“But she’s a writer.”
“She didn’t start until she was middle aged. After my father died.”
“I did sort of know that, I guess.”
“Anyway, I became pregnant with your mother by accident. I was dismayed, but I was in love, and it didn’t seem quite the thing to abort his child.”
“Wait. So you almost had an abortion with my mom?”
“Well, it was one of my choices, of course. I was young and not married.” I lifted a shoulder, waited, let her outrage settle back a little. “But honestly, I didn’t even consider it. I loved your grandfather and we got married, even though no one in our families were happy.”
“So you didn’t want to get married, but you did.” She stirred her tea, her demeanor very still, giving nothing away. Very much like Zoe at the door to the kitchen. Locked up tight. “Did you just get tired of being a mom, so you left?”
“I didn’t know it would be for so long,” I said, dodging.
“But you never came back.” Again, she leveled the question with so much lack of emotion that I knew there had to be mountains of it below.
“I did come back. She has always refused to see me.”
“But not until she was grown up.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Yes.” I paused. Told the truth. “I was not a good mother, Isabel. It’s that simple.”
“My grandma—my other grandma—says that you broke my grandpa’s heart.”
I nodded. “I think that’s probably true.”
“Do you feel bad?”
It was unexpectedly direct. I answered just as directly. “Yes,” I said. “And no. I would hardly be who I am now if I went back and made a different choice.”
She slumped backward. “That’s not going to help.”
“Oh, my dear,” I said, leaning forward to touch her hand. “It’s nothing for you to fix. Your mother and I will have to do it ourselves. Why don’t you and I work on getting to know each other, without any of the rest of it?”
She considered for a long moment; then her eyes slid toward the worn deck of tarot on the table. “Can you teach me to read cards?”
“I would be delighted.”
Chapter Nineteen
Zoe
I felt strung taut and also exhausted by the time I returned to Woodhurst after the sweep. Someone had dropped off an apple ginger cake that now rested on the surface of the Rayburn, sending a warm scent of home and comfort into the air. I shook off my mac and hung it on a hook by the door and realized I was absolutely ravenous.
From the cupboard, I took a saucer edged with lilies of the valley, my grandmother’s pattern, and served myself a slab of cake. It was still warm as I cut into it, and the flavors of soft apple and sharp ginger mixed with the buttery crumb sent tiny waves of pleasure and comfort down my nerves.
Light fell through the big window over the sink, mottled by raindrops that pattered against the glass in a replenishing rhythm. The room itself was old and worn, the boards overhead painted white to alleviate the gloom, and as familiar to me as the lines on my hands. My fingers itched, suddenly, to draw, and I ran up the back stairs, fetched the art bag that lived in my old bedroom, and settled at the table with the cake and a cup of tea, light falling through the window to make agreeable, soft shapes of the food. I drew. I used Inktense pencils to create the cake and the saucer with its tiny lilies and sharp green leaves. Soon I was humming under my breath, sketching the stove and the rafters and even the sink with the gray-green light.
It made me remember being seven and nine and eleven, when I’d experimented with every form of art supplies I could get my hands on. I’d sketched and colored and painted and drawn, in sketchbooks and on paper and canvas.
And on postcards. The thought of them lit a flame in my chest—the big, sturdy A6 cards my grandmother bought in bulk at a stationer’s in a nearby village. I filled them with scenes and sunsets, butterflies, dogs, the sea, picnics, each one an incantation designed to call my mother home.
Each one destined to fail.
For dinner, Isabel made a simple supper of tomato soup and egg-salad sandwiches on a very good bread. We ate in the kitchen, where the floors sloped too hard toward the door and the cupboards sometimes hung open just the smallest bit. The old wooden table had been host to generations of meals.
Lillian seemed extremely tired, picking at her food. “Are you all right, Gran?” I asked. Guiltily, I thought of my mother wanting to come in and see her. Was I making a mistake by trying to handle it by myself?
