mine. My chin rests on the top of her head.
“Are you ready?”
She nods, but she abruptly stops. “No, wait. Is your family buried here?”
“Some of them.” A somber tone clings to my words.
“Will you show me?”
I lead Leah to the other side of the graveyard. Three neglected headstones, much plainer than the other elaborately carved stones around them, stand in a line. Lichen grows in clusters across their faces, making their inscriptions barely visible. She kneels on the damp grass and scrapes at the crusty plant with her fingernails so the names are recognizable again.
“John F. Hammond,” she reads. “Your father.”
I nod.
“Fredrick Thomas Hammond. So young. Your brother?”
I nod again.
“And Helen Maria Hammond. She must be your mother.”
I step past Leah and rub my hand on the top of the headstone. “Hello, Mum. You were right,” I whisper.
My mother had such faith that I would find love again. The night before I left for London—a month to the day after Lydia’s death—she came to my room, wishing me happiness and love. I’ll never forget how her lips quivered when she smiled. The dark circles under her eyes told the whole story—she’d been silently suffering right along with me.
I turn to Leah. “She always knew I’d find you.”
“Did she?”
“My mother believed I’d find love again. She wanted me to be happy. What every mother wants for their child, I suppose.”
Silence surrounds me, and I say my private good-bye to my mother. I didn’t have the privilege at the time of her death.
Finally, I turn to Leah. “Ready for the rest of your tour?”
Leah nods with a careful smile and then takes my hand, giving my fingers a little squeeze. Hand-in-hand, we travel down the main street, past the close-knit bundle of cottages built into the steep slope of the land. I point out the long black-and-white building—an anomaly among the golden color of the Cotswold stone.
“That used to be the blacksmith shop, and the small three-gabled home over there was once the schoolhouse where Mrs. Piler taught the three R’s for over forty years. My parents had her, and so did I.” Many things appear the same, but the paved roads, the cars, and the electric cables stretched from house to house all confirm that my little hometown has changed completely.
By the end of the afternoon, we relax on the green—a small park near the center of town. Leah retrieves her sketchbook from her knapsack. Stretched across the grass, leaning on my elbow, I watch her pencil skim across the page with fluid movements, capturing the details around us: the huddled cottages, the tall chimney, the steep gables lining the roofs, and the tiny attic windows peering out from the gold limestone bricks.
“She could never do that, you know,” I say.
“Who couldn’t do what?”
“Lydia could never draw, not even a stick figure. It wasn’t from a lack of want or trying. She just never had the gift.” Pleased with myself, I roll onto my back, fold my arms under my head, and watch the clouds racing into the western sky.
Too soon, the blue sky slips into a golden hue, and we return to the inn. We round the end of the rugged stone wall. A petite woman steps out from the far corner. I freeze. The gentle breeze catches the woman’s short black hair.
“It can’t be,” I say under my breath. My mind twists and turns in so many directions all at once. Has Artagan betrayed me? No, I don’t believe that. I shove Leah against the wall, out of the woman’s sight.
“Jack!” Leah looks at me with wide eyes.
I press my body against Leah. “Shhh. Vita,” I whisper in her ear.
Her chest heaves against mine.
“Stay here.”
“Jack, no.” Leah grabs my arm.
I gently pull out of her grip. “I need you to stay here. Please just do as I ask,” I say and step out of the shadows into the revealing gleam of the streetlight, removing the hemlock concoction from my pocket.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I move forward, each step deliberate and slow, while an icy grip encloses my spine. So close. I
have strength and the element of surprise in my favor. After I restrain her, she’ll have her last meal. I’m betting it won’t take much because of her tiny frame. A cold smile pushes at my lips. Images of Vita’s corpse float through my mind.
A handful of steps away, the woman looks in my direction. I stop short. Her dark eyes trace over the surrounding grounds, then she fumbles through her purse and pulls out a pair of glasses and a map. Not Vita.
A long, deep, audible breath passes my lips. Feeling disappointment intermingled with relief, I turn to find Leah standing behind me.
“I thought we agreed you were going to stay out of sight,” I say, slipping the bag back into my pocket.
