Ruth and Louise Pym, the ancient and utterly identical twin sisters who lived up the lane from us, delivered flowers and fresh vegetables from their gardens. Mr. Malvern, the dairy farmer next door, supplied us with milk, cream, butter, and cheese. Mr. Barlow, the local handyman, brought only his tools, but he used them to mend the sticky hinge on the back door. Lilian Bunting, the vicar’s wife, filled my freezer with casseroles, stews, and soups, and the vicar brought an armload of books he found comforting in troubled times.
My favorite part of the parade occurred after the rush was over, when my best friend Emma Harris showed up to chat quietly over a cup of tea, but even she felt compelled to drop off a few jars of her homemade jams. No one ever left without leaving something. As a result I hadn’t had to cook or bake or shop for groceries since we’d returned from Scotland.
“I’m going to bankrupt the villagers if I don’t snap out of my funk,” I said gloomily.
The parade was over, as was dinner. Annelise had taken the boys upstairs for their baths. I’d offered to lend a hand, but Bill had insisted that I rest after my action-packed day, so he, Stanley, and I had retreated to the sofa in the living room to munch on Crazy Quilt Cookies, put our feet—and paws—up, and watch the fire.
“It’s not a funk,” said Bill. “It’s post-traumatic stress and it’s not something you snap out of. It’s something you recover from.”
“But I’m not recovering,” I moaned. “In the past month I’ve tried counselors, psychiatrists, the vicar, pills, meditation, hypnotherapy—”
“—aromatherapy, massage therapy, hydrotherapy, acupuncture,” Bill put in.
“And nothing’s worked,” I concluded.
“If I were foolish enough to risk rousing your wrath,” Bill said, after a pause, “I’d point out that you haven’t done anything long enough to know whether it was working or not. But I’m not, so I won’t.”
I nodded ruefully, acknowledging the hit. “Patience was never my strong suit. I don’t seem to have any strong suits at the moment. I don’t know what to try next.”
“That’s okay,” said Bill. “I do.”
He smiled mysteriously, shifted Stanley from his lap to the floor, and left the living room. He returned a moment later with one hand tucked behind his back, sidestepped his way around the couch, to keep me from seeing his hidden hand, and perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing me. His expression reminded me of the twins’ when they’d accomplished a particularly ingenious bit of mischief.
“What are you up to?” I asked, eyeing him warily.
“Remember the special delivery Terry Edmonds made this morning?” he asked. “It’s for you. I ordered it last night.”
“It’s a brain,” I said promptly. “You want me to try a brain transplant.”
“Wrong,” he said, his eyes dancing.
“Well?” I demanded. “What is it?”
Grinning from ear to ear, Bill brought his hand around to reveal his big surprise. It was a large, white cowboy hat. He placed it on my head.
“Saddle up, little lady,” he drawled. “The Wild West is a-callin’!”
Two
“Yee-ha!” Bill cried, slapping his thigh.
Startled, Stanley bolted from the room, but I was too bewildered to move a muscle. My husband was the Harvard-educated scion of a Boston Brahmin family. He didn’t drawl or slap his thigh, and the closest he’d ever come to the Wild West was a legal conference in Denver. I stared at him, dumbfounded, and wondered what on earth had come over him. Had the fumes from Dick Peacock’s wine pickled his brain? Had he finally cracked under the strain of caretaking? Had I strayed into an alternate universe?
I touched the cowboy hat’s crown, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, then said, very carefully, “Bill? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the one thing we haven’t tried so far,” he replied, beaming. “A complete change of scene, and I do mean complete.” He swept an arm toward the cottage’s bay window. “Go west, young woman! Seek your fortune in the glorious, untamed wilderness of the Colorado Rockies!”
“Are you saying that we should go to Colorado?” I asked, struggling to keep up. “As in…Colorado?”