“Fine, fine,” she said airily, but she only moved her fork a quarter of an inch on her plate. “Just tired, I suppose.”
“Would you like something different to eat?”
“No, this is delicious.”
I glanced at Isabel, who shook her head in solidarity with me. “How about some ice cream, Gigi? With chocolate sauce?” Isabel stood up, carrying her empty plate to the sink as she always did at home. “I’m going to have some.”
Lillian looked at the plate, twiddled with her fork again, and dropped her hand in her lap. “Yes, I’d like ice cream, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right.” I touched her hand. “You’re the one who gets to decide what’s right for you.”
“Don’t tell my sister Mary.”
Isabel turned around and gave me a perplexed expression. I shook my head. “We won’t tell anyone,” I said, but fear whipped through me. She couldn’t stay on her own like this. I had to figure out a long-term solution for care, with someone tender and kind and skilled.
“Mary teases me about my tummy,” Gran said, and she sounded very young. “She’s always been so skinny. She’s lucky.”
“You’re nice and slim now,” I said, and then redirected. “How did your work go this afternoon?”
“Very well.” She leaned back as Isabel exchanged the nearly untouched soup and sandwich for a bowl of ice cream. “Nearly a thousand words.”
“That’s great.”
Isabel sat down with her own ice cream. “You want some, Mom?”
I shook my head.
Lillian said, “I really think that man is up to something.”
“Who?”
“The one who keeps lurking around the balloons. I wonder if he’s a spy,” she said irritably.
I blinked, trying to follow the threads. “Is he a friend of Mary’s?”
“Of course not. She’s been dead for a year now.” Her eyes welled slightly, but she dashed them away. “Mother gets impatient with me when I weep, but I do so miss her.”
Mary had died in a London bomb blast, working for the war effort. Lillian had been younger, still out in the country.
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “Perhaps an early night tonight, Gran.”
She slammed her open palm on the table. “When I finish my ice cream.”
I winced. “Of course.” I carried my dishes to the sink, feeling the gut weight of my obligations. The only person in the world who knew what to tell me about this was the person I most did not want to call in all the world. Gran’s cell phone was on the counter. With a hand that shook only a little, I picked it up and called up the contact list. Right there, at the top of the favorites, was Poppy.
I walked with it into the great hall, dark and cold, rainy cloud-light coming in from the enormous window that overlooked the sea. I held the phone and cloaked myself in an imaginary asbestos suit. Pressed the contact, and my mother picked up immediately.
“Mother? Are you all right?”
“This is Zoe,” I said in a brisk voice. “Gran is very confused and a little agitated, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh, my dear—”
I cut her off. “No, none of that. Gran is here, and Isabel is with her. I’ll wait until you arrive, but then I’m leaving. And I don’t want you to be here when I get back.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said mildly.
I hung up and let go of a breath, feeling my bod
y for any signs of damage. Nothing.
Back in the kitchen, I said, “Gran, Poppy is coming over.”
Isabel said, “What?”
I lifted my chin, placed the phone carefully on the table. “She’s been looking after Gigi, and I don’t know what to do.”
Isabel had a strange expression on her face.
“What is it?” I asked. “I thought you wanted to get to know her.”
“I did, I mean, I do, but are you ready to see your mom?”
“Oh, I’m not staying,” I said, and then a hollow sense of guilt whooshed through me. “You can come with me, if you like. Or if that’s weird and you want me to stay, I will.” I could feel my cheeks heating up, getting hotter and hotter the longer I contemplated having to actually have a conversation with my mother.
“No, no, Mom, listen.” She stood up, tucking her hands in her back pocket. “Don’t get mad, but I’ve . . . uh . . . been visiting her already? At the shop? I just wanted to see what she was like.”
Gran said, “That’s nice, Isabel. I’m glad.”
I stared at her. A pulse thudded against my temple, loud and painful. “What?”
“I know. I knew you would be mad, so that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“You’ve been sneaking round to see my mother?”
