A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  They wandered up the street in a lazy fashion. Lucy snacked on crepes from a vendor and Helen purchased a blue cashmere scarf that matched Molly’s eyes.

  “Here’s one of the booksellers.” Lucy squinted as the bright light of the street dimmed inside the door of the antique emporium—a series of booths arranged in hallways within connected buildings.

  “Look here.” Lucy picked up a tan leather-bound book. “The Vicar of Wakefield. I love this one. It’s so over-the-top and delightfully formal.” She ran her hand over the worn cover. It was well moisturized and the scratches had been rubbed and softened.

  An elderly gentleman in a wrinkled oxford and cardigan sweater stepped toward her. She waved the book to him. “You take good care of these.”

  “I love each and every one.”

  She ran her finger over another title. “I can tell.”

  “Do you collect books?”

  “I read them. I sell them, much like you do, in Chicago, but no, I don’t collect them.”

  “If you love them, that’s all that matters.” He laid another on the counter.

  “I do . . . I do love them.” The admission wasn’t new, but it brought James to mind and the night he’d told her that she devalued them.

  As she held the tan volume in her hands, she recognized that, while she’d said she loved them, she hadn’t in fact enjoyed books for a long while. Somewhere along the way, they had become commodities to sell and perhaps forging inscriptions had also been more about their monetary value than she thought or was willing to accept. How much changed in a life, in a person, when one wasn’t paying attention?

  The man had continued, unaware he’d lost her. “. . . I can’t make as much profit on them as I used to.” He gestured to the shelf behind him. “There’s much more interest in silver, glass, and trinkets like this.” He picked up a silver and leather snuffbox. “Very popular in the late nineteenth century and coming back in the last several years.”

  “You’d think we’d all know better about tobacco.” Lucy noted several thimbles within his collection. “Those are lovely. May I see the one on the far right?”

  He reached in and pulled out the tiny thimble. It had simple scrolling above the dimples and barely fit on her pinky finger.

  Lucy whispered to Helen, “Sid would like these . . . Displayed in a wooden dish or something like a nineteenth-century needle box.”

  “I used to love to sew . . . You’re good at this. I understand why Sid raved about you on the phone that day.”

  “I always thought my gift lay in procurement, in the books and keeping him organized, but now . . .” As Lucy fingered the thimble and turned back to the books, her eye caught a whiskey pourer.

  “James!” She picked up the delicate glass bottle by its tiny circular handle and flipped the sterling lid up and down. “He’d love this. Did you know he drinks scotch? Only single malt. He’s sort of snobby about it, really.”

  “That’s my fault. Charles and I gave him a bottle for his twenty-first birthday.”

  Helen pointed to the bottle. “Do you have two of these?”

  The gentleman’s face lit. “I have a matched set.” He bent down and pulled two from the display case. Small engraved plaques hung from delicate silver chains around the bottlenecks.

  “Perfect.” Helen touched the plaques. “I think Charlie might enjoy one too.”

  As Lucy handled the purchase details, Helen walked farther into the emporium. She was almost out the other end by the time Lucy caught up with her, carrying a small bag. “I didn’t have them shipped. He wasn’t equipped for that and I have plenty of room in my suitcase.”

  “Did you get your little book too?”

  “I did. It’s so lovely. I’ll end up putting it in our case for sale, but I’ll get to read it first. There’s even a small picture of when Burchell makes his great reveal and solves everyone’s problems. I adore that moment.”

  “I’ve never read it.”

  “Well, during our drive to Haworth, we can start.” Lucy grinned. “I’ll read to you.”

  “I’d like that.” Helen stopped at the top of the street. “Is it that way?”

  Lucy knew exactly what she meant. “About five blocks. Long ones though. If you want to walk, we should start. Or I could text Dillon.”

  “Let’s walk. It’ll settle my nerves.”

  They crossed Notting Hill Gate and turned onto Kensington Church Street. They walked two more blocks, without talking, and soon they found themselves standing in front of a small flat.

