by Jane Green
“I don’t think I’m in as much shock as you are,” he said, offering a small smile.
“Indeed. Are you hungry, Jack? Can I make you something to eat?”
“Yes, I’m starving. Thank you. I was going to order food at the pub, but then my mom called and told me to come over to talk to you.”
Maggie got up and looked in the fridge. “I was about to do a big shop. We don’t have too much but do you like eggs? Can I make you an omelet with fresh eggs from the chickens? Spinach? Feta? Onions? I have a homemade cake for after.”
“That sounds amazing. All of it.”
Maggie proceeded to do what she did best, the thing that comforted her, grounded her: feeding people, nurturing them. Her bones, her muscles, her nerves relaxed as she moved around the kitchen gathering ingredients.
She sautéed the onions, added the spinach and then feta, cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisked them, and seasoned and poured them into a sizzling pan, producing a pale golden omelet, slick with butter, that rolled around the other ingredients.
She toasted her homemade sourdough and slathered it thickly with butter, placing slices on either side of the omelet before sliding the plate in front of Jack. She made herself tea, then sat opposite him at the table as he devoured the food, unable to take her eyes off him, fascinated by everything he did.
He held his knife and fork in the same way that Ben did. She shook her head at the memory. How could that possibly be genetic, and yet, watching him eat was exactly like watching Ben.
“This may be the greatest omelet I’ve ever eaten in my life.” Jack’s mouth was full as he spoke, as Maggie remembered how much Ben loved her cooking, how, the very first night he had come back to her flat, she had made him an omelet, too, and he had wolfed it down, only pausing to tell her how delicious it was. She hadn’t cooked for him for years by the time he died. It was her silent protestation at his drinking. If he didn’t love her enough to stay sober, he didn’t deserve her food.
A pang of guilt hit her. What if she had continued cooking for Ben, showing him she loved him through food? Would things have ended differently? Could she have saved him?
“Are you okay?” Jack peered at her.
“I’m fine,” she said, brusquely pushing the thoughts away as she slid her chair back to bring over a huge wedge of cake.
He forked some into his mouth and briefly closed his eyes, swooning. “What is this? This is the best cake I think I have ever eaten.”
“It’s a coffee and walnut cake with a toffee sauce running through it. It was one of your father’s favorites.”
“My father.” Jack laid down his fork, his face serious again. “I look like him then?”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s unbelievable. I’m sorry that I keep staring at you. It’s just so . . . strange. Your dimples when you smile, he had exactly those dimples. Do you know what he looked like?”
Jack shook his head, following Maggie as she beckoned him to the living room, the two of them flanked by Scout, who seemed to have attached himself to Jack. There were photographs everywhere, and she picked one up, then another, handing them to Jack. The first was one of their wedding pictures, taken on the steps of the church, Maggie and Ben in the middle, flanked by Topher and Evvie, all of them grinning, although with the knowledge Maggie now had, she thought she saw that Evvie’s smile was forced, that she must have been putting on an act.
“We look like the same person.” Jack’s voice was disbelieving.
“Yes.”
He looked up at Maggie. “What was he like? Tell me about him.”
They sat on the deep sofa in the bay window, Maggie curled up like a cat, Scout in between them. Ben never allowed the dogs on the sofa, she remembered, feeling the solidity of Scout’s warm, furry body pressed against hers, grateful for the comfort as she introduced Jack to his father.
She told him what she knew about his childhood, that his father—Jack’s grandfather—was still alive, now living in Scotland, and that she only spoke to him a few times a year, on birthdays, Christmas, things like that; that he would be beside himself to know he had a grandson.
She told him about her crush on Ben at university, how she decided he was her perfect man long before he even knew who she was. She never knew why it was Ben, only that she never had eyes for anyone else.
She described walking into the cafeteria on the first day at her new company and seeing Ben, how they had gone for drinks on the Friday night. She thought back to that night, but didn’t tell Jack the details. How Ben was a little drunk, she a little sober, how a tickling fight led to their kiss.
She told Jack how he loved football.
“You mean soccer?” Jack frowned.
“I mean football. Footie. He supported Sheffield Wednesday.” She told him how Saturday afternoons were always spent in front of the television, and how her whole family teased him about it, because no one in her family knew anything, nor cared, about football. She told him that he was a loyal friend, who would help out anyone in need. He would lend people money or give advice without blinking an eye, and he was never frightened of getting involved. If he saw an injustice, he would step in to try and right it, never thinking of the consequences.
Jack grinned when he heard this. “You’re like this, too, aren’t you?” Maggie guessed, and he nodded.
He was fearless, she told him. And he loved children. He was godfather to three of his friends’ kids, and desperate for children of his own.
“He wanted a son,” she said. “He wanted a son so badly. He wanted to bring his son to Sheffield Wednesday games, to be his pal. He would have . . .” She trailed off, gazing at Jack. “He would have loved to know you,” she said, blinking away the tears.
