A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “The books did get a little more sophisticated.”

  He laughed low and deep, naturally, like he did it often. “They did. When I arrived here last year, I wanted so badly to send you more Ransome, but you’re grown up now. So I chose the Ruskin.”

  “Your first nonfiction.” Lucy silently chided herself. That’s your first comment?

  “It was and I selected it for a reason. But first, tell me about you. I’ve got twenty years to hear about.”

  Lucy’s eyes flickered. “I . . . How do I begin that?”

  “Start at college and take me from there.”

  Lucy recited what felt like part résumé, part life story. She told of studying art history in college because she loved it, business because she needed it, then not distinguishing herself in either because the library had a marvelous nook in a forgotten window, which was perfect for reading and which, in all four years, not another person discovered. So that was college. Good friends and hundreds of books.

  She told about the computer programming class that led her to an internship at Sid’s and how building him a database led to a job and now, she hoped, a career. She talked about girlfriends who stuck and a few boyfriends who’d drifted in and out of her life as quietly and gently as turning a page. She finally mentioned James. And there she stalled, unwilling to turn the page, afraid to find herself at the end of the book.

  “So he’s here?”

  “In London with his grandmother. They’ll head back to Chicago tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll need to thank him for sending you on. This is nice, Lucy. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

  “About that . . .” Lucy took a bite of the pasta her father had ordered for them both and used the moment to formulate her question. “You sent me a book every year, but no note, nothing. Why did this take so long?”

  Her father leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth with his napkin, holding it there. He slowly lowered it. “I’m sorry for that. I . . . I’m not sure if your mom told you, but I spent some time in prison a while back.”

  “Statesville in Joliet. I Googled the postmark and figured it out.”

  “I should’ve expected that . . . That experience was unfortunate. A dear friend left me a significant gift from her estate and her children contested it. They claimed I defrauded her.”

  “Did you?”

  “She changed her will on her own and was in her right mind when she did it, but the judge didn’t see it that way.” He waved his hands. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m telling you as a way of saying that I didn’t want you to know about that then, and after, well, I had things to do. Time slipped away. But all that’s in the past. Here you are.”

  “Yes. I suppose it is.” Lucy dropped her eyes and mumbled, “Things to do.” She chewed on the phrase, wondering if it tasted sour, and soon found it had no taste at all. She looked back to her father, “What do you do? And how’d you get here?”

  Her father’s lips curved up on both sides. “You’ll love it. I’ve got a good job going here.” He spread his arms wide on the table, gripping the edges. “And I’ve wanted to come back for years. When Mum died, Dad couldn’t get out of England fast enough, but it was my home. I never forgot.” He surveyed the restaurant with a proprietary air.

  “A couple years ago, I needed a break from the States so I came home. I understand this country and its pace and flavor. It’s not so rigid. There is a flow of life, of understanding, in England and Europe that is at odds with American thought. But I’m glad you caught me now because next fall I’m heading down to the south of France for a few years to try out life in a warmer climate. It’ll be time to move on.” He acknowledged a few patrons he knew before returning his attention to her.

  “Willa and I picked out the village. You’ve got to explore while you’re young, right? You hear me?”

  “I hear you . . .” Lucy tried to smile. “Willa?”

  “You’ll like Willa. I met her last summer, but . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “She doesn’t know I have a daughter—and certainly not one your age. She thinks I’m forty. I never told her that, mind you; she got it fixed in her head somehow and it’s pointless to tell her differently now. She’s closer to your age. Thirty-three.” He bobbed his head as if making the introductions. “How long are you staying?”

  “If I hadn’t found you, I was going to leave tomorrow. I didn’t think past that, but I’d like to stick around a few days, at least.” Lucy hiked a shoulder and let it drop. “Get to know each other?”

  “Grand. I’ll tell Willa about you tonight. Don’t worry. I had you young. Happens all the time . . . Perhaps let’s not mention your age, if you don’t mind?” He let his voice lift as if the decision was her own.

