“Harri, it’s me.”
“Who is this?” he asks.
How can he not recognize my voice?
“It’s Eden. Your wife. Why are you pretending not to know who I—”
The officer snatches the phone from my hand. “I’m very sorry, sir. I have the woman in custody and this won’t happen again,” he says before hanging up.
“In custody? I thought you weren’t arresting me,” I say.
“You’ve left me with no choice. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned—”
I start to cry. “I don’t understand why my husband is doing this to me—”
“Nobody is doing anything to you. We just need to get this straightened out.”
“How would I know his number off by heart if he wasn’t my husband?”
Sergeant Carter, who doesn’t have an answer for that one, just stares at me. Tears are streaming down my face. I don’t understand what is happening, or why, but Harrison being a part of it is devastating. And the thought of being locked in a cell for the night is terrifying. I sob more loudly.
“Stay there. I’ll get you a tissue, then we really must get going,” the police officer says, sounding uncomfortable. Tears seem to have that effect on most men.
I stop crying as soon as he leaves the room.
I have no intention of spending a night locked up. I take SergeantCarter’s car keys from the desk and leave through the door we came in. I throw his keys into the harbor—I don’t need his, I need mine—then I start running up the hill toward Spyglass.
If nobody will believe me then I’ll have to find a way to make them.
10BIRDY
Six months earlier
I’ve made some bad choices in my life, but hasn’t everyone? Nobody gets it right all the time. Hopefully coming back to Hope Falls won’t turn out to be yet another mistake. I explore the rest of Spyglass, and as I turn the lights on in each room I have to keep reminding myself that I own this place now. The solicitor warned me that the property was historically significant and that as such came with various ancient covenants attached. One was that the original bookcases in the library at the back of the house were not to be renovated or removed. He explained that they were installed over a hundred years ago by a famous local carpenter who went on to work for the royal family. “Well, whoop-de-fucking-do,” I told him, and my reaction was clearly not what he was hoping for.
I hate disappointing people, despite being so good at it.
The paperwork the solicitor gave me—which made excellent bedtime reading as it sent me straight to sleep—said the house came with another covenant which, to me, seemed far more interesting than the first. There was a photocopy of what I think was an original handwritten document from the 1800s declaring in elaborate ink-stained writing that “No merriment making is to be had within these walls.” Looking around the place now, I don’t think there ismuch danger of that. The solicitor explained it was something to do with liquor licenses as the owner of Spyglass also once owned the pub in the village. I guess they didn’t want any competition in the merriment-making business if the property ever changed hands.
I find the little library at the back of the house, and although the bookcases are rather beautiful, and crammed with books, having a preservation order attached to them seems a little overkill. But what do I know? All I do know is that I have inherited this old house from a grandmother I thought I never knew, and yet, each room fills me with an unfamiliar sense of nostalgia. I often feel as though I have lived lots of different lives in one lifetime. I had to grow up fast and I’ve had to move, and move on, more often than I should. But I wish I could remember more about this place and the time I spent here as a child.
The blue room is the one that conjures the loudest feeling of déjà vu. The formal sitting room has navy walls and a matching ceiling decorated with painted gold stars. I rememberthis. There is a chandelier that looks far too big and grand for the house, and a huge stone fireplace. There is a single stocking hanging over it, as though it were Christmas, even though it is not. I reach inside and find a small square jewelry box. When I open it I see an enormous ruby ring, so big it must surely be fake or it would be worth a fortune. I slip it on my wedding finger—the only one without a ring—and to my surprise it is a perfect fit.
I stare at the blue velvet sofas on the other side of the room, knowing that I once sat on them, even if I don’t know when or with who. There is an ancient TV built into a wooden cabinet on legs in the corner. Now that I see it, I think I remember watching cartoons on this old TV set as a child. A hazy memory of doing so, sitting next to a dog on this blue rug seeps into my mind, but I’m not sure if it’s real. I continue to look around, and I guess the library was too small for all my grandmother’s books, because there are piles of them everywhere in this room too. Stacked on shelves, leaningagainst walls, arranged in teetering piles in the middle of the floor. There must be hundreds of novels just in this one room. My mother always said books were the best company. It seemshermother felt the same way.
I’m about to leave the room when something catches my eye: a framed photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. But unlike the photos I found in the hallway, this one isn’t of a dog. It’s me, maybe age five or six, sitting on the lap of a gray-haired woman inthisroom. I guess that’s her, my grandmother, but even when I pick up the picture for a closer look I do not recognize her face. I wish I could remember something about this woman who clearly played more of a role in my life than I knew. But I can’t.
Next to the photo is a stack of envelopes tied with string wedged between some dusty old novels. There must be over thirty envelopes here, and each one has my name written on the front in the most beautiful calligraphy. I trace the black ink with my fingertips, my rings reflecting the light of the ostentatious chandelier. I open one of the envelopes and find a Christmas card for me.
To dearest Olivia, my favorite little birdy. Why won’t you fly home?
The others are all the same, just with a different year scrawled at the top. Tucked inside each card is a swallow’s feather, and I instinctively touch the tattoo on my hand.
Maybe my grandmother did love me after all.
Perhaps she just didn’t know where to find me.
Why else would there be decades of cards here all with my name on them?
