Aunt Dimity's Death (30 page)

“And his love,” I said, “his terrible love for his brother. That was at the root of everything that followed.”

“Mmm.” Bill nodded absently, and when he looked at me, his eyes were troubled. “Did Dimity really believe she’d killed Bobby?”

I switched off the overhead light and looked past him at the stars. “You were right when you said that it had to be something pretty drastic to
cause her this much grief. Dimity must have convinced herself—with Andrew’s help—that Bobby had died because of her cowardice, and she never forgave herself.”

“Cowardice?” Bill said in surprise. “What cowardice?”

“She chickened out of the engagement, Bill. It’s my guess that she didn’t want to end up like the women at Starling House, married one minute and widowed the next, so she tried to play it safe. She was so afraid of things ending that she never let them begin.”

Bill shook his head. “I hate to think of her that way, leading a life filled with secret misery.”

“I don’t think there’s any way around it.” I put a hand on the ring in my pocket. “If Dimity had let herself off the hook for a minute, Bobby’s spirit would have touched her, his ring would have gotten to her, somehow, and she would’ve known that everything was all right.”

“As it was …”

“Bobby never stood a chance. Dimity’s guilt blocked him like a brick wall. She never talked or wrote about him, she only went back to the Flamborough once, and she rarely went back to the cottage. She probably wore the locket to remind herself of the pain she’d caused him. We’ll never know for sure if Bobby ‘visited’ her the way he ‘visited’ Andrew, but even if he tried—”

“She’d have misinterpreted his message,” Bill said. “She’d have filtered it through her guilt, the way Andrew filtered it through his anger.”

“And twisted its meaning as badly as he did.”

Bill stroked his beard, then asked doubtfully, “Then guilt can be stronger than love?”

“I didn’t say that.” I let go of Bobby’s ring and took Bill’s hand. “Oh, Bill, haven’t you figured anything out? You’re just too sane, I guess. It might help if you were a bit more neurotic.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said, “but in the meantime, I’ll defer to an expert.” He made a half bow in my direction.

I ducked my head sheepishly. “Yeah, so I have been sort of … crazed. So was Dimity. So was Andrew, for that matter. Grief can make you believe things that never happened and forget things that you know for sure.”

“The way you forgot your mother’s pride in you?”

“And a lot of other things as well. You remember what I did with Aunt Dimity’s cat? I did the same thing with the rest of the stories. It wasn’t until I had them shoved in my face that I began to remember the way things really were, the whole of it, not just the disappointments. Dimity
handled it a lot better than Andrew and I did, though. She didn’t let pain cut her off from the world.”

“She had your mother to help her,” Bill reminded me.

I squeezed his hand. “Let’s say they helped each other.”

Bill nodded thoughtfully, then scratched his head. “So guilt can overwhelm you—”

“But love is stronger. It’s in the process of triumphing, remember? It just took a little time for the right messenger to come along.”

“Dimity’s spiritual daughter.”

I nodded. “There’s nothing between Dimity and me but love, and I think I know a way to bury her guilt, to get Bobby’s message through to her once and for all. That’s what we were sent here to do.”

“Who sent us? Bobby?”

“Yes.” I reached into the bag at my feet and pulled from it the battered old photograph of the clearing. “We were sent by Bobby, and by my mother, and Ruth and Louise, and your father, and Emma and Derek—even Archy and Paul helped. We were sent here by everyone who ever loved Dimity.”

Bill nodded slowly. “So what do we do now?”

“Wait and see,” I said. “And in the meantime, help me think of something to tell your father.”

*
**

I had called Emma and Derek from MacLaren Hall to give them an update and they were waiting for us at the cottage, flashlights in hand, when we drove up. I fetched the one I had purchased at Harrod’s and Bill took the emergency lantern from the car. The three of them exchanged looks, but asked no questions as I led them through the back garden to the path up Pouter’s Hill.

The woods had been dim in full daylight; now they were black as pitch. We had to stop frequently to search for the path and the beams from our flashlights danced like will-o’-the-wisps as we swung them from side to side. I could hear Bill puffing behind me, and the faint rustling noises of night creatures running for cover. I wondered what they made of our peculiar expedition.

As we reached the top of the hill, the gray predawn light was beginning to filter through the swirling mist that had settled in the clearing. When I pulled up short at the eerie sight, Bill walked into me and then Derek and Emma bumped into him, so our entrance was more in
character with the Marx Brothers than the Brontë sisters, which was okay by me.

I led the way to the old oak tree and swung my carry-on bag to the ground. Kneeling, I pulled out a trowel and began to dig between two gnarled roots. Emma and Derek and Bill switched off their lights and watched in silence, and when the hole was deep enough, I paused to look up at the heart Bobby had carved so long ago. They followed my gaze and, one by one, knelt beside me, eyes alight with understanding.

I took from the bag the folded notes, still tied with the pale blue ribbon, and placed them at the bottom of the hole. From a pocket I took the blue box, then unclasped the chain from around my neck. I slipped Bobby’s ring onto it; it clinked softly as it touched the locket. I placed them together in the blue box and set it gently atop the bundle of notes. Bill troweled the dirt back in and as he patted the last scattering into place, the sun rose.

The clearing glittered with dew-diamonds and a lark sang out the first sweet song of morning. The mist rolled back from the valley floor, and the fields and hills emerged, flushed pink and peach and golden. It may have been a trick of the light, and I’ve never confirmed it with the others, but I’m willing to swear that the heart on the old tree shimmered as I stood up.

The scene was complete now; nothing was missing or out of place, and I knew that when the sun was high, the hawks would rise again to ride the thermals.

