The woman shakes her head. She’s missing a few teeth. “ThomasQuill.”
“Wallace’s father.”
“You’re a fan, I presume.”
He clears his throat, praying he can lie his ass off. “I’m actually a distant cousin of Wallace’s. He passed away recently, and I’m doing some research for his eulogy. Where he grew up, what his life was like before he moved to the States. The people he ... impacted.”
He forces himself not to gag on the words. Giving that much respect to Quill is almost too nauseating.
“What’s your name?” the woman asks, hands behind her back as she observes the chimney.
The shape of her nose, or maybe her cheekbones, rings familiar.
“James Quill.” His voice wavers.
The woman turns, those eyes pierce his, and the dots connect like a twisting knife in James’s gut.
“Penelope Waters,” she says. “My daughter was Lily Waters. Herhusbandwas Thomas Quill. Now, I’ve studied the Quill family tree, extended cousins and all, for many years, and I’ve never spotted the nameJamesamong its many branches.”
James stands, speechless, licks his lips. “You’re Wallace’s grandmother?”
“Yes,” Penelope says. “And since I’m generous, I’ll offer you one more chance to tell me whoyouare.”
At this point, the truth is his only option, though it makes him feel shameful for having lied to her in the first place. She peers at him with the guilt-inducing, disapproving look of a trained grandparent.
“My nameisJames, but I’m not related to the Quills. I’m also not writing a eulogy for Wallace Quill because, for one, he’s not dead, and for two, I would never. If honesty’s what you want, then know that I hate him with every fiber of my being.”
Penelope beams at him, life igniting the coals of her eyes.
“I didn’t come here alone. I, uh, brought someone who’d probably like to meet you. Or rather, she brought me.” He bends toward the car, away from Penelope, and quickly scribbles a command in Nelle’s journal.
She cuts him an irritated glance as she climbs out, but he is too excited to care. This is exactly the sort of discovery she hoped to encounter in Scotland, some real insight into Quill’s life, and thereforeherself. Meeting an actual blood relative of Quill’s, not to mention someone who probably knew him closely as a child, will exceed her wildest dreams.
But when Nelle charges up to her great-grandmother, she leaves no room for introduction. “You’re related to him.”
Penelope extends her shaky hand, tracing the curve of Nelle’s face.
Nelle flinches at the touch but doesn’t pull away.
“So are you.” Penelope’s hand stills. “Why don’t you both come back to my house instead of wasting money on a hotel? I’ll make tea and snacks, and I think I have some old movies, though the Lord knows the DVD player’s likely too ancient to function. And I’m not sure where the remote is. Never mind that, I have books. And cards. And tea.”
Nelle wells up as she watches Penelope hobble down the street to a parked car.
James feels something so pure, it makes his chest ache.
Though they met only minutes ago and barely exchanged five words, Penelope held Nelle, recognized her as a granddaughter, and accepted her without question. A sort of unconditional love that, in twenty-one years, Nelle never received from Quill.
Penelope Waters lives two kilometers down the road in a small house with a sheep pen in the backyard. Her living room has pink and eggshell striped wallpaper, a brick fireplace, and books crammed into every free space. On the table, in the hutch, and along the mantel sit ceramic cats. Nelle sinks into a plush pink armchair by the unlit fireplace, her hands warm around a cup of tea, black.
Across the living room, perched on the edge of a white sofa next to James, is her great-grandmother.
Nelle tries not to stare, but it’s surreal to be in the presence of a relative. She obviously knew that Quill had parents and grandparents, but the idea that any of them were still alive, or that she would evermeetthem, seemed like a childish wish.
When they first arrived, before they even left the car, James had to write for Nelle to have access to the entire house, which thankfully worked. Inside, Penelope prepared the tea while James set up the DVD player per her fuddled instructions. Nelle pulled back a curtain behindthe couch. It was still light out, but dim, and the lamplight inside turned her reflection orange. She moved to the nearest shelf of books, skimming through the pages of a thriller, until Penelope swept in from the kitchen with a tea tray that she set between the couches.
Now they stew, wordless. A film calledThe Princess Brideplays on the thirty-two-inch TV.
Penelope finally speaks. “Need any milk?”
