by Maggie Dana
“Would you like to get married again?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “I’d love to find the right guy, but most men my age want women twenty years younger.”
“Not all of them,” Claudia says. “Look at Prince Charles.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why did you really leave England?” Claudia offers more wine.
I hold out my glass. “Because I needed to get away.”
“But why America? You could’ve moved to Ireland instead, or Wales.”
“I thought I was in love with Richard.”
“You were in love with someone else, though. Weren’t you?”
* * *
The night of Keith’s nineteenth birthday, Colin and I went to the fort. By ourselves.
While the adults chatted over cocktails in the Lombard’s living room, us kids hung about in the kitchen. Sophie and Roddy Slade were wrapped around each other, slow dancing, oblivious of everyone but themselves. Hugh and Keith were arguing politics with two boys from school. Colin took my hand and we slipped out the back door. I don’t think anyone saw us leave.
For once, I had no trouble with the plank. Colin went across first. He turned and held out his arms. I let go of the branch I was holding and floated toward him, not caring about the ten feet of blackness beneath me.
We sat on the splintery floor amid dried leaves and bits of twigs and who knows how many dead insects, not daring to move, until Colin lay down. He tucked his hands beneath his head. I didn’t know what to do. I continued to sit, looking anywhere but at him. This wasn’t like being at the pictures. It wasn’t like being in his dad’s car. Music filtered across the Lombards’ back garden. Everyone, except us, was at Keith’s party.
Colin and I were in the fort. Alone. The possibilities scared me to death.
He reached for my hand and pulled me toward him. We kissed. His tongue found mine and his hands fumbled beneath my blouse. It had a Peter Pan collar and puff sleeves and I absolutely loathed it. Colin’s fingers undid the clasp of my bra—something else I loathed because it wasn’t lacy or sexy like the ones Sophie wore. It snapped open and my breasts fell loose. He took off his shirt; then my blouse. My nipples grazed his chest and I gasped, all worries about my ugly clothes forgotten. We weren’t Jill and Colin any more. We were Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster, and this wasn’t the fort, it was a deserted beach in Hawaii.
“Oh, Jilly,” he moaned, wrapping his arms around me. One of his legs slipped between mine. He tensed, then shuddered, and I could feel warmth and wetness.
I had no idea what had happened. I honestly didn’t.
Not then.
Colin kept hugging me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to be like this.”
I hugged him back, bewildered, and willing to forgive him anything.
“I’ll take you home,” he said, helping me with my blouse. My fingers were shaking. I couldn’t do up the buttons.
He dropped me at the end of my driveway. He kissed me goodnight.
I never saw him again.
Chapter 9
Cornwall
September 2010
Claudia’s voice, yelling up the stairs, wakes me at eight the next morning. “Jillian, come here. That storm’s on the news.”
I leap out of bed and race down to the living room without bothering to put on my robe. Claudia’s minuscule TV is on.
“The east coast of North America has been experiencing some very severe weather,” says the BBC announcer. “Hurricane Cassie is approaching the south shore of Long Island. Power lines are down, some of the highways are flooded, and …”
The screen switches to a clip of generic storm coverage with waves crashing over a seawall and trees bent sideways by hurricane-force winds. The camera pans a deserted street, awash with water, where a solitary figure struggles to remain upright. Bits of lumber and cardboard fly past. The news item ends. It’s followed by a report from the London stock exchange.
Claudia turns it off. “How close is all this to you?”
“Too close.”
She nods. “Tea?”
I follow her into the kitchen where sunlight streams through the window and the kettle welcomes us with a cheerful whistle. Hurricanes and floods seem half a lifetime away. Poor Zachary. He’s terrified of storms. Last one we had, he scuttled under my bed and didn’t emerge till I opened a can of tuna.
Claudia places two mugs on the table.
“I feel so helpless,” I tell her. “I ought to be doing something.”
“Like what?”
“Corralling my cat and worrying about the roof blowing off, I guess.” I look around Claudia’s lovely kitchen and notice a calendar on the wall. It’s a delicate woodland scene with squirrels and badgers, rabbits, mice, and a fox. Butterflies dance like marionettes on hidden strings against a shaft of sunlight. Sprays of flowers—white daisies, blue forget-me-nots, yellow buttercups—grow amid ferns at the base of a large weeping willow.
“Did you do this?” I say.
Claudia nods. “I do the odd painting for a wildlife society. They use them for greetings cards, wrapping paper, and calendars.” She takes it off the wall. “Here. I’ve got plenty more.”
“Thanks. It’s fabulous.”
The phone rings.
“It’s my daughter again,” Claudia says. “She wants to speak to you.”
Sophie sounds anxious. “Heard anything from home?”
“The lines are down. I can’t get through.”
“Jill, I know you were planning to come back tomorrow, but could you come up today, instead?”
“Why?”
“Because I prepared way too much food for last night’s banquet. Keith and Penny Lombard are in town for the weekend, without the kids, so I invited them for lunch tomorrow. Roddy Slade’s coming, too.” She pauses. “Oh, and bring Mum with you. Tell her the doctor can fit her in on Monday.”