  Lucy nodded. And not until she felt a sting in her mouth did she realize she was biting the side of her cheek. She laid down her fork. “I don’t need to stay.”

  Her father reached his hand across the table and grabbed hers. “I want you to. This is our time.” He dropped his hand to motion for the check, and once he’d paid, he ushered Lucy from the restaurant with a small but firm pressure in the center of her back.

  Chapter 29

  The next morning Lucy climbed out of bed early and went for a walk. The town wasn’t awake yet, but Pasty Presto down the hill was open and serving coffee. She grabbed a cappuccino and a small bun and ambled to her bench along the water.

  The swans, probably fully aware of when the tourists brought their crumbs, hadn’t arrived yet. She sat as the waves of Bowness Bay lapped the shore—tiny when compared to Lake Michigan, miniscule when compared to an ocean.

  What she’d thought was a tsunami, twenty years pulling back from the shore, was hitting more like a ripple—changing nothing and unable to sweep the sands smooth.

  Each tiny wave brought a discordant memory from the night before. Puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. Or worse, puzzle pieces that did. She couldn’t deny a picture was forming, one in confirmation of her mom’s expectations rather than her own hopes. She kicked at the pebbles in front of her, skidding them into the water.

  She tapped her phone. Nine o’clock. It was time. She tossed her paper cup into a bin and followed her father’s directions to The Ship Inn. A little farther down the shoreline, the restaurant was already bustling with patrons and mature smells of grease, eggs, and fish when she arrived. She peered around and finally found her father and a young woman with brown cropped hair huddled in the corner. He was leaning over, talking close to her ear and smoothing her hair as if soothing a child. It was mussed, as if she’d worked to achieve the bed-tousled look, or had, in fact, just climbed from bed. Lucy glanced away.

  “Lucy!” He half stood and waved, reaching around the woman to hug Lucy as she neared. “I’m glad you’re here. Come meet Willa.”

  Lucy stretched out her hand as she sat.

  Willa grabbed it with well-moisturized, thick fingers. She gripped hard, rolling Lucy’s knuckles across one another, and let go before Lucy could react. “Anthony told me you were here. In the year we’ve been together, I’ve never met any of his family. Never even knew about a daughter.” She threw Lucy’s father a quick look before affectionately kissing his cheek. Lucy noticed a tiny diamond in her nose that caught the light as she swung her head back.

  “Yes.” Lucy was at a loss for more words.

  “The family resemblance is uncanny. What eyes you two have!”

  Lucy couldn’t help herself and softly mumbled, “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

  Her father heard her and shot her a look as Willa continued unaware, “But that hair! That must come from your mother.” She reached over and rubbed together the ends of Lucy’s ponytail.

  Lucy resisted the urge to pull away.

  “Are you on break?”

  “Break?” Lucy flicked her neck, sending her ponytail over her shoulder, as she caught her father’s fixed look. She took a moment to absorb the unspoken currents: Willa was questioning her age, c
hecking up on Anthony, calculating the length of her stay—taking her measure. And her dad? He required backup. What had he said? Lucy couldn’t remember. She could only hear another childhood command, returning after a long sleep. Never give more information than necessary.

  Lucy determined her own course. “I came for work.” She pressed her lips shut, refusing to elaborate.

  Willa’s eyes flashed confusion then resignation.

  The conversation flowed formally while the server took their orders and delivered teas and another coffee for Lucy. They waited for their meals in relative silence.

  As soon as breakfast arrived, Willa picked up her fork and approached Lucy from a different angle. “Your father says you’re a reader. You read a lot in college? You must come this afternoon.” At Lucy’s blank expression, Willa gently pinched his arm. “You didn’t invite her? She could be our guest and see what you do.”

  Willa leaned toward Lucy. “I’m sure your father told you about our tours. They’re not your run-of-the-mill walks to see this and that. They’re literary tours. They were Anthony’s idea and they’re wildly popular. Walking tours, mostly, for now.” Willa nudged Lucy’s father, who opened his mouth, but she spun back to Lucy before he said anything.

