"Of course."
She tucked her arm under his and the pinheads she called eyes, swept down to see what had his rapt attention. Her pink lips flexed into a perfect ‘o’. "I wonder if they have anything to fit me," she cooed, with the superior condescension of a size zero.
Soon she was distracted by the rows of lacy lingerie and conferring with the staff about the benefits of natural fibers over synthetic, lost in the topic as only a woman with little else to worry about could be. Richard finally raised his eyes from the scarlet bustier in my hand and said, "I like that one."
I should have put it back, there and then, but I held onto it as I examined the rack of lingerie, pretending not to notice the outrageous prices. "Of course I always buy my clothes wondering if you’d like them, Downing. My life is not complete unless I know I have your approval."
Like a man on the verge of sneezing, he struggled, finally giving way to a covetous, even predatory, grin. He was lucky I didn’t go around slapping people’s faces.
"I think your friend is trying to get your attention over there," I warned carefully.
He followed me around the racks. "Your sister tells me you’re going to marry that Jack person. She’s wrong though."
"Not necessarily."
He waited a moment. "I thought you were done with all that. Too much trouble, isn’t that what you told me?"
"Umm. That’s what I told you."
Kate waved to him across the store, but he was still more interested in me and my shopping. "You here alone?" he asked, liquid gaze trespassing once again over that scarlet lace just as I might admire a bakewell tart.
"No," I snapped. "I’m with…someone else. Just like you are."
"She offered to help me find a birthday gift for my mother."
As if I could believe that one.
"I did tell you she’s just a friend," he added.
"I think she has other ideas."
Seconds later she was back, tugging at his arm again. "We ought to go. My parents expect us at six."
"Yes," I said perkily, "I have to go too. Got a dinner date."
He clamped his lips shut and they turned a very gratifying white around the edge. Oh, he was a poor loser.
I finally thrust the lacy underwear back on the rack. "See you around," I said, hurrying out.
Chapter Fifty
Mr. Scroggs’ shop was a favorite childhood haunt of mine. Well-intentioned folk would call it an antique shop. My mother called it a junk shop. Naturally, to a child with an over-active imagination, the piles of old, forgotten things were ripe with inspiration and I spent hours there, wandering amid the dusty shelves. This place and the library were always my destinations when we came downtown. While my mother took Marian clothes shopping, I came here with my pocket money clutched in my sweaty hand.
When I entered his shop, it was exactly the same. How he stayed in business was a mystery, as nothing seemed to have sold off his shelves in twenty years, but there was an endearing quality to this rotund little man and his shop of abandoned articles – remnants of forgotten lives, just like the initials carved in the tree trunk by the stone ruins.
He emerged from his back room, less than enthused to have a customer. For one thing I’d disturbed his afternoon nap. In his haste to answer my bell, he’d buttoned his cardigan in the wrong order and made a lackadaisical effort to drape a few strands of hair across his balding head, but the crust of sleep still clung to the corner of his eyes and there was a patterned red mark on his cheek, where it had rested heavily against the same embroidered pillow I could see through the open door, propped against the wings of a worn Queen Anne chair. From that little back room, came the gentle crooning of an old radio, and with his eyes half closed, he still drifted on the lilting whispers of that lullaby.
However, as soon as I said, "Mr. Scroggs, have you forgotten me?" his face lifted, the sleepiness cast off like an old hat.
"Grace! How could I forget my favorite customer? Come in, my dear, come in to my lair!" I was ushered into his backroom, where he opened a packet of pink wafer biscuits and sat by his gas fire, chatting about old times. I told him all my latest news, finally having something exciting to relate, and showed him the ring.
"I hoped you might be able to tell me where it came from," I said.
He rubbed a small magnifier on his rumpled cardigan and then pressed it to his eye. "Ah."
"Is it very old, do you think?"
He looked up, his eye still holding the magnifier squeezed within its gathered folds. "To you young folk, fifty years ago is ancient, but in the great scheme of life ‘tis but a blink or a sneeze in time."