I’m not sure if the mind at work was that of a son or a lawyer, but Bill managed to come up with a fairly convincing story for me to give to Willis, Sr. It had to do with running into old friends during our country ramble, being invited to visit them at their home in northern Scotland, and getting drafted into arranging a surprise party. It sounded farfetched to me, but Willis, Sr., seemed willing enough to accept it. I figured that sort of thing must be routine in their circle.

Much to my surprise, Willis, Sr., was also willing to go along with my request to end our question-and-answer sessions. He seemed to understand when I told him that they weren’t needed anymore, that I was ready to begin writing. I called Bill into the study to say hello, and when he had hung up the phone, I pointed to the door. “Now go away,” I ordered. “I have an introduction to write.”

From that moment on, Bill was like a second ghost haunting the cottage. Sandwiches and pots of tea mysteriously appeared and the empty plates and pots seemed to vanish on their own. At one point, a cot showed up in the study, then an electric typewriter, with Reginald perched jauntily on the keys. Needless to say, my memory of those days is hazy at best, but nine drafts later, with a week left to the end of the month, the introduction to
Lori’s Stories
was finished.

I slept for fourteen hours straight, then typed it up and went looking for Bill. He was upstairs on the deck, luxuriating in the sun. He squinted up at me, then waved. “Hello, stranger. I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you talked to Dimity lately?”

“Yes, but there was no reply. I didn’t expect one. She had a lot of catching up to do. Have a look at this, will you?” I handed the pages to him, then stood by the railing to wait while he read them.

I had put into them all that I had learned since I had come to the cottage. I wrote about pain and loss and disappointment; about splendid plans going tragically awry. And I wrote about courage and hope and healing. It wasn’t hard to do—it was all there already, in the stories. There were no names mentioned, of course, and the sentences were simple, and that had been the most difficult part: to say what I needed to say, in a voice that would speak to a child.

I also tried to speak to the adult that child would one day become. I urged her not to let the book lie dusty and forgotten on a shelf, but to keep it nearby and to reread it now and again, as a reminder of all the good things that life’s trials might tempt her to forget.

I had added a final paragraph, one that I would not include in the next and final draft because it was intended for one pair of eyes only. In it I wrote of the terrible, wonderful power of love; how it could be used to hold someone captive or to set someone free; how it could be given without hope of return and rejected without ever being lost. Most of all, I wrote of how vital it was to believe in the love offered by an honest heart, no matter how impractical or absurd or fearful the circumstances. Because all times were uncertain and the chance might never come again.

Bill seemed to take forever to finish reading it, but when he did, the look in his eyes told me that it had done what I had hoped it would do. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s very good. I think the critics will be writing about this instead of the stories.”

“As long as the children remember the stories.”

“If they pay attention to what you’ve said here, they’ll remember them all their lives.” Bill left the typed sheets on the deck chair and came over to me. “That last part might be a little tricky for them, though. It’s beyond the scope of the assignment, isn’t it?”

“It’s not part of the assignment.”

“I see.” Bill’s hand reached out to cover mine, where it rested on the railing. “And did you mean what you wrote?”

“Every word.”

“In that case …” He got down on one knee and looked up at me. “Lori Shepherd, I have nothing to offer you but … well … the family fortune
and a slightly warped sense of humor. And my heart, naturally. Will you marry me?”

“An interesting idea,” I said judiciously, “and one to which I have given much thought. After due consideration—”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” Bill grumbled, shifting his weight from one knee to the other.

“After due consideration,” I repeated, “I have decided that I will accept your proposal, with two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First, that you tell me what the ‘A’ stands for in William A. Willis. Does it really stand for Arthur or am I just imagining a family resemblance?”

“I prefer to think of it as an affinity with a great, imaginative mind,” Bill said haughtily, “but yes, you’re right. Quick now, before my leg falls asleep—what’s the second condition?”

“That we spend our honeymoon here at the cottage.”

Bill’s face fell, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it. “Lori, you know I’d arrange it if I could, but it’s impossible. The cottage has already been sold. The new owner is moving in at the end of the month.”

My gaze swept out over the back garden. Emma’s skillful hands had woven a glorious tapesty of colors, textures, scents, and I hoped that whoever lived here next would pause to savor its loveliness. Every petal seemed to glow, every leaf fluttered spring-green and shining. The shallow pond reflected clouds of roses in a crisp blue sky, and tiny purple blossoms cascaded over the gray stone walls. The oak grove loomed cool and inviting, and the meadow beyond the sunken terrace was awash in daffodils. I looked from their bright yellow trumpets to Bill’s anxious face.

“In that case,” I said, “I guess I’ll have to accept your proposal without any conditions at all.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will. Rise, Sir Knight, and claim your lady.” I reached down to take his hand, but he stayed where he was.

“Then you accept?” he asked.

“Would you like me to write it in blood?”

“I would like you to say yes.”

“
Yes
, William Arthur Willis. I will marry you.”

I expected him to rise to his feet and sweep me into a passionate embrace. Instead, he sat back on his heels and let out a whooshing sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought I’d never pry it out of you.”

“You didn’t seriously think I would refuse, did you?”

“No, but you had to say yes. You had to say that particular word, and I didn’t think you would ever say it.” He stood up and began to put his arms around me, but I held him off.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why that particular word? Why do I get the feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“Because you’re right. I couldn’t tell you before, but now I can.” He leaned forward on the railing. “You remember those stories I told you about, the ones Dimity told me when Father and I were staying at her town house in London?”

“Yes.”