  “Anthony tells about the area and the sites, but he also reads to them some of the poetry and fiction that came from here. He’s got readings from Pride and Prejudice, Beatrix Potter, some book about swallows—”

  “Swallows and Amazons. It’s an adventure story,” he interjected.

  “I didn’t mean it was about birds,” Willa retorted, her short hair appearing to stand on end. “But that’d be right too,” she whined before turning back to Lucy. “He talks about some of the animals around here, especially at the Beatrix Potter bits, and there’s Wordsworth and Coleridge and that other guy . . . The critic. You know . . .”

  “Ruskin?” Lucy added with understanding.

  “Ruskin! Tourists eat it up. It’s like they’ve been transported in time.” She snuggled into Lucy’s father’s side and cooed. “He is so talented.”

  Lucy smiled genuinely for the first time. “I can imagine you’d be really good at that, Dad.”

  “I love it.” He smiled back. “That’s why I sent you the Ruskin book.” He leaned forward, gently dislodging himself from Willa’s grasp. “He was a philanthropist, thinker, and the Victorian era’s most famous art critic. Bringing him into the tours provides a personal opening into the art and social movements of the time—that’s the Golden Age around here and he embodies that vital link between fact and fiction.”

  As they ate, Lucy’s father gave his part-life-story, part-résumé, and a description of their tours. Willa interjected every time he paused.

  As he talked on, however, Lucy noted a side conversation—unspoken but equally informative, perhaps even more so. Every time Willa strayed into details from his time before Bowness or to their future plans for France or Italy, Lucy’s father steered the conversation back on track with a quick “Where’s the jam?” or a soft “May I try your eggs?” Then a cough and a subsequent search for cough drops, or a “Where is that girl? We need more tea.” And each time, Willa lost her trail and bounced back onto the approved topic. Lucy made note of each digression.

  As the plates were cleared, Willa leaned forward and snaked a hand out, dark blue nails flashing, to grasp Lucy’s as she held her third “just a touch to warm it” cup of coffee. “Isn’t he brilliant? Oh, and I keep forgetting that next—”

  Anthony sneezed and bumped her, sloshing Lucy’s coffee over the rim.

  “Do you have a Kleenex? My allergies are acting up.”

  “In here somewhere . . .” As Willa pulled back and dug into her brown bag, Lucy watched her dad. His steady green eyes stayed trained on Willa’s search. “Here you go.” She waved a crumpled tissue at him.

  He folded it into his hand. “We need to finish a few details for this afternoon. I must gather my notes and get a few supplies. I try to tailor the tours and today we have an American couple and an Australian family. All are good walkers, they say, so I want to take them up Brantfell Road. There’s a rocky outcrop up there and my Pride and Prejudice quotes really take flight. Wordsworth too. I sometimes have to read them in Fallbarrow Park when patrons can’t take the hills, but it’s not the same. So if you can shift for yourself a couple hours, we can meet up and you can come along for today.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” Anthony stood and scooted Willa’s chair back for her.

  “We’re leaving?” She pouted. “I could stay and chat.”

  “There’s a lot to do.” He reached down and squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “We’ll meet you at one o’clock in the square outside Windermere Lake Cruises, right on the water.”

  “I sat near there this morning. I know where it is.”

  “It’s a small town.” Her father slid Willa’s chair out farther.

  Willa bobbed her head toward Lucy. “We’ll have such fun. If you’re like your father, you’ll be such a help today.”

  Lucy’s father gently pulled Willa away. Lucy picked up her mug and mopped the spill with her napkin.

  Lucy wandered up the smaller side streets and bought a few gifts and souvenirs, including another snow globe and two key chains for her new collection. One was a replica of the local church and the other a tiny figurine of Peter Rabbit. She found a few more odds and ends, a bottle of gardenia perfume for her mom, and a couple more silver thimbles for Sid. Waving a small thimble on her finger, she played with the idea of keeping them for herself but suspected Sid would know just the client who would adore them. The thought made her smile.