She thought about telling him about Ben’s drinking, but that could wait, she decided. Jack was so overwhelmed at finally discovering who his father was, it would be better for him to find out his flaws later and just let him enjoy getting to know the best of Ben for now. And in telling Jack about the best of Ben, Maggie began to remember it herself, and it was only when she had finished describing him that she realized a sense of peace had settled on her shoulders.
When she had told him everything she could think of, she asked Jack to tell her about himself, and he did. He told her about his childhood, how his mom had always put him first, that he didn’t feel he missed out on not having a dad, because she made sure he was loved fiercely, although he always hoped he might find his father. He told her about playing soccer in elementary school, how things had changed when his mom got married. It had been the two of them, a perfect team, until Lance, and in the beginning it all seemed perfect. Lance gave Jack everything he had ever wanted, and Jack loved the idea of a family, until everything changed.
Jack talked about how his mom tried to protect him from his stepfather’s rages, ushering him out of the room, trying to keep the fury from him, but he always knew. He wanted to protect her, but didn’t know how. Jack’s confusion was made worse by the fact that Lance could change in a heartbeat, so charming one minute, so frightening the next. It felt like standing on shifting sands, and as a young boy, he knew he didn’t have the power to do anything.
Maggie knew some of this. Evvie had talked about it a little, but had never gone into detail. When Lance’s name came up, which was rarely, Evvie had always quickly changed the subject.
A wave of remorse came over Maggie as she listened to Jack. Evvie may have betrayed her in the most terrible of ways, but look at the life she had led, the difficulties she had endured. On the outside she may have seemed glamorous, wealthy, as if she had everything she could ever possibly want, but no one had any idea what was going on behind her closed doors. Maggie had been in touch vaguely, but their friendship was one in name alone by that time. Where was she when Evvie was going through hell; where were Evvie’s trusted old friends when she needed them most?
&n
bsp; Maggie was furious with Evvie, but as she sat here, talking to Jack, she found her anger was transforming into emotions she wasn’t sure she even had the words for. There was raw pain for what Maggie was going through, of course, but it was suddenly mixed with empathy and regret; the last things she wanted to feel.
Jack didn’t notice. He kept talking, telling her of his relief when his mom left Lance and, standing on her own two feet again, had built a new life for herself. He talked about his college years, his love of computer science, his love of his friends, how he had landed an amazing job while he was still a senior, and that he loved California, but always had a sense that he didn’t quite fit in anywhere. It wasn’t that he didn’t have friends, he explained, but that he had always felt like something of an other.
“Is that not having known your dad, do you think?” ventured Maggie.
“Maybe. Although it’s more likely to be my own unique crazy mix. Part Jamaican, part American. And now half-English.” He looked across at a photo of Ben, his gaze lingering for a couple of seconds before turning to the window. “I know this sounds crazy because I’ve been here for about five minutes, but . . .” He gazed outside, trailing off.
“You feel like you’ve come home?”
He turned to look at her. “It is crazy, isn’t it? I felt it as soon as I stepped into the airport. I just have this sense of belonging.”
“I don’t know. I think it makes sense.” She was staring at him again, catching herself with a quick laugh as she covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry I keep staring at you. Please don’t think I’m a creepy old woman. It’s just that . . . Ben would have loved you so much.”
“I wish I’d known him.”
“So do I,” said Maggie, even though she had no idea what the impact would have been on their marriage. Now that he was gone, there was no point in being angry with Ben. And what if she had discovered this when they were together? What would she have done? Would she have stayed? Would she have left? She could never have forgiven a long-term affair, but if it truly had been, as Evvie said it was, a one-night stand, would she have been able to forgive that? She would have been devastated, and yet, Ben would have had a son. If she had managed to forgive him, if they had found a way to stay together, she would have had a . . . What would he have been? A stepson, she supposed. How different their life would have been. Jack coming to stay for holidays, Ben wrapping a Sheffield Wednesday scarf around his neck, taking him to the matches. She would have taught Jack to cook. Perhaps the three of them would have formed their own family, even though she was certain that twenty-one years ago, had she known, she would never have spoken to Evvie again.
And now? Now that Ben was gone? Now that Jack was here? A piece of Ben. A reminder of what they always wanted, what they couldn’t have, what she might be able to have now. Although what right did she have to this young man? He was her late husband’s illegitimate son, not her stepson. He was not part of her family, even though he felt like he should be.
Silence fell. Jack got up and picked up photographs, staring at his father as Maggie sat back in the chair, exhausted by the emotions of the day. Jack looked over at her. “What happens now? How do you feel about . . . my mom?”
Maggie shook her head, overwhelmed. “I have no idea. I have no idea how I feel about any of it. Other than meeting you, which feels like the most precious gift I’ve been given in ages. It’s like having a piece of my husband back. It’s so strange, seeing you smile, and watching the way you move. Your hairline!” Jack touched his hairline, self-conscious. “It’s the Curran hairline. Your grandfather has it, too, that distinctive widow’s peak. If it’s freaking you out, tell me, but I could just sit here and look at you all day. Oh God, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I think I need a little bit of time to process all of this. We all need some time to sit with this. I can’t have your mother here right now. I’m sorry. I hope you can understand that.”
