by Beau North
“And the expansion?”
“Hire anyone you need. I trust you, Bert. There’s no part of it I can’t do over the phone.”
Bert grunted. “Whatever you like.”
Richard took the envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. “For you.”
“What’s this?”
“The keys to the house.”
“What do you want me to do with them?”
Richard shrugged. “Whatever you like. They’re yours now. The house is yours, too.”
After years of living and working together, Richard had finally managed to surprise his friend.
“Come again?” he asked
“The keys aren’t the only things in that envelope. There’s also a bill of sale, a deed, a title; all you need to do is register it all down at the county clerk’s office.”
“What the hell are you thinking? You know I can’t pay for this!”
“Oh but you have.” Richard took the dollar out of his pocket.
Bert only seemed to get more irate by this. “What am I supposed to do with all this space?”
Richard shrugged. “Marry that fine woman you’ve been having coffee with after church. Fill the place with babies. Or sell it. Use the money to buy yourself something more manageable. Maybe find those sisters of yours and move them out here.”
Bert’s façade seemed to crumble. Richard would have sworn he saw a tremor in the other man’s lip. He looked down at the ledger in front of him. “Fitz, I…I can’t accept this.”
“Oh, yes you can. I’m not giving this dollar back.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re my brother. Maybe not by blood, but you are my brother.”
Bert seemed to deflate like a balloon, but there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes too. Love. Gratitude. Hope.
“There’s no point in arguing with you, is there?”
Richard grinned, feeling lighter. “None whatsoever.”
March 14, 1960
Fitzwilliam House
Annapolis
The house was just as he’d left it. Cold, silent. Haunted. Not only by the dead but by the living as well. In every room he could hear Bert, calling him names. He imagined he could hear Evie, talking about kite strings. At the piano, he saw Georgiana, her Ari seated on the bench next to her. In the dining room, he felt the presence of Darcy and Maggie and Tom, and Elizabeth. Elizabeth in every beam and plank, his bridge from past to future, his touchstone. The sunlight in the kitchen turned the stark white walls into Anne’s blank canvas, while the heavy drapes could have been the long train of one of Charlotte’s handmade gowns. Richard could hear Ben’s laughter echoing through every room. He smiled, his shoulders relaxing. He knew it wasn’t the house that held these specters but himself. He carried them in his heart everywhere he went. It wasn’t the kind of love he’d imagined for himself, but it was something.
He opened the window, letting in the clean, sweet breeze off the Bay. It blew his hair back from his forehead. In the right light, his hair was more sandy than silver, the brow unlined with worry of what would come next. For a moment, he was happy just to be. He opened his eyes and smiled again, watching the boats gliding over the sun-jeweled water.
He was finally home for good.
38
BEN
June 3, 2003
Fitzwilliam House
Annapolis
They lay twined together like wild honeysuckle, breath and sweat and aftershock tingles of truly spectacular lovemaking. Ben’s hand found hers and took it, fingers entwined.
“Thank you,” he said with an effort.
Keisha arched her back and sighed. “I feel like I should be thanking you for that last part. I don’t know how you learned to do that, but good gravy you are amazing at it.”
“Natural talent, I guess.” He rolled on to his side, propping his head up. “But I wasn’t talking about that, although you should prepare yourself, I’m going to want to do that again in about twenty minutes.”
She laughed. “I thought you’d want me to return the favor.”
“I mean I won’t stop you, but that’s not even it for me. I get off getting you off.”
“Were you trying to say something, a second ago? Something unrelated to your talented mouth? You’d better say it quick at the rate we’re going.”
“Oh, right. I was just going to tell you that I love you.”
She stilled, her eyes fastening on him. “What did you just say?”
He smiled down at her, this incredible, strong, kind, fearless woman. Of course, he loved her—he’d loved her from the start.
“Keisha Renee Barnes, I love you. I lay everything I am, was, or will be as an offering at your feet.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Writers.”
“You don’t have to say it back, you know.”
“Good, that makes it easier for me to tell you that I love you too, Bennet.” She reached up, curling her fingers through his hair.
“I have to tell you something else.”
“Ugh, you did this on purpose, didn’t you? You get all romantic with the I-love-yous and now you’re going to tell me you have a secret family in Missouri or something.”
Ben laughed, smiling down at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to Missouri, come to think of it.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t keep me in suspense, jackass!”
“Okay, okay!” He settled himself even closer to her. “You’ve heard of the Carter Agency?”
“Sure, the biggest PI firm in the US since the Pinkertons.”
Ben nodded. “Well, the founder, Adam Carter, he was one of Dad’s old war buddies. Dad helped him gather the capital to go from a one-man operation to what it is today.”
She waited, still and not reacting. “Go on.”
“Well, I called up Adam a while back. He’s retired now obviously, but he’s still got a lot of pull. The branch down here will sponsor your state licensing exam if you would consider a contract with them once you’re licensed.”
She looked at him sharply. “Come again?”
“You heard me, and yes, you will.”
She sat up. “I’m serious, Ben.”
