“And don’t mind Lucy,” Ms. Fernsby says as she fluffs up a sofa pillow. “She’ll warm up to him in no time.”
“And he won’t hurt her,” I promise. “He just wants to cross-examine her a bit.”
As we leave the parlor, we pass through a small dining room. An antique table takes up most of the space, with classic touches everywhere—a simple, elegant chandelier, long peony-printcurtains framing the windows. The dining room opens into a small but adorable kitchen where light blue painted cabinets display crystal glassware and antique plates. The only modern furnishing is the large high-end gas stove taking up half a wall. At the opposite end of the kitchen, I follow her up narrow wooden stairs, the wall lined with framed pressed flowers and pinned butterflies.
Sarah’s silver-haired House of Lords father stares imposingly from a portrait at the top. I’ve always assumed she wasn’t particularly close to him. She talks more about Ms. Fernsby and her serial nannies than her parents.
“This is young Heathie’s room,” Ms. Fernsby says when we walk by a little room with a twin trundle bed.
“Hey, Mama,” Heathcliff says from where he’s sitting on the area rug making a LEGO building. Poor Lucy must be hiding somewhere.
“I knew he’d take to LEGO. They were my daughter’s years ago.”
“Oh,” I murmur, wondering about Ms. Fernsby’s backstory.
She shows me her cozy bedroom. A well-worn Harlequin,The Governess and the Duke, lies open on the bed’s pink rose-patterned coverlet. “It’s been my place for the past forty years, and then... here is where you’ll be staying.” She opens a door at the end of the short hall. The room is pleasant with a large, canopied bed, a comfortable sitting area with more antique chairs, and a bathroom. The bathroom has a large garden tub and a new sink embedded in an old walnut vanity lined with scented soaps, lotions, and candles. A plush marigold-colored robe hangs from a hook on the back of the door. Thismusthave been Sarah’s parents’ room. I picture her politician father shaving, stern-faced, in the bathroom mirror as Ms. Fernsby calls him to breakfast.
“You’ll make yourself at home here, I hope. I’ve left somebooks on the nightstand.” Her blue eyes suddenly sparkle as she nods toThe Heathcliff Sagaatop the stack. “It was such a pleasure reading your book. I love a steamy romance, and I flew through it in three days!”
She leans forward as if to whisper a juicy piece of gossip. “Is it true that Bella Patel was datingbothof them?”
I feel my mouth twitch as I remember all the romantic drama between the actors. Bella Patel (Cathy) dated both Harry Waters (Linwood) and Everett Dane. I still remember how she’d confided in me with all her angst last fall after the premiere. Still, I want to maintain her privacy.
“I’m not really clear on the timelines.”
“Well, I say good for her!” Ms. Fernsby says, tightening her apron strings. “You’re only young once, and if she has a chance with both of those handsome men, she should take it.” She heads toward the door. “Get some rest, luv.”
“I should get Heathcliff settled.”
“Now, don’t you worry about him! I’ll put him down myself if he gets tired. I’m about to pour myself a cuppa, and I’m sure he’ll want a treat.”
She winks and shuts the door.
I open my suitcase, staring at the folded black leggings, blouses, and dresses. Philip’s bird urn lies nestled within the fabrics. What am I doing here? As I stare at my Victorian-ish widow styles, touch gently the jet necklace at my throat, a strange mix of fear and anticipation swirls in my chest like a whirling dervish.
My brain is too foggy to sort through it all, so I brush my teeth, and sink into the bed. I clutch the bird urn and fall into a deliciously deep sleep.
7
I wake up groggy, pillow imprint on my cheek, my hand still tight around the bird urn.
Hazy late-afternoon sunlight streams through the curtains. Except for some traffic noise from the street below, all is quiet.
I feel low feline purring and a warm weight on the bedcovers.
Lucy. I’m so glad she found a Heathcliff-free zone for napping. Gently, I rub her back, and she stretches languidly, peering at me through one half-open green eye.
I stretch as well, suddenly remembering I forgot to text Henry. Drat. I do have to start talking to him. There’s an ocean between us now, so things can’t be that awkward, right?
Setting the urn on the nightstand, I reach down to where my suitcase lies open on the floor and feel around for my phone.
Instead, I accidentally grab Philip’s phone. For his screen saver, he has a photo of us holding chopsticks up dramatically over a large platter of sushi. I’ve seen this image a million times,and during sleepless nights, I like to scroll through his social media—his last Instagram post from the weekend before he died is of Heathcliff jumping inside his kiddie pool wearing a Batman mask. His last Facebook post was of me sitting across from him at our favorite café. I’m wearing a teal sundress and smiling wryly over an espresso. He captioned it “I’m the luckiest.”
Most people lie about how great their lives are on social media. But not us.
We really were that damn happy.
Sad and numb, I just want to keep scrolling. After looking through his social media feeds, I jump over to his saved photos. There are a million of us. Buried amid the shots of Heathcliff and me is one from the week before he died. It’s a picture he took with his phone of a photo from the ’70s.
