“What do you suppose?” Bill asked.
“Give me a minute, will you? This isn’t easy for me to say.” I got up and opened the door. The sound of crickets wafted in on a soft breeze. “I’ve done some thinking about what you said up on the hill—some thinking and some reading, too.”
“You went back to the correspondence?”
“Yes, while you were soaking your… sore muscles in the Jacuzzi. Well, after all those things you said, I had to. I was up pretty late last night, reading through letter after letter, and I noticed something. My mother never says anything that isn’t cheerful. Even when she’s talking about things that must have bothered her tremendously—like taking ten years to have a baby, for instance—even when she’s talking about that, she’s cracking jokes, as though it didn’t really bother her. And that?s how I remember her?happy all the time.? I turned and held a hand up. ?Don?t get me wrong. That?s not a bad way to be. I mean, look at what it did for Dimity.? My hand dropped and I looked back out into the garden. ?But I?m not sure it was all that good for me. It?s not human. As you said, she didn?t teach me how to be unhappy.” I shook my head. “And that’s hard for me to handle. I didn’t think she had any weaknesses.”
“Do you mind finding out that she did?”
I sat down again, leaning toward Bill with my elbows on the table. “That’s the strangest part, Bill. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief, in fact. It’s not easy being the daughter of a saint.”
Bill smiled ruefully and nodded. “Being the son of one is no fun, either. That’s why I constantly remind myself of each and every one of Father’s faults. It’s a depressingly short list, but it helps. Did you know, for example, that he has a secret passion for root beer?”
“Is that a fault?”
“For a man raised on Montrachet? One might even call it a serious character defect. He’d be drummed out of his club if word got around. Please don’t let on that I told you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” We shared a smile, then I lowered my eyes to the wrought-iron tabletop. “You know, Bill, I might not have gone back to the correspondence if it hadn’t been for you. Thanks for giving me a shove.”
“You’re welcome.” The sound of the crickets rose and fell as the dusk turned into darkness. Bill took the rose from Reginald’s paws. “Excuse me, old man, but you don’t mind if I…” He handed the rose to me. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you how beautiful you look. The color suits you.”
I couldn’t be sure if he was referring to the cornflower blue of my new dress or the blush that had risen to my cheeks, so I changed the subject. “Ruth and Louise were very helpful, weren’t they?”
“Yes, indeed.” Bill sat back in his chair. “RM. Robert MacLaren.”
“More commonly known as Bobby—an airman who was killed in action late in the year 1940, just before my mother met Dimity. A call to the War Office would confirm all of that, I suppose.”
“But they wouldn’t be able to tell us about this.” My heart did a flutter step as he reached over to touch the locket. “The War Office doesn’t keep track of that sort of thing. Whatever is tormenting Dimity, it’s not just grief over losing Bobby. Something must have happened between them, something terrible.” Bill stood up. “What we need is someone who knew Bobby and Dimity.” He strode off down the hallway.
“Where are you going?” I asked, scrambling after him as fast as my brand-new pumps would allow.
“Upstairs to pack,” he called from the stairs.
I followed him up. “To pack? Why?”
“I’m going to London.” At the top of the stairs, he turned to face me. “Lori, think about it. Bobby was an airman.” He went ahead into his room.
“So?” I stood frowning on the stairs, then hit myself in the forehead, feeling like a complete fool. “Of course! The Flamborough!”
Bill stuck his head out of his door. “Bingo.”
“I thought of the Flamborough when we were talking with the Pyms, but then it slipped away.” I climbed the last few stairs, then stood in Bill’s doorway while he tossed a few things in a bag.
“I’m going to pay a visit to the redoubtable Miss Kingsley,” said Bill, pulling a shirt off a hanger in the wardrobe, “to find out if anyone still knows how to operate the Flamborough Telegraph. They might be able to put us in touch with some of Bobby’s friends or fellow airmen.” He folded the shirt and placed it in the bag, then opened a drawer in the dresser.
“Why do you keep saying ‘I’? You mean ‘we’, don’t you?”
Bill pulled a pair of socks out of the drawer and shook his head. “Not this time. You have to be here to field calls from Father.” The socks went into the bag.