  Lucy chuckled. “I think when it’s four floors high, it should be called a ‘vertical,’ don’t you?”

  Helen stared at the house. “This has been a good day, Lucy, two good days. I feel as though they’ve led me to this moment and I thank you for that.” She peered at Lucy. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused, but I needed you here.”

  “You’re welcome.” Lucy drew her eyes from the building and leveled them at Helen. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.” Helen nodded. “It’s a shame I didn’t do this years ago. I wonder what might have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Secrets always have a price, even if only for ourselves. And this one has cost me. I don’t think I knew how much until . . . recently. That’s the very sad part.” She lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall.

  “What will you tell them?”

  “I haven’t decided. Nothing sounds right.”

  The bright-blue door opened immediately and there stood a man in his midforties sporting an anxious expression. “Mrs. Carmichael?”

  “You must be Edward. Edward Parrish?”

  “I am. Come in. Come in.” He retreated into the narrow hallway. To the right it opened into a large living room with a beautiful enclosed garden behind the French doors. The room was pale lavender with a yellow, purple, and grey Aubusson rug. “My wife will be right up. She’s in the kitchen preparing tea.”

  “You didn’t need to go to any trouble for us.”

  “Trouble? If what you wrote was true, it’s worth some trouble.” He led them into the room. “Please. Please sit.”

  Lucy sat in a small straight-back chair by the door, letting Helen cross in front of her to the couch. “Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you. We moved here about five years ago after our son left for school. It’s become a wonderful home for us. The kitchen is downstairs with a small parlor. Clara and I spend most of our time there or above in the study . . .” He paused. “I don’t think I’ve sat in here since Christmas.”

  Edward’s wife entered with a delicate teapot and four cups and saucers resting on an enameled tray. A small plate of cookies tilted on the edge.

  Lucy jumped up. “May I?”

  “Oh . . . I thought I was going to lose that. Thank you.” She set the tray down with a clatter as Lucy caught the cookie plate. Edward made hasty introductions then fell silent as Lucy helped Clara pass tea and cookies.

  Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to Helen. “I should begin.” She laid down her cup and Lucy heard it gently rattle within the saucer. Helen reached into her handbag and pulled out the gold watch, dangling it from its chain.

  Edward reached out his hand and then drew it back. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Helen offered the watch to him. “Your family name is on the cover, and if I’m correct, all the initials inside line up with your ancestors.”

  Edward ran his fingers over the case, opened it, shut it, opened it again, and finally looked up with moist eyes. “AGP. Augustus Grant. EDP. Edward Dunning. TMP. Theodore Moore, my grandfather. My own father’s aren’t here. The watch went missing during the war and he . . . He was born in ’43.”

  “Did they lose their home in the bombings?”

  “No, but they moved, probably five or six times, during those years. Things were lost.” He held the watch in his palm. “But this is it. He never saw it, but he described it to me as his father had to him.” Edward pa
ssed the watch to his wife. “I could’ve described it perfectly. And Daniel, my son, knows it too. How silly is it that three generations have never seen that watch and yet we all know every scroll and every line?” He reached to pull it back as if it might become lost again. “But it’s here. It’s here.”

  “Is your father alive? The private investigator I hired found only you.”

  “He passed away in ’04.” He traced the initials with his finger. “He would have loved to have seen this. He never gave up hope that it would find its way back to us . . . I’ll still add his initials.”

  As Edward sat gaping at the watch, Lucy noticed that Clara watched Helen.

  Clara took a sip of tea, then spoke. “How did you find it? And your letter said you hired a private investigator?”

  Fair questions, Lucy thought. She, too, turned to Helen, wondering what she’d say. How much truth was enough truth?

  “I’ve thought long and hard about how to answer . . . I’ve had the watch for sixty-five years and, yes, I knew from the first day that it didn’t belong to the person from whom I acquired it.” She dropped her eyes to her lap, took a deep breath, and met their gaze again.

  The whole truth.