  Shopping finished, Lucy stood at the edge of the lake as several small wooden boats pushed off the shore with kids and adults swaying back and forth searching for their balance and jostling the oars. She turned back onto the sidewalk and tapped her phone, missing only one person.

  It rang five times before Helen answered. “I couldn’t find it in my bag. We’re about to leave for the airport. Have you found your father?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “It’s good. He runs literary walking tours.”

  “That sounds just up your alley. Why don’t you sound happy? What’s wrong?”

  Lucy stopped walking and stepped into a small open park. She leaned against a tree and faced the lake again in time to see one of the boats tip and two kids splash into the water. “I expected to feel like you did when you gave the watch back. It was like you were floating. In an instant, you were free. Remember at the Bloomsbury Coffee House when we declared each other ‘safe’ and we could share and talk . . . You didn’t need me after Peel Street, but I’ve found him and I . . . I’m still calling you.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t feel different. Missing him, finding him, that’s been twenty years in the making and it’s done, and yet, I’m not lighter. I’ve laid nothing down. I feel the same.” Lucy clamped her eyes shut, trying to work out the words. “Nothing is what I expected.”

  “Few things ever are. Giving that watch back was the starting point for me. It wasn’t the end and yes, I felt good that evening, but emotions fluctuate. You know that. They never stay. It’s what we do with the facts that counts.” She fell silent and Lucy suspected she was searching for a chair.

  She continued, “Did you know Charlie was here when we arrived yesterday? We talked all yesterday afternoon and then through dinner, and it wasn’t good at all. He’s very angry . . . And yet, remember how I said my eyes felt wider?”

  Lucy nodded, before recognizing that Helen wouldn’t catch the gesture.

  Helen continued, “His are today too. They’ve lost that tight look that he’s given me for years. So I think, despite the difficulty, we are on the right road. You stay on it too.”

  Lucy nodded again. “I will.”

  “You aren’t any more responsible for your father’s choices than Charlie was for m
ine. I learned that yesterday; he felt such pressure to live up to what he thought I was and wanted him to be. I suspect James has suffered under that same weight. Don’t you make that mistake. And as for what you said in the tea shop? Emily Brontë was wrong if she ever meant that our ancestors fix us and determine our lives and choices. People can be redeemed.”

  “Maybe I was projecting.” Lucy heard a rustle as if people entered Helen’s room to collect bags. “Have a safe flight.”

  “James is here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Okay.” Helen’s voice dipped low and sincere. “Enjoy your visit.”

  Lucy thanked Helen and slipped her phone back into her bag. Enjoy your visit. It seemed so simple, almost too simple, for all she hoped to accomplish here. But perhaps Helen hadn’t said the words blithely. Perhaps that was the proper perspective. This was merely “a visit” and she need only enjoy it. No more, but no less.

  As she watched the lake, another boat came alongside the capsized kids and an older man dragged them aboard. A young woman then jumped into the water, righted the capsized dinghy, and alone rowed it to shore.

  At one o’clock Lucy stood at the back of the small group wanting to watch her father at work more than participate. Willa’s short hair was sleek, styled, and tucked behind her ears; her outfit, sophisticated and refined; and her voice . . . Lucy almost didn’t recognize her as the same woman. She spoke slowly, with more intonation and definition.

  Lucy stared as Willa passed around tea in paper to-go cups to the adults and bottles of ginger beer to the kids. She sprinkled little comments among the group and soon everyone was talking and laughing—even the two new families who’d joined the tour since breakfast.

  Willa glided between the women. “I love your shoes . . . Such the right choice for today . . . And you were wise to bring dark glasses. It’s a gorgeous spring this year . . . Have your kids tasted ginger beer? Such a treat . . .”