“I understand my great-grandfather had to bury this shame and go command a ship. Take action. But my grandmother carried it her whole life and let it destroy everything she loved—including my dad. He said something like that when he told me to back off. I don’t want to live like that, Mat. Not anymore.”
As I wound myself down, we turned the final corner to Eaton Square. I stopped and stared up at the house. White-painted stone and brick. Glossy black door. Stark and imposing. Four stories high. It held every secret that weighed me down. It embodied them. Yes, buildings had personalities and, until entering it days before, I had always dreaded this one. Now I wanted to love it—wanted to. I was ready for something new and Mom’s renovations had brought in light. It even felt like the house wanted something new. But there was still no clarity. Not yet. And without that, I feared the darkness would swallow whatever light we’d so recently found.
I pulled the key from my shoulder bag and let us in the side door. We descended the short flight of stairs to the kitchen. The room glowed with soft evening light, graying to night. I flipped the light switch.
“Tea?”
“Sure, but let me do it.” Mat pulled a chair out for me from under the table. “Then let’s get your elbow cleaned up.”
He reached high for Mom’s tea tin and filled the kettle. Without prompting, he then filled a small bowl with warm water and a drop of soap and tilted another chair to face me. “Shift my way.”
He laid my arm on the table and dabbed at the elbow with the wet corner of a tea towel. His face was so close to mine that I noticed, like Caro had of George, that his skin was translucent. I really could see where the razor hadn’t scraped close, or where a vein passed at the corner of his eye, or the small scar tracing up the left side of his chin.
“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday.” At my questioning glance, he toggled his head to encompass the kitchen and the entire house beyond. “About envy?”
I followed his darting gaze and gave a rueful snort I had to cover with my free hand. “Don’t worry about that. I envied you, so I guess it’s all good.” He continued to clean my scrape with tremendous care. It wasn’t deep so much as a wide gravel burn. “I was overly sensitive. I look at this house and I wonder what my dad feels. He’d never tell me, of course, but it must hurt.”
“Were they close? Your grandmother and your mom?”
“Maybe at the end. Mom came over to help, but no . . . No one was close. No one is close.” I stared down but could now see only the top of Mat’s head. His black hair held a hint of wave that only broke into a curl at one ear. “Jason tries. His wife had a baby girl a few months ago. They named her Carolina, after me . . . I . . . I’ll be so sad when he stops.”
“Stops trying?” Mat sat straight. “Why would he do that?”
Because everyone does.
I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t lump Jason into that group, not yet. But I wasn’t wrong either. “Dad did. Mom did. She filed for divorce and walked out the door the same weekend I left for college. Sure it was ten years after Amelia’s death. But there are lots of ways to leave while living side by side.”
“She’s trying.” My befuddled expression made Mat shake his head like I’d missed something terribly obvious. He continued, “Your mom. She’s trying her best to connect with you. I hope you see that. She’s like a pseudo-British Alice Waters down here.”
The kettle whistled. He stepped away to pour our cups of tea.
“It’s just food.”
Mat chuckled. “You still really know nothing . . . What was that snack plate she brought up yesterday? Carrots, hummus, celery, a nut mix, turkey rolls with fig jam, brie, and a thin stalk of asparagus to ‘give the whole thing a bit of crunch’? And macarons—don’t forget those ‘delightful’ raspberry and lavender cookies.”
The memory of my mom’s tentative “I don’t want to disturb you, but I thought you might be hungry” and his perfectly toned recitation made me smile.
“What do you think love is, Payne?”
His question caught me. The playful intimacy of using my last name caught me. He’d done it earlier, he’d done it in college. But I had no answer—I didn’t know.
Mat set my tea on the table and gestured to my elbow. “It’s all clean. If you can find a Band-Aid, I’ll help you put it on.”
I nodded, picked up my mug, and led him out of the kitchen and up to the attic—slowly. I’d noticed Mom had a first aid kit on one of the bookshelves, probably left over from when she lived up there during the renovations.
Mat taped a large piece of white gauze over my elbow then looked to the center table and the chaos of letters and diaries strewn across it. “We’ve got a lot to do, but it can wait for you to get some rest.” He gently pulled me toward him by my hand. “Let me see your eyes.”
He lifted his phone to my face. I touched the scar on his chin and wondered aloud if a brother gave it to him and when.
“Luke, playing King of the Bed. I fell and hit the bedside table on the way down.”
“King of the Bed?”
“A no-rules wrestling match. Last one standing wins. The trick is to get really low.” He shined the flashlight again into each eye. “Good,” he whispered. “No concussion.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back and turned toward the stairs.
“Wait a minute.” He closed the distance between us in one step, arms spread wide. “In my family, an event like this ends in a hug. We were once friends, Caroline, and I could use a hug after tonight. That was scary close.”
Without hesitation, I stepped within the circle of his arms. My head nestled in the curve of his neck. A perfect fit. “Aren’t we still friends?” I whispered.
He held me close and hesitated for what felt like a beat long. “I hope so. I’d like that.” He laughed softly. “You have to squeeze. Standing there limp is hardly a real hug. I’ll accept one arm, but give it that at least.”
I gripped him tight as laughter rumbled in his chest. “Better. Thank you for tonight . . . And I’m sorry about your sister . . . I’m just sorry.”
“Thank you.” I spoke into his shirt, inhaling him. He carried notes like citrus, cedar, and old ink and paper from the Reading Room. “I’m sorry too.”
“For what?” His voice arced in question.
“Something . . . I’ll figure it out.”
A sigh lifted then dropped his chest. I held tighter.
Twenty-Seven
I slept hard but woke early, tossing with questions and concerns. That no one talked about Amelia suddenly bothered me. That no one, in eighty years, had searched for Caro bothered me.