  “I was in love with a young man who sold stolen property in the States.” Helen gazed at Lucy. “And when we parted ways, I took that from him. Part talisman, part revenge, and wholly wrong, but I never studied it so I didn’t know about the name and the initials inside. I simply hid it away.”

  She rubbed her fingers together as if kneading out the story. “Then recently I was reminded of it and that’s when I noticed the markings. It became very important to me to end the story and return it, if I could.” She addressed Clara. “I’m only sorry it’s taken so long.”

  “All this time.” Edward’s face reddened. “You knew it was stolen? And you kept it?”

  “I didn’t realize I could find the proper owners. It wasn’t like that . . .” Helen pressed her lips together.

  “Then how was it?” Edward’s voice pitched higher. “This was a piece of our family. Our history. My father—” His voice cut out as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  “I sincerely apologize and I have no real excuse to give.” Helen sat with her hands in her lap and her face blank—as if willing to accept anything that came next.

  “You said you loved the man who stole it. Was he your husband? Did he steal it?”

  Edward’s anger surprised Lucy. She glanced at Helen.

  “Never.” Helen’s eyes darkened to steel. “This was before I met my husband. He didn’t know it existed at all.”

  Edward peeked at his wife; she took up the questioning. “What made you come here?”

  Helen’s visible anger faded and a new emotion flitted through her eyes, gone before Lucy could identify it. “Some things you must do in person, and my time to see those through is . . . ending.”

  Edward opened his mouth but caught a gesture from his wife before speaking. Watching, Lucy felt as if an entire conversation passed between the couple without a single word spoken. Hurt, anger, acceptance, forgiveness, and then joy flashed between them—one leading, one questioning, one answering, and one accepting. It was impossible to tell who led the volley, but Lucy could discern when the last emotion settled. Clara blinked and nodded so slightly, so minutely, that Lucy wondered if only she had caught it.

  But Edward had caught it as well. He gave his wife a brief and intimate smile before turning to Helen. “Forgive me. It’s home now and I truly do thank you for the efforts you took to find us.” His words came out stiff and clipped, but Lucy felt as if he wanted them to be sincere—as if he knew what was right and, by saying it, he could make it so.

  He closed the watch between his palms. “It’s a good idea, I think. I’ll add my father’s initials and mine. Daniel’s too, soon.” Edward’s voice trailed off.

  Clara picked up the thread. “I sense this is about more than the watch, but we thank you for that part. Even I could’ve told you what it looked like.” She laughed.

  “It was the perfect reason for a little trip.” Helen stood as Edward sat rubbing his finger over the watch’s delicate casing.

  “We should go now. Thank you for your kindness and the lovely tea, Clara. I wish you both the very best.”

  Lucy stood as well and Clara led them to the door.

  They’d covered only a few steps to the sidewalk before Helen stopped and clutched the wrought-iron railing. Lucy grabbed at her arm, unable to fully see her face in the dim light until she stood inches from her. “Helen?”

  Helen released a deep sigh that ended in a cough, a laugh, and a hiccup simultaneously. “Oh . . . That took much too long, Lucy. Much too long. And there was a moment there. Oh . . . His father, Lucy, there’s no making that right. I had a piece of their history, their story, this whole time. And poor Charles. I couldn’t bear that . . . Clara got me out of that, don’t you think? I could’ve hugged her right then. Ahh . . . I’m so glad she was there.” She grabbed for Lucy’s wrist.

  “Bless that woman! Did you see his face? Beet red? And his hair? It stood up a little, like a cat. How did he do that?” Helen started to laugh, frantic and watery, then hiccupped again. She let go of the fence, but not Lucy’s wrist, and started to walk. “It’s over. It’s all finally over.”

  At the street corner, they both stopped.

  “Shall I call Dillon?”

  “I suppose so . . .” Helen stepped forward. “Look, Lucy, Sally Clarke’s. It’s still here.”

  “What is it?”

  “A sheer delight. Don’t bother with Dillon yet.” She pulled at Lucy’s hand. “Come on. I feel like celebrating.”

