The Memory of Us: A Novel (10 page)

We decided on something simple. A pleated dark-blue skirt, with a fitted gray sweater. A platter-shaped black hat with creamy silk flowers. Lucille selected small silver loops from my jewelry box and a silver brooch in the shape of a peacock—my little nod to vanity, since I had chosen such a basic and sensible outfit.

I brushed my hair, with perhaps just a few more strokes than were strictly necessary. Lucille’s gaze pressed upon me as she noted the care with which I applied my makeup. Her expression was solemn as she pulled the curtains open and saturated the room with light. “Jul,” she said, “I know you’ll keep your head about you today. You know what’s right.” She must have read the worry in my face. Giving me a quick hug, she looked at the clock and said, “It’s nine fifteen!”

Scrambling down the stairs, all of my senses were suddenly drawn to the parlor doorway where, waiting for me, was Kyle.

My body felt conflicted, like trying to press together the positive sides of two magnets. Every fiber in me was drawn to him. It took all of my willpower to not run toward him and instead walk gracefully across the room like the mature young lady I was at least pretending to be.

With the perceptive eyes of someone in love, I noticed that the muscles of his neck tightened and released, and he took in a sharp breath. In a second, our eyes told each other everything that we would guard our lips from saying. We each looked away quickly, only to return again with our masks on.

“Good morning, Miss Westcott,” he said starchily. But he didn’t fool me. I saw the corners of his mouth holding back a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. McCarthy.” And my mouth fought the same battle. I looked at Mother and remembered that I wasn’t supposed to know him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s good of you to accompany me today. I’ll appreciate your input on the flower and evergreen arrangements for your home.”

“You’re too generous. We appreciate all of your help with the wedding.”

I hoped that all of this stiffness was for the benefit of my mother, who was standing next to him. I didn’t think that I could manage a whole day of stilted conversation with someone who evoked such passionate reactions in me by his mere presence. Lucille stood behind her, arms folded, watching me like a guardian angel.

Mother broke in, clearly oblivious to the currents running beneath our exchange. “Well, you two run along. And, Kyle, when you get back, I’ll make sure that Betty saves a plate of dinner for you. It is the least we can do to say thank you for your help.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Westcott, but my father is feeling unwell today and I should sit with him tonight.”

“Very well. Julianne, your brooch is upside down.” Twisting it upright, she patted my back and sent us on our way. As soon as the door was closed, I could hear her calling, “Lucille, let’s get to work!”

Poor Lucille. I was definitely getting the better end of the deal today.

Chapter Ten

Kyle’s truck was faded and worn, but it looked like a fairy-tale carriage to me. He opened my door, but he needn’t have because I could have floated in. As he walked around to the driver’s side, I pinched my arm tightly in order to bring myself out of the clouds. This was going to be harder than I thought.
Mind over matter, head over heart.
I repeated it to myself, hoping I could believe it.

He slid in and slammed his door.

I was glad to see that he hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. That made it easier to focus on the task at hand and not envision this as anything more than an extended errand. He wore cuffed canvas trousers, a white shirt, and a brown leather jacket. A winter cap covered his hair. While I missed his boyish, wavy locks, I could see his face more clearly now. He was still so handsome, with a strong jawline and the shadow of a beard. Not that three months away was going to change any of that. I had just tried to forget.

I was keenly attuned to his every movement. Igniting the engine. Shifting the gears. I had read that when a person loses a sense, the others overcompensate. I wondered which sense of mine was impaired, because my sight, hearing, and sense of smell were all very acute at this moment. There was something so essentially masculine about seeing him drive the truck, and at once I realized my preference for this over the suited, moneyed crowd of men that I was used to associating with.

We made our way down the winding path of the estate until we reached the edge of Newsham Park. A few dedicated souls were already out walking its grounds, bundled in their winter clothes. The twin lakes had not yet frozen over, but the geese had already left for the southern part of the continent. A vacuum of silence covered the land. I made a move to step out and open the iron gate that separated our home from the public grounds, but Kyle put his hand on my arm and stopped me. Our eyes met, and we lingered in the unspoken chasm that lay between us, lovers denied. At least, that was how I saw it.

“Please stay,” he said. “I’ll get the gate.”

He stepped out to pull it back, and the creaking of the metal disrupted the magical feeling of the morning. Father said that as soon as electricity could be brought to the perimeter, he was going to install an automatic gate that would open on its own. I wished it were already in place. Then Kyle would not have had to leave my side even for a second.

He hopped back in and pulled through the gate, then ran back to close it after us. On his return he blew on his hands to warm them, then released the brake and sealed his eyes to the road. We drove in silence for a few minutes, passing shops darkened for another hour and homes lit as breakfast simmered. I wished I knew what was going on in his head. Either it didn’t matter to him that I was achingly close, or he was very disciplined. I hoped it was the latter.