Her heavy brows drew down. “Well, it wasn’t like you would have given me permission.”
“Oh, so if I’m not going to give you permission, you can just do it behind my back?”
“No! That’s not what I mean.”
“Maybe you should clarify, then. I’ve given you a lot of freedom here, Isabel, even though I’m still worried sick about you and you still won’t tell me—” I thought of my grandmother and halted, shaking my head. “You know what I mean.”
She ducked her head. “I do. I’m sorry. It’s just that she’s my grandmother. Look how close you are to Gigi.”
A tangled mass of sorrow and love wound through me, sticking at junctions, yanking up memories—sitting on my grandmother’s lap when I was very small, staring into her eyes, decoding the colors of her irises; walking and walking and walking on the beach, for miles and miles, that very walking she could no longer do; playing board games and sitting in the window seat of her office drawing for hours. I would not have been who I was without her. Any stability I’d achieved had grown from her love for me, her steadiness.
But my mother was not like Gran. She was the opposite—unstable and flighty and untrustworthy and—
Isabel looked at me with remorse. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want you to get mad at me.”
I shook my head and forced myself to let go of the hot breath burning my lungs, my belly. “I understand. It’s all right.” I reached for her and she let me hug her, flinging her arms around my waist, her head buried in my neck. “Just be careful. Don’t get hurt.”
She nodded against me, then lifted her head, wiping a tear off her cheek. “I’m really sorry.”
I smoothed her hair. “I know.”
“She doesn’t seem like the person you talk about, Mom. Maybe she’s changed.”
My armor slammed closed around me, protecting all the vulnerable organs and entry points. “Maybe.”
Gran dipped up a spoonful of melting ice cream. “You have to forgive her sometime, my dear.” She popped the ice cream in her mouth, leaving a smear on her chin that she didn’t seem to notice.
I wanted to weep, but instead I picked up her napkin and blotted her chin. She let me, as acquiescent as a child.
“You don’t have to stay until she gets here, Mom,” Isabel said. “I get it.”
“No, I’ll wait. Tell her what’s happening.” The heat in my face had faded, leaving only my ears burning hot.
“I can do it, Mom.” Isabel touched my arm.
Gran said, “Go, my love. We’ll be fine.”
And of course, that was what I wanted. “Write everything down,” I said. “Lists of drugs, all that.”
“I will,” Isabel said. “You’re not mad at me?”
I shook my head. “No.” I touched her smooth peach cheek. At least if Poppy was here, I wouldn’t have to worry about Isabel being alone. “Text me if you need me.”
I drove down to the village in a pouring rain, my emotions as wild as the weather. My mother was part of it, and Isabel going behind my back, but the worst was the decline of my grandmother. In the dark of the car, I let myself shed a few tears of sorrow and helplessness. I was going to lose her, and there was not a single bloody thing I could do about it.
The village was empty except for the odd person hurrying beneath an umbrella, and I made my way to the Tesco parking lot, where I saw Cooper’s battered Range Rover. I pulled in next to it. He gestured for me to join him in the truck, and I dashed through the rain to do it, water streaming down the back of my neck. “Ack!” I said, diving in. “Gully washer!”
“Good weather for ducks.”
I grinned wryly in spite of myself. It was something his mother had said every single time it rained. “How is your mom?”
“All right, I reckon. She lives in Scotland with her husband. I don’t see her much.”
I nodded. “We’re not going to walk to Diana’s, are we?”
“It’s a bit wet for that. Don’t really want to park on the lane either. You up for a short dash?”
“Sure.”
His scent filled the cab—autumn leaves and a brisk wind, a fragrance that danced along my skin, and it made me suddenly self-conscious. I had never not been attracted to him, ever, even when I was married and madly in love with Martin, even when Cooper was furious with me. Why did I think it would be any different now? It didn’t help that my nerves were a tangle, worried about Diana, thinking of my mother at Woodhurst with my daughter and grandmother. I worried about going into the house, about getting caught, about what we might find. I knitted my fingers together.
