Just Haven't Met You Yet(98)

All my love, Dad



He never sent it. He made the tapes, wrote the letter, but he hadn’t addressed the envelope. I know I shouldn’t need this proof. I know now that love can’t be measured in objects or shared tastes, but, reading his words addressed to me, seeing the songs he chose—“Another Day in Paradise,” “That’s Just the Way It Is”—it’s like he knew exactly what I needed to hear: the epilogue to my parents’ story. I hug the tapes to my chest.



* * *




*

Sandy is hosting a goodbye lunch for me in her garden before Ted takes me to the airport. I’ve been in Jersey a whole week now, yet it feels as though I’ve been here for months. Perhaps Jersey is like Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and I’ve been here for years, but in London time, only a few minutes have passed.

Ted has brought Gerry to join us for lunch, and he’s full of stories about some of the other residents in his assisted living community.

“There are a group of women who call themselves the Miss Marple Club,” he says, shaking his head. “They watch murder mysteries together every Tuesday, stopping them before the end, and then placing bets on who they think the murderer is. They’ve all seen the episodes a hundred times, but they forget who did it, so the game never gets old.” Gerry lets out a cackle.

“So, you’re making friends then?” says Ted, hugging a cup of tea between his hands. He’s let his stubble grow back over the last few days, and truth be told, I sometimes miss the beard.

“It’s like the first day at school again, except no one can remember anyone’s name, least of all their own,” Gerry says.

“Oh, Gerry, stop—he’s exaggerating,” says Sandy, rolling her eyes.

“You wouldn’t rather have a carer at home then, now that money’s not so tight?” Ted asks.

“No,” Gerry says, picking up a mug and moving it, shakily, toward his lips. “I’m happy enough where I am; the food is great and I like having people around me again. Plus, it’s nice to see this house full of you young people.” Gerry looks across at me. “I hope you’ll be back, Laura, that we haven’t scared you off with our island ways.”

“Oh, she’ll be back,” says Ted, reaching across to put a hand on my arm.

In the last few days, we haven’t really talked about the future, and I haven’t wanted to ask. Ted took the house off the market; I spent time in the workshop making jewelry. We swam in the sea, and I explored more of the island. I even made a bean crock for Ted, Ilídio, and Sandy following Maude’s recipe.

Ted is taking the ferry back to England next week. He has a meeting with the hospital about resuming work. He also got a call about an offer on the house in London; he’s closing books, opening new ones. I don’t know where our story goes from here, but I know that even if we only had this one week, I would not do anything differently.

“What about you, Laura?” Sandy asks. “What are you going to do when you get back to London? Are you tempted to make peace with your boss?”

I shake my head. I’ve already spoken to Suki. She was remarkably open-minded about discussing my role going forward. Something about her feels different, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

“I’ve said I want to go freelance, choose the articles I feel passionate about, maybe free up some time for jewelry making. I know I don’t want to do the How Did You Meet? segment anymore. I’ve had enough of chasing other people’s love stories.”

Ted squeezes my shoulder.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to find passion in your work again,” says Ilídio, giving me a wink.

As we’re talking, a green car covered in hedgehog stickers pulls into the drive at Sans Ennui.

“We caught you—you haven’t left yet!” Monica calls, as she climbs out of the driver’s side. I see Sue sitting in the passenger seat and I jump over the wall to meet them.

“You didn’t need to come and see me off,” I say.

Sue opens the passenger door, and I help her out.

“Have you got it?” Sue asks Monica, who hurries around the car holding a small wooden box. She hands it to Sue, who presses it into my hands.

“We wanted you to have this,” she says, nodding her head toward the box. “Our father’s tools—his engraving kit. When you said you made jewelry, well, we thought it would be nice for them to be used again. They’ve sat unloved in this box for eighty years.”

I open the lid to find a set of wooden and steel tools: pushers, burnishers, and gravers, all perfectly preserved.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “They look too precious to use.”

“They’re tools, they were made to be used.”

“Thank you, thank you both,” I say, wrapping an arm around each of them. Then I pull back, remembering I have something to tell them: “I found something, in Dad’s box—a letter he wrote to me, a mixtape he made. He was planning to make me one every year.”

“That sounds like him,” says Sue, nodding slowly.

“And the coin,” I say. “He did mean for me to have it. Gran said he sent his half to me. He wanted both parts to stay together.”

Sue reaches out to find my hands. I take them, and she squeezes my fingers gently. It’s as though she’s telling me she doesn’t need to be convinced.