“This happened last night right here in London!” She looks closer at the image through her reading glasses.
“What were they doing here?” I ask, stacking pancakes onto my plate.
“Why, I thought you’d know! Is there another book in the works?”
I wipe syrup off Heathcliff’s mouth before he runs into the living room to watch cartoons.
I lean forward conspiratorially and smile. “Sarah said there is a potential sequel brewing. Everything is very hush-hush now, but she said she’ll be in touch soon.”
“Ohmy stars! Book or movie?”
“It seems like both!” I say excitedly, slathering butter and syrup on my pancakes.
“How marvelous! As soon as she calls, let me know. There’s so much exciting telly news! Did you see your American actor Brad Pitt is playing Chadwick Hall in theBlood Oathseries? He certainly looks the part, but he’ll need a good accent coach. That Welsh accent isn’t easy to pick up.”
I blush and take a bite of fluffy pancake, a hot blueberry popping in my mouth. I haven’t told Ms. Fernsby yet about meeting the real A.D. Hemmings. Based on her reading interests, I get the feeling that she loves romance and happy endings, and I’m uncomfortable with the routes her imagination might take.
My pragmatic late mother would advise changing the subject.
“These pancakes are amazing. What kind of buttermilk do you use?”
That afternoon, I buy sandwiches and lemonade for Heathcliff and me as we wander about Kensington Gardens. The day is sunny and beautiful, the park grounds crowded with young families and couples lolling about on picnic blankets. We sit on a bench near the Peter Pan statue to eat our lunch.
“We never did readPeter Pan, did we?” I ask him.
“Who’s Peter Pan?”
“He’s a character in a book, a magical boy from another world who flies and fights pirates.”
“Oh.” He’s unimpressed. His blond brows furrow like when he’s deep in thought.
“Did we fly here to see Daddy? Because we haven’t seen him yet.”
A sick feeling spreads through my gut. I worry that Heathcliff can’t really understand the concept of death. Chloe tried to talk to him after the funeral, but it’s hard to know how a six-year-old brain thinks. It pains me that he thought we’d see Philip on this trip.
“No, Heathcliff. We’re not going to see Daddy again. But remember what I told you lives on about Daddy?”
“His love.”
“That’s right.”
I thought my mini-lecture about mummies at the British Museum might have helped Heathcliff understand the finality. Obviously, it didn’t. I’ve worked with college students for years now, but young children, even my own, bewilder me. Maybe I’m turning into my sweet but stiff professor-Dad.
“Do you have any more questions about Daddy?”
“No.” He swallows and takes a long swig of lemonade. “I wonder if Daddy can see Batman from where he is.”
“I sure hope so.”
Soon Heathcliff starts playing ball with four other children, and after a few minutes, my phone rings.
“Dad?”
“Hi, Lizzie.”
As I ask him how he’s doing, I hear kitchen appliances rattling, the oven door opening, and a timer beeping. It would be about 11:00 there, so an early lunch?
“I’m trying to bake your mother’s lasagna.”
