A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “My boss didn’t tell me we were heading there. Is that after—?”

  “Never mind.” Lucy’s confidence and hope slipped. She stepped away and whirled back. “Please don’t mention it to Mrs. Carmichael. It’s not on the itinerary and I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Dillon’s eyes widened minutely, but he didn’t comment.

  “I plan to tell her. Ask her. I haven’t yet. It isn’t a big deal. Forget I said anything.” Lucy clamped her mouth shut, annoyed by her own stammering, and ducked into the gift shop. Never give unnecessary details. Another of her father’s favorite dictums. Her heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. Those were not the memories she wanted here and now. And he could have changed. Rehabilitation happened. Minimum-security prisons offered plenty of programs—reform was their whole purpose. Now her careless words were about to get her into trouble. The realization only elevated her pulse a degree more.

  Lucy pushed away the frantic thoughts and wandered into the shop, perusing the displays. There was everything from books on royals and china statuettes and mugs to plastic Peter Rabbits and miniature carriages and horses. She touched everything she passed, much as James had done the day they met, and worked to remember the dad of her childhood—the one who told stories, loved make-believe, and held her when she awoke with nightmares. She focused on the dad who was worth seeking and the belief that anyone could change.

  Once calm, she made her way back to the front, clasping a small keychain with The Mews inscribed on one side and a brightly painted horse in full regalia on the other, and a small snow globe of Buckingham Palace. She grabbed a tied bouquet of pencils at the checkout.

  “That’s the worst waste of money I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ever? They’re only eight pounds each.”

  “That’s like thirteen American dollars.”

  “I was trying to forget that ’cause I’d like some souvenirs, and a friend of mine collects snow globes. The key chain is small and can fit in my suitcase. I thought I could pick one up everywhere we go and display them in a glass bowl or on a corkboard. And the pencils are made from bark from the royal woods—a great decorating small with a story.”

  “Small?”

  “Little items that you put out on your coffee table or desktop. It’s an aspect of my work I really like. You can bring a lot of a client’s true personality out in the smalls.” Lucy tapped her phone to reveal the time. “I should head back to wake Helen.”

  “Let’s go.” Dillon stretched his arm, inviting her to step through the shop door ahead of him and back through the gate onto Buckingham Palace Road.

  As they walked, Lucy’s phone rang. She stopped and answered it. “James?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but Grams isn’t answering her phone.” His voice was flat and toneless, making it abundantly clear he took no enjoyment in calling her.

  “She may be asleep. I’m heading back to the hotel to wake her.” Lucy tried to mimic his tone. “Then we’re headed to the National Gallery and Bloomsbury.” Her final words burst out in a squeak.

  A spontaneous chuckle met them. “Was that your idea or hers?”

  “Hers originally, but I didn’t protest. Then I upped the ante by finding a cozy tearoom nearby. It’s right off—” She caught herself. The temptation to feel comfortable was so alluring.

  James didn’t reply for a moment as if he, too, was resetting their distance. “I simply wanted to touch base and make sure she arrived safely. Dad assigned me to the job, as it’s a light week here.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” His words were clipped, precise.

  “But I know what it meant to you. Are you okay?”

  She could envision James on the other end of the line. He rubbed his nose when bothered or concerned, when things didn’t make sense to him or didn’t fall within plan. Right now he was probably rubbing it right off.

  “I have to go. There may not be any partners and one less associate on site, but there’s still work. Tell Grams I love her.”

  “Got it, and—”

  The line died. Lucy slipped her phone back into her coat pocket. She noticed Dillon staring at her. “Helen’s grandson. Calling to check on her.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Lucy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that something else she’s not supposed to know about?”

  Lucy laughed—at herself. “Oh no . . . She knows all about that.”

  Chapter 14

  They stepped up. Again. And again. And every ten steps, they stopped. Helen caught her breath and Lucy drank in London. Below them sat Trafalgar Square, flanked by its great lions with Lord Nelson standing guard atop his tall column in the center. Tourists wandered without form or pattern, taking pictures and letting their kids climb the lions. Residents walked in determined lines across, through, around—their pace faster and full of purpose.

