“Oh... how’s it going?”
“I can’t. It’s not going well.”
“Dad, I’m so sorry about Mom.”
“The cheese, the meat layers. They’re uneven. The noodle edges burned.”
We’re quiet. It’s all too heavy for words.
“Do you want me to come home? Because I will, Dad. I’ll fly back if you need me.”
“No, Lizzie. I don’t want to cut your trip short. And Ian stops by often.”
“But I will.”
“I know.”
Through tears, I watch Heathcliff kicking a ball around. I take a deep breath and swallow. “London’s been wonderful so far, Dad. We went to the British Museum. I told Heathcliff I’d take him to Westminster Abbey tomorrow. Sarah’s row house is adorable, and she has the kindest housekeeper—Annabel Fernsby. She makes these lavender scones like nobody’s business...”
“I’m sorry about Philip, Lizzie.”
I swallow hard. “I know you are, Dad.”
We talk a little longer. His back is feeling better, the physical therapy helping. He’s thinking about teaching a class just for fun at the university this fall.
“I think I’m going to try to redo this lasagna.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I think I can get it right this time.”
We say goodbye, and the grief—losing Mom, losing Philip, seeing Dad lost like this—sinks like an uncomfortable stone in my chest.
“I’m ready to go back now!” Heathcliff shouts in my ear, jolting me back from my thoughts.
He waves goodbye to the other children and starts chattering about his playtime.
“Mama, they have names I’ve never heard of—Archie and Matilda. And they call cookies ‘biscuits.’ I told them you put gravy on biscuits, and they laughed at me. But a cookie looks like a cookie and not a biscuit.”
“They think a cookie is a biscuit. We learn these things when we travel.”
He sighs. “Can I watchBatmanwhen we get home?”
“Sure.”
Soon after I turn on a cartoon Batman episode for Heathcliff, Sarah calls.
“We have offers!” she exclaims breathlessly.
I scream, nearly dropping the phone.
“Hey!” Heathcliff barks grouchily. “I can’t hear!”
“Sorry...”
I hurry into the kitchen, where Ms. Fernsby is putting together the most amazing cottage pie. She’s sautéing copious amounts of fresh rosemary and sage from her garden with the chopped leeks. She turns around, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, you look excited, luv!”
“You’re on speaker, Sarah,” I say smiling and let her know that it’s just Ms. Fernsby in the room.
