“I was just thinking about that and I’m not sure. My mom, I guess, but even there, we think so differently that I’m not sure she can. Sid, to a degree—a great degree. I have a few friends who do, one in particular. I’ve known her since we were eight—that’s when my dad left and Mom and I stopped moving. And James . . . I’d hoped and, I think, I let him in.” Lucy twisted toward Helen. “And you stepped into that one all on your own.”
Helen laughed. “It was completely my fault and we will leave him here.” She patted the bench beside her then stood. “Are you ready to press on?”
They crossed to Tavistock Square and headed toward Virginia Woolf’s statue in the far corner.
“Look.” Lucy pointed to a huge stone and redbrick building at the north end of the garden. “Tavistock House. Dickens lived there. He wrote . . .” She tapped open her phone. “Bleak House, Hard Times, Little Dorrit, and A Tale of Two Cities all while living there.
“I blame my dad for my love of Dickens,” Lucy continued. “Dickens was his favorite. We only read A Christmas Carol together, but he always said”—Lucy dropped her voice low—“ ‘Dickens loved people best. He always gave the little man a way out.’ When I read a bunch of Dickens in college, I finally got what he meant.” She squeezed Helen’s arm for emphasis. “Did you know Dickens never killed his bad guys? Well, he killed off one. The others were cowards, bullies, minor villains, and general degenerates, but they were worth something and they lived. If they didn’t change on the page and find redemption, they lived with that promise still out there.”
“I never made that connection.”
“Hmm . . . Dad did. I suspect it’s because he found comfort in it.” Lucy peered down at Helen. “That’s why I still contend the Lake District is a worthy stop for you. All those stories define us, and judging from your figurines, Beatrix Potter defined you.”
“True . . .” Helen strolled on.
“I—” Lucy stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to try again. She didn’t want to. “Helen?” Lucy caught up in a step. “What did your PI tell you about my family? The one you hired to find the Parrish family.”
“Nothing. He found the Parrishes from the name on the front and all the initials scrolled inside.” Helen must have caught Lucy’s doubt. “Why?”
“I thought that, because of Ollie, you might have learned something, and I’d like to know something that’s true. Proven true. Because I believe you. I believe you, but everything you tell me contradicts all my childhood stories. My dad told me my grandfather was a watchmaker, a craftsman, an artisan.”
“Why can’t that still be true?”
“Because he lied for a living.” Lucy started walking again. “Didn’t James tell you?” At Helen’s confused head shake, she continued. “My dad was a con man. Hence the double emotional whammy of learning your version of my grandfather.”
Helen stopped walking.
“My dad even spent some time in jail. I don’t know what for, but I like to think it’s because fact and fiction got mixed up with him and he got beyond his ability to straighten things out. My mom says that’s an excuse. And it is, but . . .”
“But he’s your father and that’s what we do.”
Lucy bit her lip. “I’m surprised James didn’t tell you.”
“Why would he? That was your father, not you. He said something about learning stories from your father and you’ve said something like that before, but I didn’t quite understand.”
“I learned a lot from my father.” Lucy tried to remember that first moment. When had that first drop of ink fallen on a page? And why had she done it? She couldn’t find it and wasn’t sure what difference it might make now.
When Lucy returned her focus to the world, she found herself staring straight at the bust of Virginia Woolf. “She doesn’t look very happy, does she?”
“I think we know she wasn’t,” Helen agreed.
“Enough.” Lucy huffed. “I’m ready for food.” She immediately regretted her hasty words and rude tone. “There’s the sign for Tavistock Place. Bloomsbury Coffee House is right down the block. Would you like to get tea?”
“I might need coffee instead.”
“Me too, really.”
As they passed down the short residential block with a few unassuming storefronts and brightly painted doors, Lucy was determined to be light, bright, and stick to her role as consultant. Anything else wasn’t her job and it wasn’t helpful. And, she couldn’t deny, all this thinking made her head hurt.
Helen stopped at a Blue Plaque above a red door. “Vladimir Lenin? Here?”
