Lauren couldn’t stomach a bite of it.
The mattress tilted as Greta settled onto the edge of the bed. She placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder, her quiet presence warmer than the quilt.
“Did you know,” Lauren said, “that the ancient Egyptians believed that the heart was the organ for thinking, the seat of both knowledge and emotion? The brain, they thought, was mere stuffing for the head, which is why they discarded it during mummification.”
“Is that right?”
“Thank goodness we know better,” Lauren whispered. She did not want to rely on the convulsions of her battered heart to guide her. Her feelings were no reliable compass. She had to stand on the truth. And the truth was, Lawrence Westlake had been a liar and a thief. He’d manipulated her and forsaken her. He’d cast her parentage into question, though Mr. Clarke had assured her those doubts were unfounded. If Lawrence had escaped the authorities this morning, as he’d intended, she never would have seen him again.
But he hadn’t escaped. He’d been murdered, and so had Fred. No one deserved that, either.
Greta smoothed Lauren’s hair away from her face. “It’s true, we cannot discard the brain, but we are not to discard our feelings, either,” she murmured. “Didn’t God give us both? You must allow yourself to grieve, Lauren. You can’t skip over that just because of the crimes Lawrence committed.”
Pressure mounted from unshed tears. “I can’t mourn the loss of his deception,” Lauren said, “but I hate how his life ended. I won’t miss the man he revealed himself to be. But I mourn the loss of hope for a restored relationship. My mother longed for that. So did I.”
“Don’t you dare take on an ounce of guilt for that.” Greta’s soft face grew stern with conviction. “It takes two people to have a healthy relationship, and he wasn’t doing his part.”
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut, but her mind filled with the image of Lawrence trying to sneak away, knowing her life was in danger. He had made his choice in that instant. He had not chosen her. After he’d been shot, he could have left her with some word of affection or even regret for his behavior. Instead, he’d proven his selfishness to the end.
“I’d already begun grieving for a father I never had.” Lauren’svoice buckled. “I grieve that Lawrence’s priorities twisted into an obsession that ultimately killed him.”
“Then grieve. Don’t lock that away, dear, and don’t bury it. Let it out.”
A knock sounded on the bedroom door, followed by a beloved voice.
With a surge of energy, Lauren threw back the covers and stood, heedless of the wrinkles plaguing her dress.
Eyes glossy, Greta embraced her, kissed her cheek, then left.
Joe came in.
No sooner had Greta closed the door than his arms were around her, holding her up, encircling her with strength she couldn’t muster on her own. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
She melted into him and wept.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1926
Weeks later, Lauren stood at the grave with her hand firmly ensconced in Joe’s. “I wish you could have met her.”
When they were children, Lauren hadn’t brought Joe back to Aunt Beryl’s house to meet Mother. All she’d wanted to do was escape that mansion, leaving its rules and sadness behind. Regret stabbed through her. Mother would have loved Joe, if she’d been given the chance. Even though she’d been sick, she would have loved him, as Greta had lavished her care on Lauren. “I feel like I’ve only just gotten to know Mother myself in the last few months.” The letters had become the most precious things she owned.
A few feet away lay another grave, more recently dug and filled. But Lauren wasn’t here for that man, whose name so closely resembled her own. She had not been here when he’d been buried. Her aunt and uncle had taken care of everything. Lauren wanted no part of it. She was here with Joe today to honor Mother on the anniversary of her death.
“From what you’ve shared with me,” Joe said, “she loved you more than life. She would be so proud of you.”
Smiling at the irony, Lauren nestled a pot of bright purple pansies in the slush in front of the marble headstone. “All my life, I’ve been trying to make my father proud. I longed for his approval. But this matters more to me now.” She straightened and waited for her voice to steady. “The more I know her, the more I love her. The more I see how she loved me. Did I ever tell you that the last letter from Mother was actually written to me?”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Would you like to share what it said? Or is it better kept between the two of you?”
A smile lifted her lips. “Everything is better when shared with you,” she told him. It always had been. “She wrote, ‘Joy isn’t just in the quest of a far-off land. It’s in the coming home. It’s in being here, with the people who love you, not just for the big, exciting moments but for the small ones, too.’”
“What a very wise woman she was.”
Lauren slipped an arm around his waist. “She was right. It was exactly what I needed to hear.”
After Lawrence’s murder and the disaster that surrounded it, she knew she couldn’t outrun the hollowed-out feeling within her. But she had wanted so desperately to hide. She wanted to quit her job at the Met, sure her reputation was ruined by association, but Mr. Robinson wouldn’t let her, and Anita grew even more fiercely loyal. Lauren would have buried herself in the basement of the museum, under the guise of work, but Elsa, Ivy, and Joe brought her up and out of that sunless place, over and over again. Greta had even given her cooking lessons, calling good food and good work fine remedies. So while Lauren had wanted to run, she had stayed. And she had only survived the staying because of the people who stayed with her.
A mild breeze stirred the bare branches above. Warmer temperatures this week had melted snow, and the smell of wet earth hinted at the coming spring.