  Chapter 19

  Lucy followed Helen into the small provisions shop bursting with beautiful jars of culinary delights, baked goods, cheeses, and pastas. There were biscuits, tins filled with candies, and a small display of fresh vegetables and fruits in baskets. She kept glancing at Helen, not quite sure what to think of her new giddiness. She was touching every package and every piece of fruit as if seeing things, seeing color, for the first time.

  “There’s a restaurant attached. Will you see if we can get a table?”

  “I’ll be right back.” Lucy ducked back out of the shop to the restaurant next door.

  A young woman, a few years younger than herself, was making notes on paper while dragging her finger across a computer track pad. Her face was drawn tight, her eyes upset rather than annoyed.

  Lucy watched her as she crossed the small waiting area. “We have a reservation for Carmichael at six, but we’re a few minutes early and we’d like to be seated now if possible.”

  The woman’s face fell and she looked back to her screen, to her notebook, and to her screen again. “I don’t have any reservations for Carmichael this evening.” She slid her finger across the track pad once, then again.

  “I confirmed this reservation. Twice. And I am not going to tell my eighty-five-year-old grandmother you lost it.” Lucy flattened out her accent, making herself even more American and louder. “Do you know how far she’s traveled? Just give us whatever you have available. I requested a window table.”

  “I don’t have any notes down and we don’t have—”

  “Find something. Now.”

  The young woman glared at her, then relented in the next beat. “Please excuse me.”

  She hurried away and talked to a server who pointed to a center table. She came back and said, “We can seat you now but not at the window. It’s the best I can offer.”

  “That’ll do.” Lucy smiled. “You made me nervous for a minute. I did not want to tell her that her favorite restaurant wasn’t going to happen tonight after all.”

  “No, of course not.” The woman gripped the edge of the hostess stand before erasing something in her notes.

  Within minutes, Lucy led Helen into the candlelit dining room where the hostess awaited them at the small central table.

  Lucy ran h
er hand across the linen tablecloth. “She forgot our menus.”

  “If it’s like it used to be, there are no menus. It’s a set three-course meal.” Helen leaned forward. “I feel good, Lucy. I hadn’t realized how deep that reached, how important that was to me.”

  Lucy straightened her napkin in her lap. “James called me questioning our trip, you told Charlie it couldn’t wait until summer, you’ve dropped comments here and there, and you just told Clara that your time is ending.”

  “Is there a question there?”

  “There’s a story. James told me you had—have—time.” Lucy felt the currents gaining strength. She also felt the curtain draped in front of her, velvet, thick and dark, providing the tension and movement, just like it did in every good story.

  But suddenly she wanted a Burchell—an honest and humble young man—to step forward and, as in The Vicar of Wakefield, announce he was Sir William Thornhill and he possessed the authority and the desire to set all to rights. No secrets, no shadows, no curtain . . . No Brontë wife in the attic. Clear and beautiful transparency.

  Helen stared straight into Lucy’s eyes. No blinking. “Getting old is not for the faint of heart, Lucy. It’s a trial unlike any I’ve known, to be constantly betrayed by my body. That’s what’s happening to me. I’m not strong enough for more treatment. So, yes, my time is ending and no one is fully aware of that yet.”

  “Why haven’t you told your son?”

  “I needed to see this through, and the moment Charlie knows, I’ll be put on lockdown and may never make another decision for myself again.”

  “That’s a little dramatic.” Lucy threw Helen’s words back at her.

  “Only slightly.”

  “Then time matters, Helen. We should go home now. You need to be with your family.”

  “Yes, time matters to me very much. I’ve used it exactly the way I wanted to, and if it costs me in the end, it will be worth it.” Helen’s jaw flexed and Lucy noted her remarkable eyes cooling in color. #821 Blue Ice would best describe them now. “I won’t regret this, ever. I finally feel like I can be present and real and me, and even if it’s only for a little while, I need that. My family needs that.”