“And you’re sure you know now?”
He laughs, glancing shyly sideways at me. “I’ve never been one to take risks, and now I’m the guy who’ll shell out the money for a red-eye flight to London just to tell a woman I love her. Well, after I tell a really bad lie about going to the Tate Modern.”
“A newly discovered Shakespeare play that somehow wasn’t all over the news?Whoa.”
“Hey, it was the best a non-bookish guy like me could think of.”
And then I kiss him again, lightly, happily, our mouths tasting like blueberries.
30
@BellaPatel *selfie with Lizzie, Everett, and Harry*:
Lucky meetup and then dinner with the lovely @LizzieWells. The woman GETS love—the grief, the joys, and all the in-betweens. Dr. Wells—you inspire me.
Henry, Heathcliff, and I relish our last days in London. We take Heathcliff to the Tower, where he wonders why Poison Ivy hasn’t stolen the Crown Jewels yet. We stroll down unfamiliar streets to find the best tucked-away pubs, the charming ones with teal painted shutters and window boxes overflowing with ivy and water hyssops. One afternoon, we devour a plate of perfect Scotch eggs. Heathcliff eats two sides of fries, and Henry and I wash the savory sausage crusts down with ale. On our last day, we linger, taking everything slowly. I toss bread to the ducks of St. James Park while Henry shows Heathcliff howto fold the perfect origami paper boat. It sails, tiny and determined, under the hazy late-afternoon sunlight.
We watch Heathcliff kick around a ball with some other children. The joys and challenges and uncertainties of this new chapter play in my head.
“Where is Philip in all this? I mean now that we’re together.”
“That’s a pretty big question, Lizzie. But, well, something in my gut tells me that our happiness honors him. We’ll miss him always—nothing’s going to change that. I’ll always feel the twang in my chest when I’m fishing alone. But he’d want us to be happy and not pine away for him when it’s not going to do either of us any good. And I’ll keep his memory alive for Heathcliff. I’ll tell him so many stories about his dad.”
“Thank you, Henry. I’d like that.”
I give him a little hug, before Heathcliff’s ball rolls over to us. I bend over to pick it up and toss it back to him. My shirt rides up a little in the back.
“Did you get atattoo?” Henry asks.
“I did.” I pull my shirt up a bit to let him see it.
“Can I?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He gently touches the ink, his fingers calloused against my lower back. “‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same...’” he reads. His thumb lingers a little over the skin, slightly raised and still healing.
“I like it, Lizzie. I really do.”
I slip my shirt back in place and take his hand.
That evening, I sit on the little back patio sipping tea while Ms. Fernsby tends her flowers. I watch her carefully clip the brown stems off her hybrid tea roses, revealing damp green interiors. The air is cool and pleasant; patches of waning sunlight fall on the worn lichen-spotted patio stones.
I tell her about August.
“I assumed it was something along those lines. Insufferable man. And then to come here thinking he could win you back after that. It’s my opinion that men like that underneath it all really want women like you. They’re just too selfish to give it a go.”
Angrily, she sprays herbal repellent on the stems.
“You’re much better off with Henry. I can always tell when these things will work out. Lord and Lady Routledge argued to high heaven behind closed doors. And I knew, underneath, even after Mabel’s birth that Lord Routledge would never love me. Now, you and Henry—that’s another story. I have more than a good feeling that you both will be very happy together.”
Through the window, I watch Dad at the kitchen island work on a crossword puzzle. I remember him lonely and lost, making all those lasagnas in our kitchen.
“I see some happiness for you as well, Ms. Fernsby.”
She blushes. “Gaylord told me last night he’s in no hurry to leave. And I’m glad for that.”
In the morning, I make sure I’ve packed everything, peeking under my bedroom chairs, inside the wardrobe. Lucy rolls lazily out of my way as I pull back the bedcovers looking for loose socks. I leave the vibrator in the nightstand drawer. I’ve heard horror stories from girlfriends about forgetting to take the batteries out and then the darn thing goes off at the airport security checkpoint. I’m still Victorian widow enough to feel mortified at the idea ofthathappening.