“Hang on a sec.” Lucy pulled out her phone. “He lived here while reading at the British Museum in 1908, and the plaque went up, ‘amongst great controversy,’ in 2012.”
“The red door is quite fitting, don’t you think?” Helen quipped.
As Lucy pushed open the door of the Bloomsbury Coffee House, a rich warmth enveloped them. Smells of earthy coffee overlay sugar, yeast, and the sharp tang of sourdough. She ordered a slice of carrot cake with a rich cream cheese frosting and watched as Helen coated her toasted sourdough with bright homemade jam.
Lucy wiggled on the uncushioned chair, settling in, and regarded the small basement café. “It’s charming, but not what I expected. It seems more like a hangout coffee shop down in Hyde Park—Chicago’s, not London’s.”
“We’re basically on a college campus here too, so that makes sense. I like it. I feel young.” Helen took a bite. “And this is marvelous jam.”
Lucy looked from her cake and found Helen staring. “Do I have cream cheese on my nose?” She touched it with her napkin then ran the napkin around her entire face.
“No. I think I’ve upset you and I’m sorry for that. I knew, at some level, this would be hard and maybe it was selfish of me to tell you and invite you on this trip, but you’re a part of this somehow. You, not just your grandfather. After all, your green eyes brought us here.” Helen smiled. “But I didn’t anticipate it would cause you such pain.”
Lucy played with the crumbs on her plate. Minutes passed. “Do you believe that generations can be bad? Emily Brontë did . . . And actually, if you look at all the Brontë stories, they each did to some degree.”
Helen pressed her lips together.
Lucy slouched low and bonked her forehead on the table. “I sound ridiculous, but you’re right, it does hurt—not hearing about my grandfather, but making all the connections down the generations to me. And I criticize my dad for living in stories and now I compare my life and family tree to Wuthering Heights. But that’s what’s upsetting. Where do they end and I begin? My family, not the stories.”
“You are your own person and I wouldn’t worry about the stories. We all compare our lives to them. That’s why we love them; they help us understand ourselves.”
“There is a line though.” Lucy pulled herself up in the chair.
Helen reached to lift a long bang off Lucy’s forehead and tuck it behind her ear. “Lucy, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“Of course.”
“Before I die”—Helen held up her hand to Lucy’s startled expression—“I want someone to know me, the real me. That’s what this is all truly about. I want to be brave and meet that girl I knew long ago, before life and fear stifled her. May I start with you?” Helen rested her hands on the table. “I’ve shared this watch with you, we’re on this trip, and there is so much in me that feels different and, while it scares me, I can’t stop now. I need to see it through, find out who I am before . . . before I can’t anymore. Would that be okay with you?”
“Yes,” Lucy whispered. She had no other words.
“And if you’d like to do the same, I’d be honored by such trust.”
That soft feeling crept over Lucy again. This time it wasn’t friendship or interview; it felt like friendship or therapy. She sighed as she realized that sometimes they were perhaps the same. “I might like that.”
Helen nodded her head slowly as i
f a secret pact had been formed. She then pushed back her chair to stand. “Let’s finish our day. I’m fading and would like to add a few more plaques to our burgeoning Blue Plaque collection.”
After another hour of ambling and chatting, they reached the northeast corner of Russell Square. Lucy had texted Dillon and he stood there waiting beside the car.
“Where to, ladies?”
“Back to the hotel. I think we’ve done the day proud.” Helen rested her handbag in her lap. “Dillon, what time do you end with us each evening?”
“I don’t. I’m at your command twenty-four-seven. Shall I take you on to dinner?”
“Not me, but would you mind taking Lucy? I’d rather not have her out alone, especially her first night in London.”
Lucy chimed in, “I’m perfectly capable. Besides, I’m not leaving you. We can eat in the hotel or, if you’re too tired, I’ll eat there alone.”
