“Everything? That’s false advertising.”
“Trust me.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m fine, thank you. I already have a personal trainer.”
“Of course you do, a man like you.”
I don’t tell her it’s my daughter. Let her think what she wants about me. Let her think I’m a silver wolf. Or is it fox?
I stand and offer her the spread of cheeses and fruit and nuts. She takes some cashews and insists I sit on the couch again beside her. It’s an elaborate, ornate puffy blue thing with stripes and a carved wooden frame, painted gold.
Outside, it’s growing dark, the lights of the city blinking on. Inside, the room is elegant in pale pinks and pale greens. The three small, rose-red lamps in the corner cast a warm glow.
“Beautiful room,” I say.
“I salvaged this sofa from my shabby chic business. I had to give up the rest of my projects. Except the lamps, of course. So glad you like them.”
I nod.
“I haven’t given Jill or Mrs B their lamps yet. I’d hoped they’d come to my party.”
The sofa is slightly outrageous, gilded and Georgian, ornate rather than functional.
“I love being creative, reworking old lamp frames and bases and giving them an extra life; and it’s a nice little earner. You can follow Lucy’s Lamps on Instagram, Dirk.” She whips out her phone and flicks through to show me photo after photo of whimsical side lamps of all shapes and colors, some with tassels, some with fringes, others with bobbles.
“Very creative,” I say. “I avoid social media. I was a country doctor.”
“Hmmm,” she says. “I can see why you’d hide. But you’re not practicing now. You could learn something new, Doc.”
I’m relieved I don’t have to explain that I already knew enough about all my patients.
“Let’s try ten questions, Dirk,” she says, as if it’s a dare. “If you don’t like me after ten questions, I’ll leave you alone.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll go first. Here’s a question: What do you miss most about your life before Brighton Court? I’ll tell you my answer. I miss my rosebuds, the white ones, in springtime. My rose bushes lined the drive and the front fence, and the curving path to the front steps. When the first white blossom burst out, I knew all the rest would soon follow. I miss that garden more than anything.”
I see it then, in my mind – Lucy’s fine house, and her loss. You’d never know she’d lost a thing from the way she carries herself, like some kind of princess, in love with every moment, as if life is just a lark.
I’m about to ask her why she left her last home, but she speaks first.
“It’s your turn, Dirk. Tell me just one thing you miss about life before Brighton Court.”
Millie’s the obvious one, but I’m not going there. Maybe it’s because Lucy mentioned the scent of roses, but my mind pitches further back; way, way back in time to my grandmother’s orchard, and the fragrance of orange blossom in the evenings, the night turning violet and velvet around me as I watched the slim petals drop, white on the dark grass. When did I last smell those citrus trees? Fifty years ago? More? But they are real again, here in this elegant room with Lucy beside me, waiting for my words, and I am innocent as a small boy, with all my life ahead of me.
Lucy’s face is expectant in the soft glow as the night grows darker. She’s reading me.
“Orange blossoms,” I say. I clear my throat, defensive, but I’m no longer small. She doesn’t have to understand. I press on. “The last time I saw my grandmother was in her orchard. We waved goodbye and we never went back.”
“Here? Out west?”
I nod. Lucy waits for more.
“My grandparents owned a ranch. My father was a cowboy, but his big brother got all the land when our grandparents died, so Dad bought a truck and packed us in; little Jill, my mom and me, and we drove east. Dad made our life in the Midwest, driving that truck here, there and everywhere.”