  “I should have asked Dillon to drop us at the back. I believe there are fewer stairs.” Lucy glanced at Helen with concern.

  “Then we wouldn’t have this view.”

  Lucy nodded as they watched the sun light Nelson’s face. Helen turned and trudged a few more steps. Lucy jumped past her and pulled open the huge glass door. “What would you like to see first?”

  “I’ve always loved this museum.” Helen reviewed the map on the sidewall. “Let’s see the Rembrandt exhibition first.”

  They walked through the galleries, absorbed in art, making small comments of no importance. Helen touched Lucy’s arm. “What did you tell James?” At Lucy’s blank expression, she added, “About the books?”

  “Oh . . . Hey . . . I thought you weren’t meddling.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that and I find I’m in an awkward position. While I am not getting involved, I can see you’re both hurt. That concerns me and I’m a grandmother, I can’t help myself.”

  Lucy kept strolling, her eyes fixed on the art. “I didn’t tell him much. He knows about me and all my foibles really, but the books shocked him and I got muddled. There wasn’t a quick answer.”

  “And now?”

  “Still no quick answer and I doubt he’d listen even if I had one. I started doing it on Book Day. Maybe I got wrapped up in the stories. Maybe I am truly my father’s daughter and I couldn’t help myself. But writing names in books was never about the money . . . It just happened, like telling someone she looks beautiful when she doesn’t. The history, those names, yes, they added value, but they also seemed to make people happy. They constituted a story in and of themselves.”

  Helen didn’t reply and Lucy was grateful for that.

  A few minutes later, Helen pointed to a bench in front of Jan van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Wedding Portrait and sat. Lucy joined her.

  Helen kept her eyes on the painting. “That painting has always been one of my favorites.” She leaned forward. “See the one lit candle in the chandelier? That’s a symbol for marriage. And note the way the man supports but does not hold the woman’s hand, as if he’s taking an oath; it makes the moment almost contractual. These two knew what they were about.”

  Helen stood and walked to the painting. Lucy followed. “They’d never reveal the truth of their lives. Few of us ever have that courage. And yet, if you pay attention to the details, you can understand.”

  “Symbols always carry the meaning, don’t they?” Lucy shot Helen a knowing look. “If pressed, I’d have to say Book Day is probably reflective of my life—full of careful care, meticulous attention, and delving into the past far too much. It’s like a wool sweater I washed last year; I’m embarrassed to wear it, ashamed it even exists and how I damaged it, but somehow I can’t throw it away. If I throw it away, what’s left?”

  Lucy ambled to the next painting. Helen followed, her low heels clicking on the wood floor. “And after hearing about dear old Gramps, it feels even more hopeless. I certainly feel as if I’ve earned my place within the family fold.”

  “Nothing’s that bleak,
my dear. You’re simply too young to see it.”

  Lucy didn’t reply.

  Helen said nothing more. Lucy’s reaction to the older woman’s silence shocked her. She wanted Helen to demand answers, throw down an ultimatum, threaten to tell Sid—something, anything, that would rip the wound further, make it hurt. Then, maybe, it could heal.

  As the silence continued, Lucy’s angst faded with the realization that no one could press the answers, force the change, or listen well enough to heal her.

  She was on her own.

  They walked on in silence and soon Helen’s arm bore down on Lucy and her breath became shallow and labored, her throat clogging with each exhale. Lucy directed them toward the front doors.

  Helen stood at the top of the stairs looking down to Trafalgar Square. “I think this is a new normal for me. Maybe one truly does lose the ability to heal. Or maybe that’s what cancer does.”

  “I don’t know, but you need to tell me what’s too hard and what isn’t,” Lucy commented as she searched the square and side streets below for Dillon and the car. She finally found them—parked across the square. “Dillon and the car are too far away. I’ll text him to come closer.”