“So am I.”
“Are you being real?”
“Yes. And it’s totally up to you. No pressure. If you want to stay on the force, that’s totally your choice. They’ll understand, and so will I. You’ve busted your ass to get where you are, and you have every right to be proud of that. But you did tell me this is what you’ve always wanted to do. I’m just letting you know it’s an option.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
He cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing the high slash of her cheekbone. “Take your time and think about it. You wouldn’t owe me anything for accepting,” he assured her. “Not a damn thing. Don’t do it because you feel like you have to. Do it because you want to.”
“Take my time?” She smiled then, and Ben felt lightheaded—not with panic but with love. Dizzy, delirious love. She lay back down, pulling him into an embrace. She didn’t need to say anything. Her kiss said it all.
July 17, 2003
Fitzwilliam House
Annapolis
“Your pants are ringing again,” Cal said, grimacing at him. They were wrist-deep in the guts of Richard’s beloved motorcycle. She was badly in need of a tune-up, and Ben had ignored her for far too long.
“Ah, sorry. One sec.” Ben wiped most of the grease from his hands with a rag before hitting the answer button on his cell phone.
“Ben?” the voice on the other line asked. It was his cousin.
“Tom? That you?”
“Ah, yeah, is this a bad time?”
“No, no, not a bad time at all.” Cal scowled at that. “What’s up?”
“Listen, I was just visiting Maggie—”
“Tom, that’s great. I’m really glad to hear that.” And he was. This uncomfortable silence between the D
arcy siblings had endured for far too long.
“Yeah, we’re practically the Cleavers. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Go on.”
“We were…well, we were snooping through more of Mom’s things, if I’m being honest. Maggie has been cataloging Mom’s things, and we came across a stack of her songbooks. There was a letter stashed in one of them.”
“Okay, can you scan it for me?”
“You don’t understand,” Tom said, sounding excited. “The letter was to Mom from Evie Ward.”
Tom’s heart thudded against his breastbone. He felt a shiver of excitement. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The letter was from Carrara, Australia.”
“Tom, are you fucking with me?”
“Maggie is emailing the scan over to you now. Ben…it’s postmarked November 1989.”
Ben felt a surge of something…triumph, a frenzied excitement, a tinge of sorrow. A letter of condolence sent the month after they buried his father.
“Tom, can I call you back?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard you! I’ve got to make a quick phone call. I’ll call you right back.”
He ended the call without another word. He was already dialing Keisha.
39
August 12, 1989
Dear Mrs. Ward,
I’m writing to inform you that Richard Fitzwilliam died two days ago. It was very sudden and (I’m told) probably painless. I’ve included his obituary and details for the service, though I understand how difficult it is to travel so far.
I feel a great sense of anger over his loss, and a mountain of regret that I never told him what I know. That is to say, what I know about you.
You see, a few years after you so cruelly cut him out of your life, I had our friend Adam Carter look into you. He found you easily enough, and what you’ve been hiding. I wanted to tell Richard, but I knew if I did he’d be off, running to you on the other side of the world. We’d nearly lost him so many times already, we couldn’t lose him again. So I kept your secret, perhaps selfishly, but I didn’t want to see him hurt either. So now you know. Mourn as you like, or don’t. I’m sorry if I come across as rude. Our hearts are broken.
Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy
* * *
17 September 1989
Dear Mrs. Darcy,
I was very surprised to get your letter. I never expected to hear from anyone in your (let me be honest, in Richard’s) family after what I did. It was a shock. Of course I’ve always known it was a risk, with him having that detective friend, but I always thought it would be him who found me.
I understand you might be angry with me for not coming to the service and for leaving him so callously in the first place. I was protecting myself. More than myself, really. You know I’m far from perfect. I was afraid of Richard, of what he meant to me. Afraid I would never be enough for him. Would any of us ever have been? So many women loved him. I don’t know if it was ever enough.
If it was only me, I would have come to live with him, loved him as best I could for as long as he’d let me. But it wasn’t just me. I have my daughters, who adored “Uncle Richard.” How heartbroken would they have been when his restlessness eventually pulled him away? They’ve already lost one father. I couldn’t put them through that again.
Privately, I’m devastated. The world is a little more grey without him in it. Even though we hadn’t spoken in forty years, I loved knowing that he was out there. I hope you and your family (and young Ben, of course) are all holding up. I will hold you all in my thoughts and prayers.
Yours in friendship,
Evelyn Ward
September 11, 2003
Gold Coast
Australia
After weeks of phone calls and emails and last-minute details, Ben and Keisha boarded a flight to Australia. Twenty-three hours from Dulles to Sydney, a short flight from Sydney to Brisbane, and another hour or so by car to the Gold Coast, where Evelyn Ward had settled in her later years.
Keisha slept on the flight, but he’d been too nervous. What was Evie like? Would she slam the door in his face? Ben knew he was being ridiculous―Evie Ward’s eldest daughter, Sadie, had assured him they’d be very welcome. But he just couldn’t quiet the restless ghost of his father, who stomped and stormed around through his mind all night, preventing him from getting a moment’s sleep. This was the woman his father had loved for most of his life, his confessor and confidant, his stalwart friend and secret desire.
