Wiping away tears, I get up. I’m in such a grief fog that only as I’m unlatching the door do I think it’s odd for someone to be knocking at this time of night. And I’m in London, so—Jack the Ripper?
“Dad!”
He’s standing there in his tweed jacket and trousers, barely rumpled in spite of the international flight. His gray beard is trimmed, tortoiseshell glasses perched neatly on his nose. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him face-to-face, but he still smells oh-so-wonderful, like pipe smoke and dusty books.
He shuffles uncomfortably.
“Ian called yesterday. He said you were having a hard time. Maybe we could go out for ice cream later and talk about it?”
I burst into tears and collapse into him, the tweed rough against my cheek.
At 5:30 a.m., Heathcliff wakes, excited to see his grandpa curled up on the little futon in his room. I make strong coffee and scramble eggs with fresh spinach and Tabasco saucethe way Dad likes them. As I sip my coffee, I enjoy watching Dad with Heathcliff.
Dad studies a little LEGO house Heathcliff made, looking it over through his glasses as if it’s a scholarly essay to be edited. As Heathcliff chatters, Dad nods, interested but not quite able to follow a six-year-old’s stream-of-consciousness thoughts, where the Joker, kittens, and chocolate donuts somehow make it into the same sentence. He’s treating Heathcliff the way he treated me and Ian as children, with love and care, but also with slight bewilderment, as if we were hobbits or some other little strange creatures that magically ended up in his world.
Heathcliff doesn’t seem to notice, and I have to keep reminding him to eat his scrambled eggs and strawberries as he chatters away.
A little after seven o’clock, Ms. Fernsby walks downstairs in a daisy-print housedress, hair pulled back in a neat gray knot at the back of her head. Without looking around, she tells me good morning and goes on about the lemon sponge cake she needs to make for her gardening club event this afternoon.
“Ishouldhave started last evening, you see—the lemon glaze should set overnight—but then I poured my nip of brandy and startedThe Governess Falls for the Dukeand, well, I couldn’t put it down—Oh...”
She stops mid-sentence, suddenly seeing my shy father at the kitchen island with Heathcliff.
“Oh...” she says again more quietly, patting her hair.
Dad nods but doesn’t say anything. Obviously, he isn’t an extrovert, and I’ll need to introduce them. But I’m trying not to smile into my coffee. I’m more delighted than I want to let on by Ms. Fernsby’s response.
I make the introductions.
“Well, Gaylord, it’s nice to meet you,” Ms. Fernsby says, regaining some of her composure.
Dad shifts in his seat. “You as well, Annabel.”
This is too cute.
Ms. Fernsby tightens her apron strings and springs into action, doing what she does best, making everyone feel comfortable. “I have some iced scones in here—they’ll go well with that coffee...”
As she pulls the tray out of the fridge, I start to tell her that he never eats sugar. But he catches my eye and shakes his head.
“Yes, I’d love one. Thank you.”
I gulp my coffee, watching Dad eat a scone as he adds to Heathcliff’s LEGO house. Ian said he ate a Twinkie recently, but I don’t think I actually believed it until now. Ms. Fernsby bustles around me, pulling out the ingredients for her cake. She keeps casting side glances at Dad, her cheeks blushing rosier by the minute.
25
By afternoon, Dad and I eat at a little ice cream shop in Covent Garden. We sit on the outside patio chairs under a shady trellis. I’m eating a giant cup of white chocolate and raspberry gelato, and he’s licking chocolate ice cream from a waffle cone. It’s the least professor-y thing I’ve ever seen him do. Also, I thought he might call it a day with the sugar after having the iced scone this morning, but he seems to really enjoy the cone.
I tell him about Augustandabout my feelings for Henry. I tell him about August’s lies last evening and how upset I was. I also tell him about Mirabel and the big Southern stew I have to sort out when I get back. I tell him I miss Philip so much it hurts. I tell him I miss Mom so much it hurts.
I tell him that I have no idea what to do about any of it.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he eats his ice cream. He just sits here with me. I remember this is why I always feel comfortable falling apart with him in my neediest moments.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid with August Dansworth.I’m so ashamed, Dad. I really am. Philip would be disappointed in me.”
“And why would you say that, Lizzie?”
“I’m supposed to be inmourningand instead I’m having all these inappropriate feelings. I came here to sort myself out and now I’m more confused.”