I laughed at being called "young folk".
"I mean, is it sixteenth century? Could it be that old?"
"If so, it would surely be in a museum, my dear. However, let us see what we might ascertain with a preliminary examination. One should…never make…a… hasty…" His words trickled away to a whisper as he continued his examination, turning the ring in his chubby fingers. "Ah," he said again. "It opens. Look, the opal has been carved out to provide a deep compartment beneath."
"For poison perhaps?" I asked, wide-eyed.
He smiled pleasantly, round cheeks bulging. "I would prefer to imagine – a love token."
It was empty now though, whatever its purpose. Someone else had discovered the hidden compartment long before we did and, like a tomb raider, stolen its contents. I sensed that Albert M. Scroggs esq. Purveyor of Memories — as his shop sign whimsically proclaimed in chipped gilt letters — was just as disappointed, if not more so, than I. He clicked the opal back in place and mused softly, "So sad, is it not, the passing of time that renders us forgetful and makes what once was found, lost again?"
"Uh huh," I replied hastily, having spied Marian peering in at the window. "Mr. Scroggs, would you keep it for me and see what you can find out?" In a month I’d be back for Marian’s wedding and could collect it then. I explained that the ring was important to a story I was working on.
"So you kept that up?" His brows trembled reverently. "I am delighted to hear it. And tell me – did you find your hero? I remember he gave you much consternation."
"Yes. I found him."
He patted my hand. "I always told you he would come to life for you one day."
Yes, but I don’t think this was what he had in mind. Or was it? I had a feeling that old man knew more about me and my lives than he ever let on.
* * * *
We had an early dinner in a pub on Bridge Street. Our mother perched on the edge of her seat, glaring at the cigarette burns on the worn tapestry. Too afraid even to set her handbag down beside her, she nursed it on her lap, as if it held the crown jewels. She complained about the heat, dabbing her face with a handkerchief and each time the game machine behind her burst into a loud tune, she cried out in protest, as if she’d never heard music and feared it might shake her knickers loose.
We ignored her antics, being familiar with her attention-getting performances.
"What were you doing in that pokey old shop?" Marian wanted to know.
"Looking for your wedding gift," I teased solemnly.
Having no sense of humor, my mother reminded me of all the shops in which Marian was registered for wedding gifts. "Don’t get anything silly," she added. "What would she want from that musty place full of rubbish?"
In fact, I had no idea what to buy them. Short of solid gold bathroom scales, I couldn’t imagine Clive’s house lacked any gaudy knick-knack.
Sorting through her handbag, she found the book in which she kept her list of "to dos" for Marian’s wedding and flipped it open. As she rolled down her list, I barely paid attention, until she said, "Richard can’t come, by the way. He’ll be out of the country. What a shame. Such a nice man."
I shoveled a forkful of beef and ale pie into my mouth. I’m sure a therapist would tell me I did so seeking comfort.
"Did you see that girl he was with at my party?" Marian exclaimed, as if remembering
the wound of an old insult. "I thought it was pretty damn rude to bring her along. I mean, what about Grace?"
My mother still checked over her list. "What about Grace? Really, dear, setting the two of them up had disaster written all over it. You know how your sister is."
I would definitely have indigestion later.
"A man like that could have any woman he wanted," she added, ticking away at her list.
"But I think he wants Grace," Marian muttered softly, shocking me further by adding, "and why wouldn’t he?"
Our mother hesitated. "Well, of course, I don’t mean…" She back-pedaled. "But, that girl he was with—"
"Kate."
"She’s stunning. Lovely girl." She cast a quick glance at me. "Very well put together."
Marian admitted sadly, "Yes, she was pretty."
"Of course, if Grace bothered, I daresay she’d be presentable too."
I scraped up the last lumps of pastry crust, while they both watched – my mother in frustration, my sister in sympathy.