I got the small talk started. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me today. Mother has these elaborate plans sometimes. I don’t know that I’ll be any more help than an extra set of arms to carry out what we buy.”

“Don’t apologize. And don’t sell yourself short,” he said, flashing a grin that made me feel even weaker, if it was possible. “Your arms will be useful. There will be lots to carry.”

And with that, the wooden masquerade we’d maintained since leaving the house fell away.

“So why Wallasey?” I needed to keep to a topic that provided me better footing.

“There’s a great farm there with a wide variety of Christmas trees. I thought it would add something special to decorate with different kinds of boughs.”

“There is more than one kind of Christmas tree?”

“Yes, several. Firs, pine, spruces. And then, within those categories, there are other kinds. Douglas firs. Black spruce. Scotch pine, white pine. Norway spruce. I don’t know how many kinds this farm has, but I knew that we’d have a better shot at it there than in the city. Wallasey fared better in the storm.”

I was intrigued with the kinds of things he knew.

As we drove, he pointed out various sights—farms whose owners he and his father had had dealings with, features of the landscape—and offered bits of intriguing or amusing trivia about them. I had driven this way before, but without such an expert tour guide. The unwelcome image of him standing at a pulpit, sharing his knowledge with a congregation, entered my mind. I closed my eyes and thought instead of his nearness, his warmth.

“I’ll tell you my favorite story about Wallasey.”

My heartbeat coursed through my body. His audience of one. “What is that?”

“In the early eighteen hundreds, some roguish people in the town used to shine lights out to sea, and ship captains would mistake them for lighthouses. But they were really heading straight towards dangerous rocks, and the ships would crash. Then the bandits of Wallasey would raid the ship and store the cargo in underground tunnels.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, it’s true. You can still visit some of the tunnels today.”

“I would love to do that.”

“Maybe we can sometime.”

Unintentionally, the puppet master pulled the strings of the marionette. When he said things like that, it sounded like an invitation for something more. But I knew that it wasn’t. He was exactly what he presented himself to be, and I had to swallow away my hopes that anything more would come from our attraction.

We pulled into the tree farm shortly after that. I stepped out into the cold and pulled some gloves from my handbag. Kyle watched me as I did so, waiting for something.

When I started walking away from the truck, he stopped me. “Don’t you have a hat?”

I put my hand on my head and patted the black felt hat. I could see where he was going with it, though. It was not exactly sparing me from the elements.

“You call that a hat?” He laughed. “Here, try mine.”

He took mine off, tugging where the pins fought to keep it in place. He tossed it onto my seat in the truck, oblivious to how much it cost. Then he took off his own cap and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to put it all back in place. With two hands, he placed it on my head, pulling it over my ears. I felt a shiver run through me when he was that close. He lingered more than seemed absolutely necessary, and I breathed in the moment as our eyes locked.

“There.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. “It’s not the latest in London fashion, but at least I’ll return you home as healthy as I found you.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t need one. I am a strapping young man, and you are a damsel in distress. My hat is yours, m’lady.”

I punched him in the arm playfully, and we turned toward the entrance.

The tree farm was expansive, and I could see why he thought it was worth the drive. There were hundreds and hundreds of Christmas trees of every variety. Kyle asked for my opinion as we sorted through boughs and measured the trees, but I knew who the expert was here and I tried to select my choice based on what I thought he would say. I chose differently only one time—I liked the evergreen better than the pine for the main fireplace, and he deferred to my suggestion.

This prompted another story, one regarding the original inhabitants of the United States, who evidently used evergreen boughs as body cleansers. I told him that I would stick with my lemon verbena soap, thank you very much.

We walked for about an hour through the rows of trees. Being next to Kyle made me feel absolutely weightless. I couldn’t even hear the sound of my own feet on the ground. Early in the day, the mere sight of him had sent my head spinning and my heart heaving, but now I began to feel calm. The more I discovered about him, the more time I spent at his side, I knew that I was inching into something that felt like real love. And it was made up of so much more than childish daydreams.

After four trips to and from the truck, Kyle was satisfied with everything that we had selected. We paid the owner and hopped back into the cabin of the truck, smelling of winter and evergreen.

“Well, now. I’m sure that you’ve worked up an appetite. I know that I have. Would you like to have supper here in Wallasey before we head back?”

That sounded perfect. My stomach was growling at an embarrassingly audible level, and I wasn’t ready to go home and have this all come to an end yet.

We drove along the water and found a little restaurant near the town hall. Several patrons were leaving, as we had arrived at the end of the supper hour, but a few lingered over their plates, the remnants of their meal sitting forgotten. The dimly lit candles and small tables made for close company, and music played from an unseen radio. In another circumstance, I would have said that it was romantic. But I reminded myself that we weren’t in another circumstance.

