by Jen Carter
“Why are you here?”
The man’s hollow, scratchy voice made her wince. He stared at her through dark eyes surrounded by leathery skin. His thin lips pursed into a short frown. His wrinkly fingers tapped a pen on the edge of the desk.
“I’m here because I was coming out this way, and I thought I would save you the trouble of—”
“And is that why you needed a moment to talk to me? To tell me you brought me something I care nothing about?”
Downstairs, Will finished unloading the books into the hallway. He sat down in a black leather chair to wait for Amy. He looked around, wondering why everything looked so bare.
Amy winced again at Mr. Strath’s voice. “Well sir, I wanted to tell you that the books were here—”
“And what else? My housekeeper could have dealt with that. Can’t you tell I’m too old—and too busy—to have conversations with someone like you?”
Amy fell silent, afraid to ask anything of Billy yet also afraid to leave without trying. Softly, more meekly than she would have liked, she said, “I was hoping that you could tell me a little about my grandmother.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who is your mother?”
“My mother? Deborah Winthrow.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Amy’s heart dropped. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “Why not?”
“You don’t have any right to know.”
Amy pushed a couple of curls behind her ear and leaned forward in her chair, politely, earnestly. “Lizzie was my grandmother. Doesn’t that give me a right to know?”
“No.”
The answer stunned her. She leaned back. Her eyes wandered over the walls, waiting for the sting to subside. “Okay,” she said.
“Miss Winthrow, you might as well stop wasting my time with these questions. Please show yourself out.”
Amy rose from her chair. She left the room without a word and remained silent all the way down the stairs and out of the house. Will stood when he saw her coming and watched her walk past him. He followed her outside, trotting to catch up, and unlocked the truck’s passenger door for her. He jumped into the driver’s seat and drove away from the house, waiting for her to say something.
As they cruised down the winding road, Will fought the urge to ask what happened. It couldn’t have been good, he figured, or he would have heard about it already.
She didn’t speak until they were back on the freeway.
“That man!” she began, lowering the window to cool her burning skin. “He wouldn’t tell me anything. He wouldn’t even tell me why he wouldn’t tell me anything. All he said was that it was none of my business. And he was so mean about it. Why does everybody think this is none of my business?” She rubbed an eye. “I’m telling you, as soon as I get home I’m going over to Nana’s house. Again. And I’m going to tell her that she can’t do this to me. That she has to tell me something. Because she has to. She does, doesn’t she? I mean, she can’t just leave me in the dark like this. It’s already gotten too deep into my head. She has to tell me something.”
Will looked into the rearview mirror and merged into the fast lane. He glanced at Amy and nodded. “Right.”
She shook her head, looking out the window. “I can’t believe this.”
Will glanced at her. “Hey, we’ll figure something out. This is only a minor setback. It’s not over.”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry he was so mean. There was no need for that.”
“I should have expected it,” Amy said. “We already knew he wasn’t a nice person. I just—I don’t know—I just was hoping it would have gone differently. Maybe you should have gone in there with me.”
“That probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Let’s just think about what our next step should be.”
Amy nodded, still looking out the window.
***
Back in the library at the Strath residence, Billy opened his top desk drawer and drew out a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read it slowly, as though he hadn’t already read it one hundred times before.
Dearest Billy,
In so many ways my life began when I met you. And in so many other ways, my life ended. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you. I do, however, know this: I love you. Cancer has eaten away at me, and I couldn’t let it finish me off without telling you. My daughters have refused to acknowledge me, and it has been decided that my granddaughters should never know who I was. But my life has not been a waste because I have loved you.
Ever yours,
Lizzie
He swung around in his chair and looked out the windows behind his desk. The sight of water calmed him. It has been decided that my granddaughters should never know who I was. The words rolled through his mind again.
“Oh, Liz,” he muttered to the water beyond the windows. “She’s got your determination. She knows something whether or not she’s supposed to.”
He turned back around in his chair and returned the note to his desk drawer, wondering whose wishes he was heeding when he refused to tell Amy about her grandmother.
TWENTY-FOUR
“S
o what are you going to do now?” Will asked. “Are you going to Eva’s?”
He and Amy were back in Los Gatos. He didn’t plan on staying long at her house—he went in only to grab a bottle of water before heading home.
Amy shook her head, reaching for the refrigerator door. “No. I’ll probably just go into work.”
“Why? You have the day off. You might as well take advantage of it. Go shopping or surprise your boyfriend for lunch or something. Do something fun.”
Amy placed a bottle of water on the kitchen counter. “Lunch with Miles would be a good idea. I haven’t done that in a long time.”
Will nodded, reaching for the water. He twisted off the cap and gulped half the bottle. As he set it back on the counter, he said, “Hey, I was thinking—you know that note I put in your Renaissance poetry book? Can I see it? I was trying to remember something that Kim wrote in it.”