"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you," my mother added, fanning herself with a napkin, "Nana’s coming in for the wedding. I just got the RSVP card in the post. You’ll have to look out for her on the day, Grace. I’ll be just too busy to watch her."
At any extended family gathering, our grandmother was left in my charge. Her company and conversation was not for the faint of heart and no one else cared to tangle with Nana.
"For pity’s sake, keep her away from the wedding cake this time."
At the last family wedding, Nana ate the bride and groom from the top of the cake before anyone could explain they were not made of icing. When my mother admonished her for it, Nana calmly replied that she had to take her pills and if she didn’t have something to eat at the same time, they went right through her. Then she burped solemnly and added that if they did not feed a hungry old lady and made her sit in a cold, damp church for an hour with a draft around her ankles and not even a butterscotch to stave off hunger, what did they expect? My mother, a natural born discontent, could not complete with the Original. We are, after all, the product of our parents and whenever I saw them together I actually felt sorry for my mother.
"I’ll take care of Nana," I sighed.
I could see this wedding day of Marian’s was going to be truly unforgettable.
* * * *
When I returned to the house that evening, I sat for a while in the garden, drinking in the scents, lazy birdsong drifting over me like a lullaby. Bees, gathering their last meal of the day, bobbed about among the nodding lavender and, on the patch of grass beneath my hammock, daisies curled sleepily, showing the pink tint under their shy, white lashes. In their corner, the lush, waxy leaves of those mysteriously resilient orange trees, drank in the rich dregs of the setting sun, occasionally rustling, as if a hand or a skirt brushed by, knocking the leaves gently, releasing a fresh wave of fragrance into the air.
The garden was at peace, but I wasn’t. If Richard was visiting the lovely Kate’s parents, it must be serious. It was a mistake, of course; she was too young for him, but would he listen to my advice? Survey says —no.
Suddenly in need of a glass of wine, I got up and walked under the honeysuckle, into the house. I noticed a package sitting by the gate, but I hadn’t heard a vehicle in the lane. I took it inside and opened it cautiously, to find a box tied with red silk ribbon and, inside that, some familiar, outrageously expensive lingerie, nestled in extravagant layers of scented tissue paper.
There was no note. There didn’t need to be.
His arrogance was all over it.
If I was a woman of greater self-control and higher moral ground, I should return the gift immediately. As I was neither, I kept it.
Chapter Fifty-One
It was almost a month before I saw him again, when he came to drop off the house deed. He brought Kate, but she didn’t venture out of the car. Instead she waited impatiently in the lane with the windows rolled down, music blaring.
As he passed under the honeysuckle, I looked twice, because he was dressed in jeans today and a loose, casual t-shirt that made him look almost human. His cast was off. Suddenly it was all too much for me. I was fragile, a woman on the edge of a precipice and about to fall. I still didn’t know what to make of his generosity to me, but I sincerely hoped he didn’t think I was the sort of woman who could be bought.
"You’ve been busy," he exclaimed, coming to stand beside me, hands on hips. "Garden looks great."
"It only needed a little care." I got the words out, but my heart was in a shambles, my nerves stretched tight. I wanted him to stay, but how could I say it? I was a writer, not a talker.
Kate was out there in her car, waiting. He had another life now and we were no longer bound together by the house. I was confused, my head muddled with Genny’s story that had become so tangled with my own. "By the way, thanks for the tarty lingerie. You needn’t have."
"What?"
"I know it was you." I wiped my sweaty forehead on my sleeve. "So you can stop with the innocent face."
He regarded me thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
I went on, "I suppose you just can’t resist me." I shook my head. "Men seldom can. That’s why I’ve developed this tough exterior to fight them off. In my stories, at least."
He leaned closer. "Can’t you say a simple thank you for the gift?"
"I did, didn’t I?"
"Without turning it into another joke?"
I resumed raking. "Does Kate know about the gift?"