“Roddy Slade?” Claudia says, when I tell her about the change in plans. “That’s a name from the past.”
“It sure is.”
“I wonder what he looks like now.”
“You’ll get to see for yourself,” I say, then tell her about the doctor’s appointment.
“Oh, bother,” Claudia says. “Who’ll take care of my squirrels?”
Max jumps on the table. “What about your cat?”
“I’ll ask Nora to feed him.” Claudia waves toward the front of her house. “She lives right across the street.”
“You mean she’s—”
“The farmer’s wife.” Claudia grins. “Her heart’s in the right place. She doesn’t like what her husband’s doing to those squirrels any more than I do.”
“Will she tend to the traps?”
“No, but now and then she tells me where he hides them. I hate to think what would happen if he ever found out.” Claudia shudders. “He’d probably drown her as well.”
* * *
We get back to London and find Sophie in her kitchen surrounded by stacks of disposable casserole dishes and large flat trays covered with tinfoil. Her hair’s a mess and her hands are covered with pastry dough. While she and Claudia exchange floury hugs, I pick up the phone and try to reach Lizzie. No luck. The lines are still dead.
“Did you get through?” Sophie says, sliding a pie in the oven.
“Nope. Have you heard anything more?”
“Just what I saw on TV this morning. But it must be over by now, surely.”
“I hope so.”
Claudia takes my arm and pulls me into the living room. “About this little party tomorrow,” she whispers. “Sophie didn’t cook too much food. This is really for you.”
“It is?”
“Don’t let on I told you,” Claudia warns. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
I stare at her. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Oh dear,” Claudia says. “I said too much already.”
* * *
Lizzie rings up at
ten the next morning. “It wasn’t as bad as we expected,” she says. “Hardly any damage. Just a few broken branches and a ton of leaves. Some areas are still without power, but your place is all right.”
“How about Zachary? Is he okay?”
There’s a burst of interference and all I hear is “—’s fine.”
I relax. “Thanks for taking care of things, Lizzie.”
“No problem. So, tell me. What’s up for today?”
“Sophie’s having a few friends for lunch.”
“Is Colin on the menu?”
“No.”
“Pity,” Lizzie says. “When’s your flight coming in?”
“Thursday, at seven thirty.” I pause. “I’ve bought you a huge tin of shortbread.”
“In that case,” Lizzie says, “I won’t send Fergus. I’ll come pick you up myself.”
I hang up and offer to help Sophie, but she shooshes me from the kitchen. So I go upstairs, have a bath, and get changed. Somehow, I’ve got to force feed myself into pantyhose, tie a scarf the way Sophie does, and make friends with a pair of malevolent shoes.
An hour later, I’m tumbling out of control down Sophie’s narrow stairs.
Chapter 10
London
September 2010
I’m coming round, I think. I can hear people talking.
Claudia, her voice faint, says, “Keith, clear that stuff off the settee and gather pillows. This leg needs to be elevated.”
“I’ll get some ice.” Sophie sounds distant.
Oh, shit. My ankle.
It’s killing me.
“Jilly, I’m so sorry.” Colin’s voice. Deeper, older.
“Help me get her on the couch.” Claudia, loud and clear this time.
Strong arms lift me up and I’m swaying, weightless. The plank is stretched between us. I’m scared of falling.
Come on, Jilly, you can do it.
Why didn’t Sophie tell me he was coming to lunch? Needles of pain shoot up my leg. I tighten my arms around Colin’s neck. He’s lowering me to the couch but I don’t want to let go.
Something cold, ice cold, flops onto my foot.
“Ouch!” I open my eyes. A bag of frozen peas lies across my ankle. “Peas?”
“I didn’t have enough ice in the freezer,” Sophie says. “Poor Jill. You look wrecked.”
I close my eyes. This is a dream. I’ll wake up in a minute, in bed, and this will be something to laugh about. I didn’t really fall downstairs, did I? This is happening to someone else, isn’t it? But the pain in my ankle is real, and so’s Colin Carpenter, sitting at the end of Sophie’s couch in a dusky pink shirt. A cotton shirt, heavy and well pressed, with bronze buttons shaped like miniature cartwheels. A corner of one cuff is frayed.
God! What if my ankle’s broken? The peas shift. I feel fingers touching, probing. “Damn! That hurts!”
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
I open my eyes. Colin’s glasses are shoved on top of his head and he’s examining my foot, moving it gently from side to side. “A stretched ligament, but no broken bones.”
“I didn’t think so,” Claudia says.
Colin replaces the peas. “It’s a sprain, Jilly.”
Jilly. No one else has ever called me that. Not even my dad.
Sophie’s oven timer pings. “Lunch is ready,” she says. “Okay, everyone. Into the dining room. Not you, Jill. I’ll set up a tray.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Colin says. His hair is thick and streaked with silver. Lines add character to his face, and the dimples, thank God, are still there when he smiles. “Does it hurt badly?” he asks.
I nod. “How do you know it’s not broken?”
“I was a medic in the army.”
Thirty-five years.
There’s so much I don’t know about him.
Sophie hands me a glass of champagne and asks Colin what he wants to drink.
“Ginger ale—or water.” He smiles again. “I have a long drive home.”