“Nonsense. You have only three days in London and I want you to experience all you can. I need my beauty sleep.” She called back to the front in her own mix of cheer and command. “Dillon, I expect you to take her someplace nice, young man, very nice.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can do that.”
When they pulled into the courtyard, Dillon helped Helen from the car. She reached both hands out to him and whispered into his ear before continuing into the hotel.
He turned to Lucy. “That is the first time a woman has ever slipped me money.”
“That’s so wrong.”
“It is, a little. She just handed me . . .” He slid the bills apart with his fingers. “Plenty, and I know where to spend it. Can you be ready in an hour? We don’t have reservations, but we might snag a table early.”
“You don’t need to do this.”
“I’d like to if you aren’t too tired yourself.”
“Oddly, I’m not.”
“Good. One hour.” Dillon ducked back into the car and drove away.
Chapter 16
Lucy headed into her room ready to let go of all the currents swirling around her, pull on her vintage fitted floral dress of blue and black splayed upon a bright-white background, and have an evening of fun. She loved that dress—one couldn’t be sad while wearing such a happy dress.
She paired it with a thin black cashmere scarf, accented it all with deep red lipstick, and twirled in front of the bathroom’s full mirror. She played with her hair and decided to leave it hanging in loose curls down her back—James always liked that. That reminder sent her searching for a hair band to pull it back into her ubiquitous low ponytail.
Too many opinions crowding this bathroom. With a half-laugh and a huff, Lucy grabbed the brass key off her bedside table and hurried down the steps.
Dillon stood waiting in the lobby. He whistled and she took a curtsy, pleased with the compliment.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Traffic was light and I live too far away to change. You’ll have to deal with me in my livery here.”
Lucy looked him up and down. He’d removed his black tie and now stood before her as any casual city guy might, dressed in black pants, a matching black sports coat, and a white shirt, slightly rumpled and open at the collar. “You look great.”
“Then let’s be off.” He held out his arm in an exaggerated fashion and led her out the door.
“Where’s the car?”
“I dropped it back at the garage. We don’t need it and I’d rather get it back early. The guys wash them down each night. This way, they can get outta there early. Most of the cars needed for the morning were already back.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
Dillon brushed off the compliment and waved down at her shoes. “I thought a walk would be good; it’s a nice night. But you’ve been walking all day and you’ve got heels . . .”
“These are actually very comfortable. Let’s not give in yet.” Lucy led the way from the courtyard and stopped on St. James Street. “Which way?”
Dillon pointed to the left. “Up to Piccadilly. We’re going to an amazing Indian restaurant up Regent Street. Veeraswamy. I’ve never been, but clients rave about it. I think Mrs. Carmichael would approve.”
“It sounds like an adventure. I believe she would.”
They walked and talked the half-mile.
Finally Dillon reached for her hand and pulled her up a last flight of stairs to the restaurant’s second-floor home. “You’ve slowed down. I forgot about your jet lag. You shoulda stopped me. It’s what? About noon your time?”
“But I’ve been awake since yesterday.” She glanced down at her phone. “I think I’m going on thirty-five hours now.”
“Give me a couple more, then we’ll get you tucked into bed.”
“Sounds good.”
Dillon returned to the lobby a few moments later downcast. “No tables. It’s my own fault; I should’ve at least called.”
“Hang on. There are always tables.”
Lucy walked slowly to the hostess stand and rested both hands on its high edge. “Is there any way you could squeeze us in? It’s really important—not your problem, all mine, but if you could?”
The woman, tall and intimidatingly sleek, flashed a straight and humorless smile. “We are booked this evening. I have seating available for ten o’clock tonight for two or tomorrow evening at five.”
Lucy leaned forward. “I’ll be gone . . . But I posted on my blog that I was dining and reviewing here tonight. Again not your problem, but it’s a popular site in the States, a series on summer travel and culinary highlights. This is my own fault; I’ll think of another spot.” She snapped her fingers at Dillon. “What was that other restaurant the Dukes Hotel concierge mentioned . . . You know . . .?”
Dillon stared blankly at her.
