Evergreen Falls (3 page)

I tied the letters with the ribbon and put them on my bedside table, then switched off my lamp and snuggled down. Being in bed on a rainy night was one of my favorite pastimes, which tells you a lot about how few pastimes I’d had.

I lay awake a long time, thinking about Tomas. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him doing some of the things that SHB had
done to his lover. I was not completely without sexual experience: I’d had a few fumbling relationships that didn’t get past a second date, and a one-night encounter with a much older man who had taught me things about my body I didn’t know it could feel. But no long-term boyfriend, no going “all the way,” no getting swept away. How could I? I’d lived with my parents, and if that didn’t stop men asking me out, it certainly stopped me saying yes. Every time a relationship became possible I would tell myself,
Just one more year; it can’t go on much longer, surely
. Then I’d hate myself for thinking it.

Of course, when I was finally released I barely knew what to do with myself, and grief and guilt weighed me down.

But I liked Tomas. When he was around, I felt shiny, as though something bright beckoned me from just around the corner. I suspected he might make happiness possible.

I went to sleep wondering whether SHB and his lover had been happy, back in 1926.

*  *  *

I arrived home from work the following afternoon to a note pinned on my door.
Boxes delivered to my place for you. Come for them when you can. LT.

It took me a moment to figure out. Mrs. Tait. I had no idea what her first name was, but now I knew it started with L. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Tait and that’s what everybody called her.

I changed out of my work uniform and made my way down the side of the house to Mrs. Tait’s front door, and rang the bell.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she said, fumbling with the door. “Come on in. You’ve got some packages.”

“They’re books, I think,” I said, seeing the boxes stacked neatly inside the doorway. “My mum sent them up. She’s, ah, clearing out my brother’s room.” I found myself standing inside an immaculately
kept, restored 1930s cottage, painted in pale blue and cream, with sun streaming through the windows. “Wow, your house is beautiful.”

“Not really my house. I inherited it from my mother. I came to it by good fortune, not hard work. Would you like tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Is a tea bag all right? I’m afraid I don’t stand much on ceremony.”

“Perfectly fine. I’m white with one.”

“Sit down, I’ll be right back.”

I sat in a plush lounge chair, and sank into it deeply.

After a few minutes she returned with two mugs, placing one on the side table next to me, then settling on her sofa. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore a plain navy shift dress, which made her pale skin seem almost translucent, and her eyes very bright blue.

“That’s a lovely color on you,” I said.

“I did always love navy,” she said. “Not many can wear it.”

I smiled. “You wear it very well.”

“You should do something about those eyebrows.”

“Do you think?”

“Just because they’re pale doesn’t mean you can’t tame them. Go and see Vana on the high street. She’ll find them for you.” She raised her own eyebrows. I had to admit they were beautifully shaped.

“My mother had no eyebrows at all,” she continued, sipping her tea. “Plucked them out completely in 1928 so she could draw them back in. It was the style at the time. Had to draw them in for the rest of her life, and as her hands became less steady . . .” She laughed. “God rest her soul.”

“How long ago did she die?” I asked.

“Fifteen years ago.”

“She lived here?”

“Oh, no. She never lived here. It was one of her investments. My mother had quite a lot of money, and she worked very hard for it.” She shook her head. “I never worked hard enough for her taste. I disappointed her, I think.”

In that moment, she seemed not a woman in her eighties but a sad child, and I felt a twinge in my chest for her. “I’m sure that’s not the case. She must have loved you.”

“Oh, she loved me. But I think she wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer or something special, but I didn’t have the brains for it, you see. Ah, well. All in the past now.” She smiled, brightly. “You said these books were your brother’s? Is he moving up here with you?”

I hesitated over what to say next. Why did I always feel as though it were a secret, something that we couldn’t talk about? Perhaps it was the way my mother had kept the world away that had made our lives seem somehow furtive. “He’s dead,” I said finally. “He died about four months ago.”

“I’m so sorry. How old was he?”

“Thirty-five.”

She clicked her tongue. “Such a shame at such a young age. An accident?”