She raises one eyebrow. “No. You agreed. And what was that?” She points to my pocket.
“A safety measure. Do you think I’d come here with no backup plan?” My face flushes. “It’s not her, but what if it had been?” I snap, sweeping my hand in the woman’s direction.
Leah folds her arms over her chest. “You have to stop risking yourself for me.”
Eyes closed, I continue. “I will do anything to keep you safe. One long life with you is all I’m asking. Fate owes me that much.”
When I open my eyes, Leah is staring at me, her head tilted to the side, her lips pursed. With a heavy sigh, my anger drains. “We should leave. Now.”
“Why? Nothing happened. It was just a woman you thought was this Vita character, but it wasn’t.” Her voice is steady and quiet.
“It could have been. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.” An image from one of my nightmares revisits me. In my mind’s eye, Vita and Leah face off in a disastrous, lopsided showdown. My heart rate accelerates.
“But Artagan said Vita is in Australia. You said you believed him.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I did. I do.”
“Then what’s the problem? We’re as safe here as in York.”
“I’m not sure York is our best bet, either. Maybe somewhere neither of us has been. Have you ever been to Dublin? Or Buenos Aires?” I scramble for words. “Cities are much easier to get lost in or escape from.”
Leah cups my face in her hands. “Shhh. Calm down, Jack. You’re overreacting. You blame yourself for everything. Lydia’s death wasn’t your fault. Whatever the future holds for me is not your responsibility. I know it sounds cliché, but whatever will be will be. I really believe that. And when I die, Jack—that’s a when, not an if—it won’t be your fault. You can’t protect me from life.” She takes a breath. Her expression begins to soften.
“Let’s get you safe. Then we can talk.”
“For right now, we’re safe here. Remember, Artagan said Vita is far away from here.” She speaks slowly. “Later on, if we need to, I’ll go anywhere you want.”
I nod, still trying to find air.
“Okay. Now let’s go get some dinner. I’m starving.”
I curl my arm around her waist and nuzzle my nose into her hair. “Thank you,” I whisper. I kiss her cheek before we walk inside.
At our small table in the corner of the cramped dining room, we wait for our server. Whiffs of roasting meats, herbs, and baking bread float from the kitchen, and I have no doubt about why the inn’s dining room is filled to capacity. A bearded waiter with a stout build and copper hair walks toward us. His rosy, freckled face is frozen in a perpetual smile. His pristine jet-black apron is tied around his bulging midsection.
“Hello, I’d like to welcome you to the Three Elms Inn. My name’s Ian. I’ll be your server for the evening. If you don’t mind, I love to start by telling our guests a little about the house’s history.”
I flinch.
“Yes, please.” Leah smiles up at him.
I grimace at her from under a furrowed brow.
“This old home was built in the sixteenth century and was the parsonage for many years, until it was turned into an inn in the early nineteen-thirties.” The waiter continues to meander through the building’s history, but as I expected, Leah seems to be stuck on the opening sentence. She stares at me and mouths, Your house.
Tongue in cheek, I nod.
After Ian leaves with our order, Leah leans in. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve stayed somewhere else.”
“There is nowhere else. The Three Elms Inn is the only accommodation in the area. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to worry about me… like you are right now.”
“Are you okay? I never thought about what coming to this place would be like for you,” she says, her eyes boring into mine.
“I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.”
“You’re always worrying about me,” she grumbles under her breath.
“That’s my job.” I pause and grin, hoping this next bit of information will redirect the conversation. “By the way, you’re sleeping in my old room.”
It works, but not the way I hoped. My comment is followed by a long silence.
She turns to face me. “The other night at Grady’s, I realized you’ve never told me what happened after Lydia. What your life was like after her.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why?”
“Honestly, I’ve done many things I’m not proud of.”
“Everyone has, Jack. Every human being on this planet wishes they could get a redo on something they’ve done.”
“What regrets do you have? You don’t smoke. You don’t drink. It’s a crime to stay out past ten on a school night. If there’s a rule, you follow it.”
“I stole once,” she blurts out.
“Let me guess. A candy bar from a convenience store when you were ten.”