“Nervous?”
“Why?”
“Your hands.”
“Oh.” I unlaced them and immediately found myself tangling them again. “Habit.” I took a breath. “I had to call my mother to come over tonight. Gran was wandering and—”
The sorrow filled my throat again, and I halted to let it subside. “I didn’t know how to care for her.”
He covered my hand, his big palm engulfing the area between fingernails and wrist. “That must have been hard. I’m proud of you.” His hand was an anchor in the darkness and storm.
“Thank you.”
“Are you all right?”
I shrugged and found myself telling him the truth. “I’m just sad. About Gran, and Diana, and Isabel and . . . life just steamrolling over people I love.”
“Isabel?”
I didn’t want to talk about the real things. “Well, for one thing, she’s been sneaking behind my back to see my mother.”
To my surprise, he chuckled. I yanked my hand away. “Why is that funny?”
“It’s what you’d do, if you were forbidden.”
“That’s not true. I follow the rules.”
He paused, his hand on the ignition. “Do you?”
Was he referring to my infidelity, or something else? I looked out the window, testing the challenge. I thought of myself as a rule follower, the one who held up the tent when nobody else did. My mother, Martin. But if someone had forbidden me from seeing my grandmother, I probably would have defied them. “Maybe not always.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He turned the key, and the engine sputtered and coughed, died, and then he started it again. “She’s just achy tonight.”
“Well, she is a hundred and fifty years old,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, for myself as much as Cooper. “It happens.”
It was his turn to be startled into a laugh. Sort of. It was a quiet chuckle, a sideways glance. I had always been able to make him laugh.
“Nah,” he countered. “Her last birthday, she was only a hundred and ten.”
I smiled, relieved at th
e release of tension for even a minute.
Rain pelted the windscreen and roof and sent wide waves on either side of us as he drove up the hill. A sonata played on the radio, which was old enough to be an AM dial with white marks showing against a greenish light. The village lanes were very dark, and only the dashboard illuminated his face at all, the edges of his hair. For a moment, I was transported back to the soft quiet we’d shared, going everywhere together. I’d never been so comfortable with anyone as I’d been with Cooper. Safe, he’d said. You’re safe here.
“We can dash right down the hill from here,” he said, pulling beneath the branches of an ancient oak. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course. I won’t melt.”
“I dunno,” he said lightly, eyeing the sky. “You’re American now.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Follow me, and we’ll slip between the cottages to the back garden, go in the back.” He paused, hands on the steering wheel. “Do you remember it?”
I made a noise of exasperation. “She’s lived there for fifteen years. I think I remember it.”
“Good.” He opened the door and jumped out, with the rain held off a bit by the tree. I slid out behind him, and then he dashed down the lane, through the deluge, and into a little alleyway. I held my breath, ducked my head, and followed.
I was soaked in seconds. By the time I’d reached the back door, he’d opened it, and I pushed by him. “Close the door.”
He closed it quickly. “Leave your wellies.”
We left them in the mud room. Cooper led the way to the kitchen, where he turned on a light.
A fist struck my gut. It was exactly the same as it had been the last time I was here last spring, a darkish cottage with whitewashed walls that she tried to brighten with a lively color scheme of yellow and red. A red kettle sat on the range.
“It looks perfectly normal.”
He nodded. “I was here only a couple of weeks ago. Right before she disappeared. She made some cookies.”
“It’s been a while for me.” The ache grew. “What should we look for?”
“I don’t know. Just something. Anything.”
I’d been expecting him to lead the charge, but he looked so winded I said, “Right. Nothing in here. Anything important for the business will be at her business address.” I headed for the main room. The shutters were in place, and I hoped the light wasn’t leaking out too much. Someone would notice and call the police, and then we’d get in trouble.
The Lost Girls of Devon Page 12