“Do you think you can doze for an hour?” Keisha asked him as they climbed into the Land Rover that Maggie had arranged to pick them up and carry them from Brisbane to Carrara.
Ben shook his head. “How can I sleep with you looking like that?” They’d spent an hour in one of the courtesy lounges at Sydney International, which had thankfully had showers and coffee. Keisha’s white jumpsuit was bright against her brown skin. Her hair was pinned up, curls arranged into a sort of pompom on her head. She was fresh and crisp and beautiful, and every time he looked at her, he felt something in his chest expand with sudden and unexpected elation. When will I stop feeling this way when I look at her? He hoped that day would never come.
She laughed and brushed a speck of imaginary lint from her shoulder. “What, this old thing?”
He slid into the back seat next to her, thankful he’d had a chance to brush his teeth.
“What do you think?” she asked, nodding out the window as the driver pulled onto the sun bleached highway. She was looking out the window, at the low hills that slouched against an impossibly big sky, the smooth-barked palms and light colored houses with their white tiled roofs. But he was looking at her, at the gold hoops that glimmered in her ears, the pink gloss on her lips, the small gold cross around her neck.
“Beautiful.” He took her hand. “Thank you, Keisha, for coming with me. I don’t think I could have done this without you.”
She smiled, still looking out the window. This was the farthest she’d ever been from home, he knew. He also knew it was the closest he’d ever been to home, because home wasn’t Fitzwilliam House or New York or Pemberley. Home was wherever she was.
“You would have been fine, but I’m glad to let you think otherwise. Do you think we could take surfing lessons while we’re here?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as the Australian coast slipped past the window.
The next thing he knew, Keisha was shaking him awake. Waking up was like fighting his way out from under a hundred-pound blanket.
“Whazzat?” he said blearily.
“Wake up, Ben. We’re there.”
Why had he agreed to go right from the airport? He sat up, his arms and legs heavy and uncooperative.
“Try this,” the driver said, handing her an unopened bottle of water. She uncapped it and held it out to him. He felt some of his energy coming back with every sip. Still, he thought that when he did get back to his hotel, he would sleep the sleep of the dead.
“You ready?” Keisha asked when the bottle was empty.
He nodded, not quite trusting his voice, and let her take his arm as he stepped out of the car, ungainly as a newborn colt.
“Damned jetlag,” he muttered. “How are you doing so well?”
“Well, excitement, probably.” She shrugged. “I was a cop for ten years. You get used to sleepless nights.”
“No thank you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Do I look all right?”
She smiled and stood on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek. “Handsome as always.”
They approached the house, a three-level condominium the color of sand, with a tidy strip of landscaping brimming with sago palms and red-fingered Cordyline. He smiled to see that someone had hung Mylar balloons to the wood railing leading up the front steps and a banner that read, “Welcome!”
“I guess they’re expecting us,” Keisha said, taking his hand. He laced his fingers with hers, br
inging her hand up to his lips before climbing the steps and knocking on the door.
The door swung open. Ben stood frozen on the doorstep, hand still raised in a fist to knock.
He was looking into the eyes of his father.
Of course, it wasn’t his father. These eyes looked out at him from the face of a woman, the same blue-green, the same oval shape, the same slightly-pointed arch of the eyebrow. She was tall, nearly as tall as Ben himself, with long, strawberry-blonde hair that hung past her shoulders in a wavy curtain. She smiled, and Ben felt his hand squeezing Keisha’s in a death-grip. She has Pop’s smile.
“You’re not Pansy,” was all he could say, stupidly. This strange twin grinned again.
“I’m Penelope, but you can call me Penny, or Pen if you like,” the woman said brightly. “You must be Ben and Keisha!”
“You’re…” Maybe it was the jet lag, or the unexpected shock of seeing his own reflection in this gentler, lovelier form, but Ben felt tears burning his eyes.
Penny blushed, looking sheepish. “I reckon I’m your sister.” Her accent clipped the word at the end. Sista. “Come in, come in. Hot out there!”
Ben and Keisha stepped into the air-conditioned coolness.
“Can I…?” He opened his arms to Penny, and, a moment later, they were hugging, right there in the entryway. She smelled of oranges and tuberose. He was vaguely aware of other people crowding in behind her, but he could not for the life of him let go of her. She hugged him back tightly, and he realized that they were both weeping, both talking at once, and that everyone around them was talking as well. The Ward family were introducing themselves to Keisha, who smiled and shook hands, looking up at him every few seconds. It was a moment of surreal and unlooked-for happiness, and Ben was in no hurry for it to end.
He felt other hands touching him. Older skin, soft and fragile as crepe paper. He looked down to see a white-haired woman, her face spotted with sun and age. She was still robust, but her frame was stooped, her hands fluttering. Tears fell from her faded eyes.