“The one and only!” Bill exclaimed happily. “Finch isn’t doing you any good. It’s too familiar. You need to jump-start your batteries by plugging into a place that bears no resemblance to Finch whatsoever. And what could be more different from our too-tame English village than a log cabin in the glorious, untamed—”
“Log cabin?” I squeaked, alarmed.
“You remember Danny Auerbach, the real estate developer?” Bill registered my blank look and rushed on. “I’ve done a lot of work for Danny over the years. He built a cabin in the mountains a couple of years ago, and he’s offered it to me a thousand times. I finally decided to take him up on his offer.”
“You’ve bought a log cabin?” I said, my head spinning. “In Colorado?”
“I’m just borrowing it,” Bill explained. “Danny likes to have friends stay there. It’s near a small mountain town—”
“Aspen?” I said hopefully.
“No,” said Bill, dashing my hopes. “Danny doesn’t care for Aspen—he says it’s overbuilt and overpriced—so he built his place near a mountain town called Bluebird, on a piece of land that’s been in his family for ages. With Bluebird nearby you won’t feel cut off from civilization, but you’ll be far enough away from city lights to enjoy a feeling of…” He stretched his arms wide and stuck out his chest. “Expansiveness.”
“Expansiveness,” I echoed doubtfully.
“It’s what you need, Lori,” said Bill, “and it’s exactly what you won’t find in our cozy corner of the world.”
I could do nothing for a moment but gape at him. He’d evidently forgotten how much I loved our cozy corner of the world. Finch was a sleepy backwater that scarcely merited a dot on most maps, but it pulsated with the seething passions of everyday life, and I was caught up in those passions. Would the vicar defy tradition and invite a rock band to perform at the church fête? Would Sally Pyne wear her luminous purple tracksuit to the flower show? Would the all-powerful Peggy Taxman expand her empire to include the greengrocer’s shop, now that old Mr. Farnham had retired? The high drama never ceased, and the thought of missing out on a single day’s worth of juicy gossip was intolerable.
Gossip deprivation aside, it just seemed wrong to leave the cottage and flee to a log cabin half a world away from Finch. The cottage was our home. To abandon it, even temporarily, would be to give in to the black-eyed demon who’d hijacked my dreams.
“I don’t know, Bill,” I said. “It seems like cowardice to me, like we’re letting Abaddon run us out of town.”
“Nonsense.” Bill tossed his head dismissively. “If you go to Colorado, you’ll be declaring your independence from Abaddon. You’ll be saying, ‘I’m not going to curl up in a fetal position for the rest of my life because a nutcase got the better of me. I’m going to seize the day!’” He put a hand on my knee and added earnestly, “I’ve seen you disagree with Peggy Taxman—out loud and in front of witnesses. You’re no coward, Lori.”
“What about the boys?” I said worriedly. “We’ll be uprooting them, won’t we? Upsetting their routine?”
“Of course we’ll be upsetting their routine,” Bill retorted. “Do you honestly think they’ll mind? It’s mid-June, Lori, a wonderful time of year to visit the Rockies. The boys can go hiking and trout fishing and fossil hunting, and they can pan for gold in the river. If they’re lucky, they’ll catch their first glimpse of elk, buffalo, and bighorn sheep. There’s even a ranch nearby, where they’ll be able to ride with real cowboys.” Bill bobbed his head enthusiastically. “They’ll have a tale or two to tell their friends when they start school in the fall, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t know if Annelise—” I began, but Bill rode right over me.
“It’ll be the adventure of a lifetime for Annelise,” he decla
red. “She’s been to America before, with us, but she’s never traveled outside of Boston. She’ll jump at the chance to see the Rockies.”
I sat back on the sofa, folded my arms, and regarded Bill narrowly. He was trying much too hard to persuade me that his scheme was flawless. Wifely instinct told me that he was withholding a vital piece of information.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s the catch?”
“Catch?” said Bill, with an air of injured innocence. “Why do you think there’s a catch?”