“Sure.” She stood up and moved toward the family room. “I think I left it in here last night.” Will followed her. “It should be on that end table,” she said, pointing to the table at the far end of the couch, “but I don’t see it.” She placed her hands on her hips and walked around the coffee table. “Where is it?”
“Could it have fallen behind the couch?” Will asked.
“Maybe,” Amy muttered. She was on her hands and knees looking beneath the coffee table. “It’s not here. Is it on the floor over by you?”
He tilted his head to look underneath the end table closest to him. “No, I don’t see it.”
She sat up on her heels and pushed her hair behind both ears. “Where’d it go?”
“Did you pack it up with the rest of the books yesterday?”
She shook her head at the wall and then walked on her knees to the fireplace opposite the couch. She looked behind the plant sitting on the hearth and then behind the nearby television set. “I don’t know where it went.”
“I bet you sent it to Monterey with the other books.”
Amy scanned the room again, her face getting loose and long. “I couldn’t have. I’m sure I brought it in here with me last night.” Her shoulders dropped. “I couldn’t have possibly given up that book twice.”
Will walked around the room, looking in all the corners, behind all the furniture. “Well, it’s not here anymore.”
“I’m sorry. Now I can’t give you that note.”
Will sat down on the couch. “That’s okay. Not a big deal. At least no one else will see it—except Billy, of course.” He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t. “Amy?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes were still focused on the couch.
He waited, watching her, wondering if silence would bring her eyes upward. When it didn’t, he said, “You want me to go back and get that book for you?”
&nbs
p; “No. That’s all right.”
“I could go get it for you tomorrow. This afternoon, even.”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
Her eyes finally rose to his, and she managed a weak smile. “It’s not important.”
“Of course it is. It’s yours.” He winked at her. “I’ll go get it this afternoon. I don’t feel like going home right now anyway. And you had enough of Billy Strath today. Now it’s my turn.”
She nodded at the couch. “Okay.”
Will walked back into the kitchen and grabbed his water bottle. “Okay, I’m leaving now—I will call you after I get the book.” He stood in the hallway and saw that Amy hadn’t moved. “You go surprise Miles for lunch. I’ll talk to you later.” He turned to walk toward the front door.
“Will?”
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?” He looked down the entryway toward her voice.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
When Will jumped into his truck, he grabbed his cell phone and saw that he had two voicemails. The first was his mother, asking if he was going to be home for dinner. The second was Chris.
Will, buddy, I haven’t heard from you in a couple days. What’s going on? Give me a call when you get a chance. It looks like I got a job. I start next week. It’s going to be terrible, but I think it’ll look good on my resume. Anyway, talk to you later.
He called his roommate back.
“Hey, Will,” Chris said after a few rings. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just leaving Amy’s. So you got a job?”
“Yeah. I’m going to be working at my dad’s company. Not that interesting. You’re still hanging out with that girl?”
“Yeah.” Will merged onto the freeway, embarking on the same path he and Amy had taken to Billy Strath’s house just a couple hours before. “What kind of job is it?”
“I’ll be in the sales department. They tried to make it sound cool, but I’m basically just some guy’s assistant. So why are you still hanging out with that girl?”
“I don’t know. Because it’s more fun than getting a job where I’ll be some salesman’s lackey. Hey, since you aren’t going to be around much once you start working, do you want to come with me on a little field trip this afternoon? I’m heading out to Monterey to do a favor for Amy. Want to come?”
Chris hesitated. “What did you get yourself into now?”
“Nothing. She left something at this super-old, super-crazy-rich guy’s house, and I’m going to get it for her.”
“Sounds interesting. Who’s this guy?”
“Billy Strath.” Will checked his mirrors to see if he could move to the right lane.
“That’s not what I meant,” Chris said, exasperated. “Who’s this guy? I mean, if he’s so rich, how’d he—nevermind. I’m sitting at my computer. I’ll Google him. It could take years to get a useful explanation from you.”
“Are you coming with me or not?” Will said, equally exasperated and speeding up to pass a car on his right. “I have to get off the freeway if I’m coming to pick you up.”
Chris’ only answer was the sound of fingers pecking on a keyboard. “William Strath? Born 1933 in Florida—”
“Yeah, yeah—that’s him. Good idea to Google him. I didn’t think of that.”
“Then let me finish.” Chris scanned the information in front of him, muttering under his breath along the way. “Did art design work on television shows in late fifties,” he scanned further. “Moved to New York and spent the early sixties doing art design on movies. Won some awards. Oh, this is random. He opened his own publishing house in 1965. It was called Strath Publishing—unique, huh? He sold it to Harper Collins in 1980 and started investing in real estate. In the early nineties he moved to Northern California and finally settled in Monterey in 1996. Wow—interesting guy. Yeah, I’ll come. Maybe I can ask him how to work my way up the corporate ladder. Hey, why are we going to see him?”
Will tried to visualize a timeline of Lizzie and Billy’s interactions using both Chris’ information and the letters he and Amy had read the night before. “I have some questions I want to ask him about Amy’s grandma.”