Kyle lightly touched the small of my back, guiding me to a table by the window where we could see the water. He pulled out my chair and took my sweater from my shoulders. We were greeted by the elderly waiter, whose gaunt frame did not do much to endorse the food. But the menus suggested otherwise, and I found it difficult to decide between all of the offerings.

“Something for the young couple to drink?”
The young couple.
I felt my cheeks redden by several shades, and I avoided Kyle’s eyes by focusing on taking off my gloves, drawing it out by loosening one finger at a time.

As Kyle ordered a Coca-Cola for me and a Newcastle Brown Ale for himself, my attention was turned to the radio. An Artie Wilson song was on, and his words seemed to mirror my thoughts:

Did I tell you that I adore you

And you’re all I think about at night?

Did I tell you that I’m my best around you

And how you make everything just right?

It was impossible to hold on to my resolution with lyrics like that and a setting like this.

Kyle turned to me, hands folded on the table, and leaned in. “It smells so good in here. What are you in the mood for?”

I looked over the options. Leek soup sounded inviting on this cold day, but so did the shepherd’s pie.

Our waiter came back holding a small black tray. He set my Coca-Cola down in front of me and placed an empty glass in front of Kyle. He poured the ale into Kyle’s glass, stopping just as the foam grew to the rim, and left the bottle on the table to be finished later.

I decided at last on the lamb with mint sauce, my perpetual favorite, and Kyle asked for the tatws popty. I smiled at the thought that his selection suited him perfectly. Simple and straightforward meat-and-potato stew.

The foam in Kyle’s glass had started to deflate into a thin tan line above the darker ale. He poured more from the bottle at a slight angle that he said kept it from rising again.

When the bottle was empty, he placed it on the table facing me.

“Do you know why there’s a blue star on the label?”

“I don’t.”

“It stands for the five original brewing companies in Newcastle.”

“You know a lot of little facts like that, don’t you?”

He put his hand to his chest and feigned offense.

“They’re not just ‘little facts.’ You never know when they might come in handy. You might fall into a ditch, and a passerby hears your cries. ‘Help me,’ you say. ‘I will,’ he responds, ‘but only if you can tell me how many stars there are on the Paramount Pictures logo.’”

“How many stars
are
there on the Paramount Pictures logo?” I asked.

“Twenty-four, one for each of the stars that they had under contract at the time the studio was founded.”

“And what other morsels of knowledge are swimming around up there?” I twirled my finger around his head.

“Did you know that the name of every continent ends with the same letter it begins with?”

I furled my brows and tried to remember all of them. “Wait—you’re wrong,” I said. I sat a little bit straighter.

“What do you mean?”

“North and South America. They don’t begin and end with the same letters.”

“Well, you have to take out the ‘North’ and the ‘South.’ It’s the ‘America’ part that counts.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Suit yourself. But it’s not a very interesting fact if you look at it so precisely.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

He grinned at me and could have kept me captivated for hours with such trivial things.

“Well, I don’t want to bore you now,” he said, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. “Tell me all about school.”

I entertained him with stories about Abigail and Dorothy, the London sights we’d seen, the Jitterbug Club, and the horror of having to wear hairnets to class. I didn’t mention anything about Roger, who I realized was rapidly fading from my memory. I couldn’t even bring his image to mind, seeing only blurred features and outlines.

One thing was startlingly clear, however. After spending this much time with him, I could not continue to deny what I felt for Kyle, even if a future was impossible for us. But it also made me know that I wasn’t willing to settle for anything less. My affection for Roger was no more than that. And he deserved to be with someone who felt that way for him. I didn’t know how I would do it yet, but I was going to have to tell him.

But that was for a later day. Right now, I had such precious, limited time with Kyle.

The meal arrived just as I finished my narrative about the last three months. Betty made a much better mint sauce, but the lamb was tender enough, and I was starving. Kyle was clearly enjoying his stew, and he stopped his fork midair when he saw me looking at him.

“You have to try this,” he said. I expected him to set some aside on the bread plate for me. But instead he stuck his fork into his meal and reached his arm across the table to feed it to me. My eyes widened with surprise. I had never shared a dish with a man before, and there was something about it that felt so intimate. Almost scandalous. I opened my mouth, though, and sampled the perfect trio of meat, sauce, and herbs. My lips closed around the cold metal, and Kyle slid the fork out, setting it back on his plate. I felt him watching me.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

I nodded, silenced by the taste and aroma of the stew, but more by the kind of connection that could be made from such an innocent gesture. “Winter Wonderland” came on the radio. I was relieved to have a break from the love song that seemed to take delight in taunting me.