“Because you’re chirping like a deranged cheerleader, that’s why.” I made a beckoning motion with my hand. “Out with it, Bill. Spill the beans. What haven’t you told me?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it, there is one small catch.” Bill cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and said, “I can’t go.”
“You…what?” My jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously expect me to tackle the glorious, untamed wilderness without you?”
“I’m sorry, Lori, but I have no choice.” His shoulders drooped and he hung his head, like a defeated Little Leaguer. “As you pointed out after breakfast, I have to get back to work. Things have piled up since I’ve been gone, things I can’t pass on to the London office. I have to see to them personally or we’ll lose at least seven of our best clients. You know I’d come with you if I could, but…”
His words trailed off on a crestfallen sigh that cut me to the quick. Bill had devoted himself to me, day and night, for weeks on end. He’d never run out of patience or good humor, and he’d never uttered one word of complaint. He’d conceived of a marvelous journey with nothing but my well-being in mind, and all I could do was whine about him staying behind. Shame flooded through me like molten lava.
“Is this”—I ran a finger along the cowboy hat’s brim—“why you were up so late last night? Were you using your computer to plan the trip?”
“Yes,” Bill answered, without looking at me.
“Well,” I said softly, “I’ll miss you like blazes, but apart from that, I think it’s a brilliant plan.”
Bill’s head snapped up. “You do?”
“As you said, it’s the only thing we haven’t tried.” I shrugged. “Who knows? It just might work.”
“It will,” said Bill, with great conviction. “I know it will.”
I brushed a few stray cat hairs from the sofa. “I can’t wait to tell Stanley. He’ll be thrilled to have you all to himself. And you can fill me in on breaking news while I’m away.”
“If Sally Pyne wears her hideous tracksuit to the flower show, you’ll be the first to know,” Bill said, with his hand on his heart.
He took the hat from my head and dropped it on the coffee table, then moved onto the couch and put his arms around me. I snuggled as close to him as my shoulder would allow.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a vacation in the States,” I mused aloud.
“You won’t have to lift a finger,” Bill promised. “I’ve arranged everything, airline tickets, a rental car, a driver—”
“Why do we need a driver?” I asked, stiffening. It was a touchy subject. I didn’t share my husband’s low opinion of my driving skills.
“Your arm may feel better, but your range of motion is still limited,” Bill explained gently. “You won’t be able to handle mountain roads.”
“Maybe not,” I said, conceding the point, “but what about Annelise? She can drive.”
“Annelise is English,” he reminded me. “Do you really want her careering around hairpin bends on the wrong side of the road?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve hired the cabin’s caretaker to look after you. His name is James Blackwell and he lives on the property, so he knows his way around. He’ll pick you up at the airport, take you to the cabin, and act as your chauffeur while you’re there. He’ll be a great guide, Lori, and he’ll see to it that the cabin is stocked with food, drink, and firewood.”
“How long will we be away?” I asked.
“As long as you like,” said Bill. “I booked open-ended airline tickets and I checked with Danny—he’s not planning to use the cabin this summer and no one else has asked to borrow it.”
I wondered briefly why the cabin was so unpopular, but decided not to question Bill about it. If the place turned out to be a one-room shack equipped with kerosene lanterns and an aromatic outhouse, I’d make the best of it. I’d do whatever I had to do to keep the smile on my husband’s face.
“Wow,” I said admiringly. “You really have thought of everything. What would you have done if I’d refused to go?”
“I would have canceled the trip and tried something else.” Bill kissed the top of my head. “Like a brain transplant.”
“I’ve always wanted to stay in a log cabin,” I assured him hastily. “When do we leave?”
“The day after tomorrow,” Bill replied.
I stifled an incredulous squawk and forced myself to comment benignly, “The sooner, the better. Bluebird, Colorado, here we come!”
I’d scarcely finished speaking when a chorus of earsplitting shouts came from the hallway.