TWENTY-FIVE
A
my wandered around the house after Will left, wondering if she should really go into work. Will was right—she had taken the day off. She should take full advantage of it.
She made herself a cup of tea and lay down on her bed, listening to the quiet. Slowly, the events of the morning replayed in her mind. She thought about Billy and his crotchety attitude. She thought about his beautiful house and wondered how he ended up there—and whether it could have been due to the tedious work in New York he referenced in his letter to Lizzie. She thought about Will going back for the book and wondered how he ended up in her life.
And she thought about April telling him about Jason. Why did it bother her so much? She and April had never really spoken of her time in New York. She figured April already knew why she needed to come home. What had April said to Will? Staring at the ceiling, she wished she could decipher answers to her questions in its textured patterns.
She placed the tea on her nightstand and walked to her closet. The top shelf was lined with boxes. She pulled the middle one down and lifted its lid. The spiral notebook at the far end was what she wanted, and she pinched its corner to draw it out. She returned the box to the closet and settled herself against the pillows of her bed.
She flipped through the notebook until coming to the journal entry she wanted to reread.
October 4, 2008
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I opened my eyes, and there it began. The pen I had been holding was no longer in sight, and the rough draft of my history paper remained unmarked. I stared at the white wall behind my desk, listening to the music coming from outside my room. It had begun slowly, softly, until it finally roused me from my unexpected nap. I breathed the music in, feeling calmer and happier than I had since beginning the history paper hours ago.
I found the pen that had rolled to the corner of my desk and scrawled across the top of the paper, I fell in love with you on a Wednesday.
The hall was empty. Strangely empty. Door after door was closed, as though to say midterms had taken everyone captive, silencing the laughter and yelling that normally reigned. The only rebel—the only one unburdened by schoolwork—was the one playing the guitar around the corner.
I sat down next to my door, listening, playing with the carpet surrounding me. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
His rough voice whispered beneath the sound of the guitar, murmuring the words that he no doubt had composed only moments before. And she left me in shades of gray, he murmured. Shades of gray, shades of gray.
I could have stayed there, listening, until the sun rose. But I knew the moment was going to pass, and I didn’t want to miss it. I crawled around the corner toward the sound of the guitar.
And there he was, strumming softly, sitting outside his doorway.
“Hi,” I mouthed.
Jason smiled as I continued to crawl in his direction, watching until I stopped and sat down across from him.
He turned the song he was playing into chords. “Am I bothering you? My roommate kicked me out so that he could study in silence.”
I shook my head. “I need to take a break. It seems like everyone is studying tonight.” I felt myself getting sleepy—as though the music had drained away the urgency of the history paper.
He continued strumming, looking down the hall. “You know, I think that there are nearly eighty people living on this floor, and only you and I aren’t busy fulfilling other people’s expectations.”
“Seems like it, huh?”
“It’s nice.”
I closed my eyes again, listening to Jason’s music. Yes, the history paper vanished. The rough draft, my pen, my desk, tomorrow’s deadline—all gone. Suddenly the night seemed bearabl
e. “It’s a good thing that you don’t stay at home every night and play out in the hall. I’d never get any work done.”
He smiled, continuing to strum.
“What were you playing before I interrupted you? Something new?” I asked.
He nodded. “Something I’ve been working on today.”
“I liked it.”
“Thank you.” The chords turned back into the song he played earlier. “This one?”
I nodded. He continued playing, leaving out the vocals. In my mind, I could still hear his voice beneath the guitar. Shades of gray and a pale goodbye, it’s thinning into lie after lie. After a while I said, “It’s so sad.”
“Paul—my roommate—his girlfriend just broke up with him.” He grinned a sideways grin. “Poor guy. His heartbreak inspired me.”
I listened awhile longer—until the history paper reemerged from a place of obligation I had tried to bury. I rose to my feet, slowly, smiling. “I have to go,” I said. “I’ve bothered you long enough, and history calls.”
He shook his head, strumming away. “You never bother me. If I’m playing in the hall and you don’t come out, I think that I’d be disappointed.”
“Thank you. Good night.” I turned to walk around the corner.
“Hey,” he said, stopping me. “You know how bands play down in Westwood Village on Friday nights? I’m going to do that with a couple buddies tomorrow—we’re playing down there. If you and some of your friends want to come, it might be fun.”
“You mean, like, you and your band?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I’m cool. I have a band. And yeah, we’re playing tomorrow. About eight-thirty.”
“Maybe my roommate will want to head down there with me.”
“I’ll see you then.”
I smiled at him as I turned the corner, thinking How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
TWENTY-SIX
W
ill knocked on Billy’s door. The wood thudded under his knuckles, reminding him that the door probably weighed more—and was worth more—than he. Turning to Chris, Will said, “Don’t talk when we go inside. Just follow me.” Chris continued to stare up at the ornate engravings around the doorframe, but he managed to nod while craning his neck upward.