  “I sound worse than I am. Let’s walk to him.” Helen gently tugged Lucy’s arm. “This isn’t too hard,” she said, and started her descent. “Years ago this square was swarming with pigeons. It was great fun, but also truly disgusting.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “They quit allowing vendors to sell food and soon the birds disappeared. I have a picture of Charlie, when he was about six years old, completely covered in pigeons—at least a hundred of them. He was so scared, he couldn’t scream. I had no idea he’d react that way, and I made it worse by laughing.”

  “That sounds very Hitchcockian of you.”

  “The Birds or the domineering mother in Psycho?”

  Lucy blinked with surprise. “Probably a little of both.”

  They walked slowly through the park. Teenagers danced to rap music before an open box displaying a few seed coins; three kids sat piled atop one of the lions posing for a picture, one so small and round that he kept sliding off; a tourist group followed their leader like baby ducks; and commuters crossed briskly in straight lines, not noting the scenery or the people surrounding them.

  Rather than head toward Dillon, Lucy led Helen to a bench in the opposite direction. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Helen sat and twisted to the side, jumping slightly at the whimsical and grinning Oscar Wilde staring back at her. Only his bronze head, one hand, and what appeared to be a flowing scarf protruded from the bench, as if they’d burst out like lava and flowed in swirls and folds as his genius cooled on top of the granite.

  “Ah . . . I’ve heard of this. I need to have a conversation with him, don’t I?” Helen laughed to Lucy before turning back to Wilde. “I must say, Mr. Wilde, that I felt quite uncomfortable while reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. Such decadence, such duplicity—the depravity of it all. But The Importance of Being Earnest was delightful. You wrote fascinating studies on the human condition, my fine sir.” She turned back to Lucy. “He’s awfully quiet.”

  Lucy walked to the foot of the bench. “There’s a quote here from Lady Windermere’s Fan. It says ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ ”

  “I’d say that’s about right.”

  “Do you think you can sink so low that you can’t see them anymore?”

  “Goodness . . .” Helen patted the bench next to her. “Sit down here. You’re going to make me worry about you. Where’s all this coming from?”

  “I’m thinking the answer is yes. And that makes me worry about me too.”

  “If it makes any difference, I disagree. It wouldn’t allow for any hope or love and I won’t accept that. Give yourself a moment, Lucy, and perhaps a touch of forgiveness.”

  Lucy gave herself a little shake as if slipping out of skin that was bound too tight. “You’re right, and besides, all life’s problems are across an ocean, and for now they need to stay there. You finish chatting with Oscar, then we’ll head on to Bloomsbury. Unless you’re not up for more walking.”

  “I think I am. This conversation has been quite restorative.” Helen patted Oscar’s head and stood. “Shall we?”

  Chapter 15

  Dillon pulled up to a corner off Bloomsbury Square. “Here you are, ladies.” He caught Lucy’s eye. “Text or call when you want to be picked up.”

  “Thank you, Dillon.” Lucy held his gaze a moment longer to convey greater meaning. In returning to the hotel, gathering Helen, chatting about the trip and their plans, Haworth and the possibility of the Lake District, Dillon never once made a gesture, intonation, or suggestion that he knew something secret. Lucy wanted to hug him with gratitude.

  She offered him a broad, deliberate smile and slid from the backseat behind Helen. He pulled away, leaving them on the end of a large square with a broad walking path straight through the center. “This is a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Then let’s begin.” Helen marched forward.

  Lucy pulled out her phone. “It’s a minefield of blue historical plaques and it’ll be impossible to see them all, but I made my own little tour so we could catch the best, in my mind, with the least amount of walking. Unless you’ve already seen all this?”

  “No one in my family reads like I do and it never interested them. This will be new for both of us.”

  “According to the notes I made, this is Bloomsbury Square, but it’s not actually where all the action happened.” Lucy lowered her voice. “Wait till I tell you . . . So much intrigue.”