“I can.” Maggie unfurled herself from the sofa, from Scout, with a long stretch. “I don’t know how I feel about what she’s done either. I’m pissed, and I don’t want to see her now. Thank you, Maggie.” He looked suddenly like a little boy. “Thank you for spending so much time with me, and for telling me about my father.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you for being so open with me. You’ve told me a lot about your family that I didn’t know. It helps me to understand.” And empathize, she thought. Although she didn’t say it out loud.
Maggie wanted to put her arms around him, hug him, but didn’t want to cross the line and make him uncomfortable. They stood awkwardly for a few seconds, with Maggie then bending down to pet Scout. “I’m going to go and make some tea.” She gave Jack a smile and walked out of the room.
In the kitchen, alone, Maggie sank onto a chair and buried her face in her hands, breaking into sobs, feeling as if her heart was going to either burst with joy or break with pain.
She had no idea which way it was going to go.
forty-nine
- 2019 -
Topher had felt lost ever since Jack showed up, exploding their happy little family. It wasn’t Jack’s fault, he was the last one Topher blamed, but the fact remained: nothing would ever be the same again.
The house was much too quiet without Evvie, and he had barely seen Maggie. He tapped on her door last night to ask if she needed anything, expecting her to invite him in as she usually would, for him to crawl on her bed and chat like old times, but she just said she was going to sleep. He knew she was lying because the light stayed on in her bedroom for hours.
He stepped into the garden and took out his cell phone. In the old days, he had a myriad of friends to call. He thought back to his life in New York, the parties, the openings, the galleries, the theater. He had a hundred people he could have phoned to accompany him anywhere, to meet for a drink, or dinner. Now, he scrolled through the names in his contacts, all of whom were in New York. There was literally no one in the UK other than his mother. Good God, he thought. This was really too sad that the only other person he could call here was her. He had been lonely since Evvie left, and found himself missing Dickie and reminiscing about Larry. Wouldn’t it be lovely, he thought, to have a relationship at this stage of life.
“Darling!” Joan said when she picked up the phone. “This is a lovely surprise. What are you up to?”
“Not much,” Topher said, eyeing the lawns stretching ahead of him, the trees, the only sound the odd bird chirruping, and the clucks of the chickens in the distance. He decided not to tell her about the drama that had recently unfolded. “We have a new dog who is lovely. Scout. I was thinking about maybe taking him for a walk. I thought he’d like to see the sea, so I was going to drive over to you. Does that work for you?”
“A dog? How lovely! A walk would be heavenly, but I’m afraid I’ve got plans this afternoon. I wish you’d called earlier. I’m going out with one of my gentleman friends.”
Topher steeled himself. Oh God. Not this again. Please God let this not be his father, or some beau from the fifties. Please God let her not be confused.
“Who’s the gentleman friend?” he asked warily.
“You haven’t met him. His name is Pierre Van Cate. He’s Dutch. Ever so handsome.”
“And . . . does he live in Weston-super-Mare as well?”
“He does,” she said happily. “We met at my dance class.”
“Dance class?” Topher started to smile. Only his mother.
“I know! Isn’t it fun? I started ballroom dancing, and this very tall, handsome man came straight up to me when we were asked to find partners. He’s taking me out for tea today, and next week he’s making me dinner. He looks after me, Topher.” Her voice dropped. “When I don’t remember things. When I get confused.”
“That’s wonderful, Mom.” Topher felt relieved. “I’m glad you’ve found someone. Have a lovely time.”
He walked around the garden, turning and studying the lawn by the house, the one that ran down from the French doors in the drawing room. It was just flat lawn, doing nothing. He’d been thinking about this lawn for a while now. It was such a pity that the grounds of the house were boring old grass with a few grand trees and the lake in the distance. A house as lovely as this demanded gardens that were equally lovely.
In the outbuildings he pulled out a tape measure and a can of fluorescent paint from a plastic bag and took them over to the large lawn off the terrace. There was a high, old brick wall on one side, covered in ivy and a rambling clematis Montana that, he had learned, bloomed with a profusion of small pink flowers every May. This was the spot he had been studying. It faced southwest, got the sun all day, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought it would be the perfect place for a potager, a kitchen garden that was as productive as it was beautiful.
It would be semi-walled, with six symmetrical beds, surrounded by a low clipped box hedge. He had plans for a luscious perennial border on each side, a profusion of whites and greens, à la Vita Sackville-West.
His imagination had been working overtime. He had a spot for a limestone plinth on which would sit an armillary sphere, which would face a bench on the other side, where Topher could see himself drinking tea every morning (he was an avowed coffee drinker, but in his fantasy he was not only fitter and slightly taller than he was now, his middle-aged paunch having magically disappeared, he also, somewhat miraculously, had learned to start his day with tea).
He had been thinking about this all a lot, had even made drawings. He went to WHSmith and bought himself a sketchbook, a set of pencils, and an eraser, and had been sitting at the small desk in his room, sketching out a series of ideas.