“We’re going!” bellowed Rob.
“We’re going!” hollered Will.
Our pajama-clad sons galloped into the living room and pranced gleefully in front of the fireplace. Annelise followed at a more sedate pace, but her face was shining. I pursed my lips and looked at my husband, whose eyes were trained on the ceiling.
“You wouldn’t have mentioned the trip to Will, Rob, and Annelise before telling me about it, would you?” I asked.
“I might have let a few details slip,” Bill allowed. “Inadvertently.”
I transferred my gaze to Annelise. “You and the boys wouldn’t have eavesdropped on our conversation, would you?”
“We might have overheard a word or two,” she admitted. “Purely by accident.”
“We’re going to Colorado!” Rob roared. “We’re going to pan for gold!”
“We’re going to ride with cowboys!” Will yelled. “We’re going to see buffalo!”
It sounded as though Bill had let more than a few details slip, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t remember the last time the twins had made so much noise. They were hopping up and down instead of tiptoeing, and their voices were anything but hushed. Annelise’s eyes were bright with anticipation and Bill was beaming like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Their joy was so contagious that I felt as if my troubles were at an end.
I should have known better.
Three
We brought the evening’s celebrations to a close with a marathon reading of the entire Cowboy Sam series, then put Rob and Will to bed. Annelise promptly retired to her room and Bill staggered into our bedroom, with Stanley at his heels, to catch up on the sleep he’d missed the night before.
I stayed with him until he nodded off, then slipped quietly out of the bedroom and went downstairs to the study. It would have been pointless for me to stay in bed. I wouldn’t have been able to close my eyes if I’d missed my nightly private chat with Aunt Dimity.
A private chat was the only kind of chat I could have with Aunt Dimity. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t ashamed to be seen with her. She was the most intelligent, compassionate, and courageous woman I knew, but there was simply no getting around the fact that she wasn’t, strictly speaking, alive.
To complicate matters further, Aunt Dimity wasn’t my aunt. She was an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood, and she’d been my late mother’s closest friend. The two women had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. When the war ended and my mother returned to the States, they continued their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic.
Those letters meant the world to my mother. After my father’s early death, she’d raised me on her own while working full time as a schoolteacher. She hadn’t had an easy life, but the hard times had been softened by her correspondence with Dimity. The letters
my mother sent and received became a refuge for her, a place where she could go when the twin burdens of widowhood and single motherhood became too heavy for her to bear.
My mother kept her refuge a closely held secret, even from her only child. She never whispered a word to me about her old friend or the letters that meant so much to her. As a child I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother.
I didn’t learn the truth about Dimity Westwood until after she and my mother had died, when Dimity bequeathed to me a considerable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the precious letters she and my mother had exchanged, and a curious blue leather-bound journal with blank pages. It was through the blue journal that I’d come to know Dimity not as a fictional heroine, but as a very real—some would say surreal—friend.
Whenever I opened the journal, Dimity’s handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when little girls still dressed in pinafores. I’d nearly come unglued the first time Dimity greeted me from beyond the grave, but one mention of my mother’s name had been enough to reassure me that her intentions toward me were kindly. I’d long since come to regard her as my most cherished confidante, and I hoped the day would never come when the pages of the journal remained blank.
The study was a bit messier than usual, strewn with papers that should have been filed at Bill’s office. I tidied them into neat piles and placed them beside his laptop on the old oak desk beneath the ivy-covered window. Once the room was in order, I turned to say hello to a small, pink flannel rabbit named Reginald, who spent most of his time perched in a special niche on the study’s bookshelves.
The sight of a grown woman conversing with a pink flannel rabbit might strike some people as odd, but to me it was as natural as breathing. Reginald had been at my side for as long as I could remember. I’d shared moments of triumph, woe, and everything in between with him for nearly forty years, and I wasn’t about to stop now.
Aunt Dimity Goes West Page 2