“No, he was sick for a long time. It was . . . not unexpected.” I sipped my tea, hoping to close down the discussion. “Tell me more about your mother,” I said, forcing a smile. “She sounds formidable.”

“Yes, that’s a good word,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at a set of framed photographs on the sideboard. Smiling people in old-fashioned clothes. “When I came along, she decided she wanted me to have a better life than she’d had. Dad was often unwell, so he stayed home with me, and Mum went out to work in a perfumery in Sydney, and worked her way up, then when the business was in trouble she convinced a bank to loan her enough to buy it. I barely
saw her: she was at work from dawn until late in the evening. She was a real career woman at a time when women didn’t have careers. Made her own fortune.”

“Wow. What a wonderful life she had.”

“Yes. You’d think so. That’s the official version.” Her voice was wistful.

“Official version?”

“There was a lot she didn’t tell me. There’s a lot I still don’t know.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged off my question. “Dad raised me, and we were very close. She often traveled and we got on without her. I always remember how she smelled when she came home, as though the perfumes she worked with had all seeped a little into her pores. She’d lean over me and press cool lips to my sleeping cheek, and I’d wake just enough to smell her and hear her say she loved me . . . Oh, dear. I’m getting quite teary. It happens these days. I find myself remembering things from so long ago. So long ago.”

“It’s all right. Cry away.”

“Such happy memories, all bright and sharp at the edges. They’ll all disappear when I die.” She trailed off. “I’ve said far too much and you must be bored.”

“I’m not bored. You should write it all down.”

“For whom to read, my dear?”

“Your children?” I suggested, then hoped that she had children and wasn’t alone in the world.

She sniffed dismissively. “They wouldn’t be interested. They’re off living their lives. One in London, one in New York, one in Vancouver. A bunch of high achievers. Not a single grandchild for me between the three of them.” She frowned, looking into the bottom of her teacup. “One cup is never enough.”

“You need a pot, and some bigger cups.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

I rose, and made to clear away our cups.

“No, no,” she said, “don’t bother. It will give me something to do. Do you need a hand with those boxes?”

“I can manage them.”

“Good,” she said. “I was only being polite.” Then she laughed at my expression, and her face creased into a thousand lines.

“Come and see me again,” she said.

“I certainly will, Mrs. Tait,” I replied.

“It’s Lizzie,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“I certainly will, Lizzie,” I repeated, and I felt as though I had been bestowed with a special honor. Even Penny and Tomas didn’t know her first name.

*  *  *

I wasn’t the kind of girl to change my outfit seven times before a date, because I had already decided—possibly within seconds of Tomas asking me out—what I would wear. My only nice dress. It was knee length, black, sleeveless, gathered at the waist with a diamanté star. I lived my life in jeans and T-shirts, and this was the one thing I had that made me look like a woman, rather than an asexual teenage slacker. I had no idea what to do with makeup, but Vana at the beauty salon had indeed “found” my eyebrows and tinted my lashes as well. I studied my face as I brushed my hair in the mirror, and decided this was the closest I’d ever been to pretty.

I was, however, ready far too early and perched on my couch for a very long twenty minutes, waiting for Tomas to arrive. My flat was a long way back from the street, so I strained to hear his car’s engine or the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel at the side of the house. Poised like a cat. Anxious, running over scenarios in my head, each of them ending in disaster and mortification. In the end, my warning
that he was nearby was the
ting-ting
of a text message.
Out front talking to Mrs. T.

I grabbed my handbag and smoothed my dress down, then headed out of the flat.

Mrs. Tait—Lizzie—was watering her front garden, deep in conversation with Tomas. He wore a dark gray sports jacket over a blue shirt and jeans. He had that wonderful Scandinavian coloring: golden hair, olive skin, blue eyes. But it was more than his looks that had attracted me. There was a kindness about him, a softness around his mouth.

“Hello,” I called as I approached.

Lizzie turned and gave me a broad smile. “I hear Tomas is taking you on a date.”

I could feel my cheeks grow warm. “Yes, well . . .”