"She’s just a friend," he said tranquilly. "For the hundredth time."
Yes, but how was I supposed to believe it? I mean, look at her! But I protested that I was not in the least interested, whatever she was, and if he got the impression it bothered me, he was wrong. Absolutely.
"You would never jump to conclusions, of course," he said.
I shot him a look.
"She and my brother used to have a thing," he added awkwardly. "She’s been through some tough times, and I’ve looked after her."
I rolled my eyes. "I’ll bet." He ought to tell me she was going home.
"She’s going home today. Back to London."
I tried not to look pleased. He put out his hand, his fingertips stroking a curl back behind my ear. "Don’t do that," I warned, but faintly.
"Why not?"
Because you’re not even supposed to exist; because I’m going crazy; because I don’t know who came first — you or him; whether you’re a memory, or an inspiration. It was pointless trying to explain. To him I was merely a riddle that needed solving, a curl out of place; a wayward soul in need of taming.
Suddenly he said, "Maybe she thought it was something more, but I think she finally realized the truth. When she met you."
"Me? Why?"
He scratched his crooked nose and looked at me in a way that no one else ever did. "Oh you know why. If she’s guessed it, then you certainly have."
Hot, flustered, shamefully glad, reverting to the gawky thirteen year old Grace, I didn’t know where to look. Poor Kate, I mused; so young and vulnerable, tottering about after him, all wide-eyed and breathless. Clearly he preferred women of experience and a certain maturity. Women with a little more flesh on their bones. I’d heard about men like him, but never really believed they existed. Until now.
Then he said, "I came to tell you, I have to go away soon. I’ve got some family business in New York."
I looked up, one hand shielding my eyes from the sun. "Going to see your father?"
"I guess he’s not doing so well."
"I’m sorry, Richard."
In the lane, Kate tapped the car horn. "When I come back," he said, "we’ll start over and get to know one another."
"Why would I wait around, pining for you to come back, Downing?"
He grinned. "Where else would you be but here, Scrapper, waiting for me? You’d better not be anywhere else."
Another blast of the car horn startled a row of blackbirds
on the garden wall and they shot up in all directions, briefly darkening the sky with their madly flapping wings.
"Hurry," I advised curtly. "You shouldn’t leave toddlers untended in a car."
"Okay, I’m going. But I will be back." He pressed his finger to my clenched lips. "So be warned, Scrapper."
With a shrug, I watched him go. But a sudden thought occurred to me. I dropped my rake. He was just passing under the honeysuckle when I caught up.
"You’ve got some nerve," I yelled. "I suppose you think I can be bought. What the Hell do you think I am?"
Of course he pulled that "who me?" face again.
"You bought my flat."
He groaned. "Marian told you? She promised—"
"No. Believe it or not, I can figure things out for myself. Especially when it comes to you and your motives."
"And what might they be?"
"I don’t need you to control me. I am not another of your responsibilities. I am not another pathetic, helpless woman in need of saving."
He declared that I was overreacting and everything with me was a drama.
I ripped off my gardening gloves. "Poor, silly Grace, always flies off the handle – always going too fast and never looking where she’s headed. What are we going to do about Grace?"
"I wanted to help you," he said simply. "That’s what people do when they love someone."
I stared at him.
"Yes, Grace, I’m in love with you. I don’t know how it happened, or when. I’ve spent the last few months trying to figure it out, but I can’t find an answer. So there it is. Are you going to flail me alive for it?" Suddenly his frown melted. I tripped under the arbor, and he caught me. Everything stopped. Even the blackbirds ceased and the clouds were still.
My pulse was racing. "I wish you’d never walked through that door and back into my life," I gasped. "I’m supposed to wait for you, trust you to come back again?"
"Correct."
He kissed me, and for a long time I forgot where we were. Finally, his arms slipped away and he turned, colliding with the honeysuckle, cursing as he forced his way through the clutching tendrils. "See you later," he called out.
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