A red bloom overtakes her cheeks, and she looks away.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I caress the blush with the back of my fingers.
“Shut up.” She smirks. “And I was twelve.”
Off by two whole years! I purse my lips, but my laugh breaks free.
“It’s not funny. My best friend dared me. I couldn’t say no, but I felt guilty about it for days. Never did eat it.”
“This is what I’m saying. There’s no way you could ever excuse the things I’ve done.”
She crosses her arms. “Try me.”
“Understand, back then, my behavior was often self-destructive. I was a mess, all alone in my self-made darkness. I cared very little for anything, and it showed.”
She waits.
I look down and inhale long and deep. “It started one afternoon not long after I left Lidcombe. I filled my pockets with stones and jumped off Blackfriars Bridge into the Thames. In London, I knew my body would never be recognized. You see, if I was buried as an unknown transient, my family wouldn’t be tarnished by my suicide.”
She purses her lips and glances away.
“Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“You see, I knew I was durable, but before then, I didn’t know I couldn’t die like anyone else. After several attempts, I tried new vices—drowning my misery in whiskey, opiates, and even a fight house. They didn’t work, either, not for the long term, so I attempted to content myself with my predicament. Numbness became my best friend. I’ve bummed all over the world from one odd job to the next. Sailor, dockhand, auto mechanic—I’ve done just about everything, never settling in one place for too long in case someone realized I’m not getting any older.
“I showed up in Portland because of a flick of a dart, and then you stumbled into my life, washing over me like a tidal wave. At some points, it felt like you were going to haul me into the murky, grim depths, but you didn’t.” I reach for her hand and stroke it. “You saved me, you know?”
Leah’s grown quiet, and I look at her from under my hooded brow. She’s biting her lower lip, while a small smile dances along her lips. This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected.
“You find this funny?”
“No, of course not. But I believe it was you who stumbled into me.”
“True, very true.” I laugh softly
at the memory.
“Well, none of that’s going to happen next time.”
The stifling tension returns, clinging to the air around us. All the practice I’ve had hiding my true feelings pays off, and I manage to keep my tone light. “That’s nothing we have to concern ourselves with tonight.”
She ignores my dismissal. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but this needs to be said. The next time we find each other, I don’t want to find out you dove off the Empire State Building or any of that stupidity. We need a meeting place. Like the elms—”
If I believed she’d be there someday, I’d live under those damned elms. Feeling my temper rise, I grit my teeth. Emotionally drained and irritated by her optimism, I’m in no shape to rehash our old argument again tonight.
Studying her table setting, she continues, “I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe even though I do.”
Leah pauses. I’m aware she’s editing, holding something back. “New topic. I was thinking where we might go next. If we can’t go back to Portland or stay in York, we might as well enjoy the ride. Besides England, I’ve always wanted to see France. With the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Arch of Triumph, Paris alone is an artist’s dream. I could sketch along the Seine in the very spot Monet was inspired.” Her eyes shine with forced excitement. “What places are on your bucket list? Not many, I’m guessing.”
“Rio de Janeiro, for one. The warmth would be nice for a change.” I smile, but my voice is still chilly from the previous subject. “And actually, I’ve never been to Paris.” I slip my hand into hers.
The end of the conversation leaves us to our own thoughts. I wish I could believe as she does. I wish I had that much confidence. Faith brings strength. The French boy’s adage rings true. Leah is the strongest woman I’ve ever had the privilege to know.
When the waiter returns with our meals, he asks, “So are you enjoying our little town?”
“Yes, it’s such a beautiful spot,” Leah says.
“Did you get a tour of Wind Rush House?” the waiter asks.
“Yes.” Leah says, enthusiasm leaking into her voice.
“It’s a grand old house, isn’t it, miss? I’d dare say it boasts the most beautiful gardens in the county. There’s a tragic love story that connects that manor with this humble home. They say Lydia Ashford still roams the manor’s halls, looking for her Jack.” The man recites the story of Lydia Ashford and her one true love perfectly, until… “Late one night, a week before their wedding, Lydia heard the rumor that her beloved Jack was unfaithful.”