The woman huffed. “Wait a moment.”
As she walked away, Dillon touched Lucy’s arm and whispered, “She knows you’re playing her.”
“Yes, but she’s our age, and we know the power of social media. She’s not sure what part’s a lie and what’s the truth, and she’s not willing to risk making the wrong call.”
An elderly man came to the stand and studied the computer screen. “I gather we are trying to find a table.”
Lucy stepped around the stand and touched his arm. “We won’t linger. You must have something this early. Something for a romantic dinner? For two?” Her voice softened.
He blinked, peeked at Dillon, then shifted his gaze back to the computer. “I think we can arrange something. Follow me.”
He seated them at a corner window table overlooking Regent Street, darkening in the late evening light. It felt warm and opulent, toned in oranges and golds.
As soon as he walked away, Dillon laughed. “How on earth did you manage that?”
“Not hard, really. Clumsy, yes, but that’s part of it too. She questioned the blog but didn’t believe it, and he wouldn’t have cared. I figured he’d be more swayed by batting my lashes. In the end, you tell them what they want to hear and you often get what you want because that’s the most expeditious way to get rid of you.”
Dillon raised his brow.
Why do I look at you and feel this compulsion to get all honest? Lucy’s victory dissolved as she remembered her words to James as if spoken aloud. She opened the menu and concentrated on it, too embarrassed to look at Dillon or around the room. She felt a tap on her hand.
“I asked if you like it?”
Lucy took in the room. “I do. It’s beautiful.”
Dillon grinned and returned his attention to his menu.
Lucy surveyed the restaurant. The hostess was already occupied elsewhere and the older man had disappeared. She continued to look around. Sumptuous.
Dillon sat absorbed by the menu. “What shall we eat?”
Lucy leaned back in her chair. “I like that question. My boyfriend used to say that. Never what he or I should eat, but what we should, so we could share.”
Dillon laid down the menu. “That’d
be Mrs. Carmichael’s grandson, I expect.”
“You did not get that from one conversation.”
“If your expressions and posture hadn’t made it clear, listening would have. There’s a tone . . . Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I do.”
“There you have it. Mrs. Carmichael’s grandson. So?”
“We broke up a couple weeks ago.”
“How does it work that his grandmother is taking you on a trip?”
“It’s a little complicated.” Lucy considered the many layers of complexity. “To summarize, I work in an interior arts gallery and, technically, I’m working as a consultant on a few purchases she wants to make.” She lifted the menu. “So what shall we eat?”
She didn’t know if Dillon was satisfied with the answer or not, but he didn’t question and simply picked up his menu again. After a few minutes, he looked up. “A couple clients touted the Raj Kachori, and curries are my favorite. After that, I haven’t a clue. You?”
“I’ve eaten very little Indian food.”
With the server’s help, they finally settled on Raj Kachori, neither fully understanding its description, the Kerala Prawn Curry, and a lentil dish neither dared to pronounce.
“Did he say ‘filled with goodies’?” Lucy giggled.
“Maybe that’s like an Indian version of haggis. I suggest you don’t look too closely,” Dillon mock-whispered.
“Oh no . . . My stomach is not up for your sense of humor.”
“It’ll be fine. I promise.”
The food arrived with a variety of small ceramic dishes, each filled with nuts, chutneys, spices, cut-and-dried fruits, or other accouterments. The table soon overflowed with tiny bowls of exquisite colors and varied aromas and textures.
“Goodies.” Lucy laughed as she picked over them and took her first bite of the Raj Kachori. “I think it’s lobster and fish inside and the chutney’s amazing.”
Dillon scooped a spoonful and moaned. “This is killing my favorite pub.”
“An Indian pub?”
“English, but it’s got an Indian restaurant out of the back. I’m there like four days a week and now I’m gonna be disappointed.” He scooped out lentils from another dish as he flicked his hand to her. “Hand me your plate and try this.” He glanced at the next table and whispered, “Swipe your naan in it. That’s what they’re doing.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 65