  She led Helen across the square’s center and headed for the opposite side. People filled the benches, sat on blankets, and strolled along the paths, enjoying the day. Lucy drew a breath in through her nose and caught the fresh scents of mulch, blooms, and cut grass. New beginnings. “This must be one of the first truly warm days of spring. Doesn’t it feel that way? Like everything’s waking up?”

  “Absolutely lovely,” Helen wheezed.

  Lucy slowed the pace and they continued on to Bedford Place. “Everyone lived here, from writers to statesmen, from inventors to royalty. Dickens to the Bloomsbury Group and beyond . . . And there’s our first Blue Plaque.” Lucy surveyed her notes. “That one is for T. S. Eliot. He worked at a publishing house there for a number of years. That’s where his crazy wife poured hot chocolate in the mail slot.”

  “She did?”

  “I don’t remember exactly what happened to her, but she either died or was committed, because he proposed to his second wife in those offices as well.”

  Lucy led on, through Russell Square, and upon reaching Gordon Square, she stopped. “Here it is. The heart of the Bloomsbury Group. You wouldn’t believe who lived along here.”

  “Virginia Stephen and her sister, Vanessa, Clive Bell, Lytton Strachey, John Maynard Keynes . . . Shall I continue?” Helen winked.

  “Of course you’d know.”

  “For many years, these were my favorite writers. They were daring and expressive—and their exploits even more so.” She pointed to the Blue Plaque for John Maynard Keynes. “Number 46. Did you read about this house?”

  “I did. Before he owned it, Virginia Woolf and her sister lived here, when she was still a Stephens. Your ‘Bloomsberries’ had a very good time in this house.”

  Helen nodded. “I once read something that described them as ‘couples who live in squares and have triangular relationships.’ I don’t remember who said it, but it stuck with me.” Helen looked back into the square and turned to a bench on their left. “Do you mind if we sit?”

  “Of course not.” Lucy sat then bounced back up. “Wait here.”

  She raced back a few minutes later with a small brown bag. “I noticed a bookshop back there and thought we needed a little reading material.” She pulled out a thin broad book, Bloomsbury at Home, and scanned the pages. Helen sat
with her eyes closed.

  “Oh . . . Listen to this. ‘We were full of experiments and reforms. We were going to do without table napkins; we were going to paint; to write; to have coffee after dinner instead of tea at nine o’clock. Everything was going to be new; everything was going to be different. Everything was on trial.’ Isn’t that marvelous?” Lucy flipped to the back of the book. “The author, Todd, attributes this to Woolf’s Moments of Being.”

  Lucy kept reading. “You know, some of this seems sad to me too.”

  “How so?”

  “For all the creativity and the fun, there were lots of affairs and they . . . No one seems happy.” Lucy scanned the pages.

  “They were brilliant, but there was an edge to them too. Not sharp and clear, but sharp and pointed somehow. I think each was probably quite alone, but together at the same time.”

  Helen’s quiet comment seeped deep into Lucy. She laid the book in her lap, leaned back, and watched clouds chase each other across the sky. Their movement made light dance through the leaves of trees above.

  “Aloneness can creep up on you. Some is good and creative; I see that in Sid. He needs that time. But too much isn’t a good thing. To have someone know you, really know you, that’s a nice thing, I think.” Lucy kept her gaze trained on the clouds and light.

  “I agree.”

  “Can I ask a personal question?” Lucy shifted on the bench.

  Helen leaned toward her. “Of course. Otherwise you and I won’t have much to say, will we?”

  “Were you alone? Is that why you question if Charles knew you loved him, because you kept something back and, therefore, you felt alone and by default he must have too?”

  Helen held Lucy in a long, steady look. “That’s exactly how it was.”

  Lucy slid the book inside her bag. “I can understand that.”

  “You seem a little young.”

  “I doubt age has much to do with it. I mean, can’t one feel that way around parents or siblings or even out to dinner with good friends?”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Helen faced the garden again. “Who would you say knows you?”