“Good on you both. What glorious children you’d have. Tall and fair-haired and kind-eyed.” Then she was laughing at our shuffling discomfort, and I couldn’t help but feel fond of her for having such a wicked sense of humor.

“Shall we?” Tomas asked, indicating his car.

“Bye, Lizzie,” I said, kissing her powdery cheek.

“Lovely eyebrows,” she whispered, before releasing me.

As Tomas and I drove into the long dusk of summer we were quiet a few moments, then he said, “How come you get to call her Lizzie?”

“I spent some time over there yesterday, listening to her tell stories about her mother.”

“She must like you.”

“I hope so; I like her. There’s something about her, isn’t there?”

“Yes, as though age hasn’t mellowed her at all.”

“I think she’s quite lonely. She told me her children are all overseas. She’s proud of them but misses them, too.” I watched the
landscape drift by. “I think I’ll try to spend more time with her. It’s not like I have that much to do.”

More quiet. I shifted in my car seat, turned my hands over in front of me, studying them.

“You look nice,” he said.

I glanced his way. His eyes were straight ahead on the road, but he was smiling.

“Thanks,” I replied. Then, “So do you.” My heart was in my mouth. I was
so
inexperienced at this. “Where are we off to?”

“I have reservations at L’Espalier.”

“Wow. That’s fancy. French food, right?”

“Yes. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course.” It wasn’t all right. I had a delicate stomach. Rich things didn’t agree with me. My French was hopeless, so I wouldn’t have a clue what I was ordering. My anxiety wound up a notch.

We pulled into a car park a few minutes later and walked up the hill to the restaurant. I was having trouble in my wedge heels, trying not to stomp.
Concentrate. Breathe
. The main street of Evergreen Falls was quiet and dark except for the occasional burst of laughter and light from the eateries that lined the way. I looked longingly at Vintage Star, an unpretentious eatery in the front of an antique shop where I knew I could read the menu and order a good ungarnished steak. But we walked past it and were soon finding our table at L’Espalier.

“Wine?” the waiter asked as he laid my napkin across my lap.

“I’m driving, so I won’t drink,” Tomas said.

“Yes,” I blurted, almost desperately. “Wine, please.”

The waiter brandished the wine list and I scanned it, trying to hide my horror at the prices. Was Tomas paying?

“A glass of that one,” I said, stabbing at the cheapest white.

“We don’t sell that one by the glass.”

“We’ll have the bottle,” Tomas said smoothly. “I might have half a glass with you.” He smiled at me across the table, his skin smooth in the candlelight. I smiled back, but it may have been a grimace. I heard my phone ring in my handbag and knew it was Mum, and realized I had forgotten to tell her I wouldn’t be home to take her regular call. Well, not forgotten so much as avoided telling her, because she would ask questions and I would either have to lie or tell her I was going on a date with a man, which would prompt her to lecture me again about the dangers of men.

“You’re miles away,” Tomas said to me.

“Not in a good way, I’m afraid,” I said. The phone started to ring again.

“Do you need to answer that?”

“I . . . It’s my mother.”

“You know that for certain?”

“This is when she always calls me.”

“Every Friday?”

Every day.
I wasn’t going to tell him that. I wasn’t going to tell him she also called at least twice—random times—throughout the day.

“Perhaps you’d better take it, then,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

I opened my bag, removed my phone, and switched it off. Tonight, I was going to be an adult. “She’ll live,” I said, sounding more flippant than I felt.

The waiter returned with a basket of bread and our wine, which I gulped a little too fast. Tomas didn’t seem to notice. He asked me questions about my mother and my father; I answered him honestly if not thoroughly. Dad was a science illustrator who ran his own business from home, Mum was a retired social worker who had devoted many years to caring for my sick brother, who had died recently.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Yes, it’s . . .” I refilled my glass. My head swam a little as I tried to focus on my menu. “I can’t read French.”

“The dishes are translated in English underneath, see?”

Still the waiter didn’t come. The restaurant was busy, noisy, a little hot. We picked at the bread, smiling at each other awkwardly until finally the waiter came for our order. Tomas ordered in perfect French, making me feel even more inadequate.