Where does he live? Bubbles tickle my nose as I gulp my champagne, hoping Sophie will float by with more.
“Here you are, you two.” She refills my glass and sets a tray of food on the side table.
“I’m starving,” Colin says, leaning toward it.
He’s as slender now as he was back then. I’ll start my diet tomorrow. “Sophie said you and your wife run a bed and breakfast.”
“Yes, we do, but Shelby’s not my wife.”
So that’s her name.
“I was married once,” Colin goes on. “It lasted fourteen years and I never want to do it again.” He maneuvers the tray onto his knees. “Would you like some of this?”
“No, thanks. Not yet. I’m still trying to cope with falling downstairs.”
And seeing you again.
He spears a piece of chicken. “Tell me about your life in America.”
I watch his mouth and want to kiss it. “I was married and then divorced,” I say. “I have two sons and a cat, and I live on a beach.” Maybe we could sneak upstairs. No. I can’t walk. He could hardly carry me up. Or could he? Does he want to kiss me? There’s a speck of mayonnaise on his lower lip. What would he do if I licked it off?
“Do you have kids?” I ask.
“A daughter. She lives with her mother.”
“Did Sophie tell you I was here?”
“Yes.” Colin puts down his fork, turns to face me. “She wanted to surprise you,” he says, glancing at my ankle. “I’m sorry you fell.” His eyes, soft and warm behind his glasses, are the color of moss.
“Colin, are you happy?” I blurt out.
He looks at me, surprised. “Yes, I suppose I am. Shelby and I have been through a lot of ups and downs. I was a wreck when we met, and she helped me pull through.” He pokes at a wedge of cheese. “I owe her for that.”
“Your marriage was as bad as mine, then.”
“Did you try a second time?” Colin asks.
“No.” How do I tell him I’m not brave enough to risk another loss?
“But what about you, Jilly?” he says. “Are you happy?”
The clock on Sophie’s mantel ticks off the seconds.
“I have good friends, a house I love,” I say, swallowing hard. “The beach. My sons. I’m—” I grope for the right word. “I’m content.”
“Don’t you want more than that?”
Of course I do. But am I willing to admit it? To Colin? To myself? In a mad moment, I opt for honesty. “I’m fifty-two and there are days I ask myself ‘what else is there? Is this it? Is this all there is to my life?’” It’s hard to believe I’m unloading like this but with Colin it seems so easy. So right, somehow.
There’s a crash from the kitchen and the mood is broken. Colin sighs, and we move to safer ground—my life in Connecticut and his in Gloucestershire; his dog and my cat. He tells me about North Lodge, his seventeenth-century house in the Cotswold hills that’s now a popular inn and hotel. A bit more than a bed and breakfast, he says.
I try to explain what I do for a living and discover Colin is only slightly less traumatized by computers than he is by spiders. “I’m a graphic artist,” I say. “I design brochures, logos, and promotion pieces for local businesses.”
The others drift in from the dining room. Roddy Slade, flushed and overweight, Hugh Neville, almost bald but with that same cheeky smile, and Keith Lombard whose once carroty-red hair is now totally gray. He introduces his wife. Penny Lombard has the sleep-deprived look of a mother whose infant keeps her up all night.
Roddy produces a digital camera and takes several group shots. He snaps one of Colin and me on the couch. “Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send it to you,” he says, before being waylaid by Sophie to take pictures of the dogs.
The boys—I still think of them that way—and I laugh over old memories and exchange bits of gossip, but nobody asks Colin why he disappeared without word.
Hugh and Keith slope off and Penny follows Claudia upstairs. Colin
and I are alone. Again.
“Have you ever been to the States?” I ask.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Come over for a holiday.” Christ! Am I really saying this? What the hell. I’ll keep going. “You could stay with me.”
“That sounds great,” Colin says. “I’ll ask Shelby.”
Oh yes, Shelby. My face warms, reddens. What was I thinking?
His eyes lose their sparkle. His voice is distant and I turn away. For him, this has been nothing more than a pleasant interlude—a Sunday afternoon reminiscing about the past with an old friend.
After the last guest leaves, I round on Sophie. “Why didn’t you warn me he was coming?”
“And have you go into hiding upstairs with the dogs?” Sophie throws herself into the wing chair and hooks her legs over one of its arms.
I snatch up a pillow. “I’m not a child.”
Sophie looks at my ankle, now the size of a small cantaloupe. “Oh, Jill, come on. What would you have done if I’d told you?”
“For openers, I wouldn’t have fallen down your bloody stairs.”
“I doubt that,” Sophie says. “You always did have weak knees where Colin’s concerned.”
I hurl my pillow at her.
Sophie catches it and says, “So, what did you guys talk about?”
“The usual. Kids. Jobs. You know.”
“What about his wife, Shirley?”
“Shelby,” I tell her. “They’re not married—they live together.”
Sophie kicks off her shoes. “Does Colin want to see you again?”
If only he did. I shake my head.
“He is enormously attractive.” Sophie’s voice is a breathless gush.
I cover my eyes and she pounces. “I knew it!” she exclaims, clapping her hands.
Chapter 11
London
September 2010