The Friends We Keep(88)

“I’m sure,” she said, which was true. As long as the past stayed in the past, it would all work out. She changed the subject. “Where are you going dressed like that anyway?”

“I’m taking my mother out to lunch.”

“I haven’t seen her in so many years. I’d love to see her. Why don’t you invite her over here?” said Evvie, remembering the Dexatrim she was introduced to by Joan.

“I will, but she can’t stay. I love my mother, but only in small doses. Speaking of which, I have to go.”

“Have a wonderful time.” Evvie blew him a kiss as Topher stole the last of Maggie’s toast, dropped the flat cap on the table, and left.

“What are you doing today?” she asked Maggie.

“Boring stuff. Paperwork. I have to run into the village to get some coffee and a few other things. Why?”

“Can I come with you? Is there an animal rescue anywhere around here?”

Maggie peered at her friend. “We’re not getting a dog.”

“Definitely not. But let’s just go and have a look.” She winked. “Just for fun.”





forty


- 2019 -



I do like it at Hadleys,” said Topher’s mother, eyeing the faux bookshelves approvingly. “It’s lovely to have such sophistication at the English seaside. Also . . .” She paused as the waiter set down her roast chicken. “They do lovely big portions. Not that I can eat anything anymore, but I’ll take it home and this will feed me for the next three days. It’s like being back in America. That lovely Gillian doesn’t even frown when I ask her for a doggie bag.”

“How often do you come here?” asked Topher, who noted how his mother was greeted like one of the family.

His mother shrugged. “I’ve never cooked, darling. This is where all my dates bring me.”

“Ah yes. And who is the lucky man this week?”

“My gentleman caller of the last six months has been James. He’s lovely.”

“James? Same name as Dad. How funny.”

Topher’s mother looked at him blankly. “He’s ever so charming, and handsome. His people are from Connecticut. Greenwich.”

“Mom?” Topher frowned, leaning forward. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re in shipping. Not him, but his mother’s family. Lots of money, apparently. Such fun!”

“Mom. You’re talking about Dad. He’s . . .” Topher gave up, sighing. What was he supposed to say? If he told her that the man she thought she was talking about had been dead for years, would she break down in floods of tears in the restaurant? No. His mother was not one for public shows of emotion, but nor was she one to be confused. This wasn’t like her at all.

“Do you remember our house in Greenwich off Round Hill Road?” Topher said, and it was like flicking a switch as his mother nodded, suddenly animated. “Remember the polo club you used to go to?” And suddenly his mother was back, enthusiastically chatting about the polo club, their life as a family when Topher was young, not a confused bone in her body.

“And . . . do you remember Dad’s funeral?” Topher asked gently.

“Oh God, yes,” she said. “The service in New York. It was standing room only, and there was an overflow that had to fill all the other rooms. We had to bring in screens so they could watch the service. What a beloved man he was.”

“You miss him.”

“I do.”

“So, Mother, you know I’ve moved to Somerset?” He was treading gently, not sure of the areas in which her confusion struck.

“Of course I know that, darling. You’re with all your lovely old friends from university. We can see each other all the time. You can bring me to Hadleys every week for lunch. How’s that for starters?”

Topher smiled, relief flooding his body. Whatever happened before, with her confusion, must just be old age rather than anything more serious like dementia. His mother was back to herself, in charge of her destiny, her choices, her life.

“You have to come and see the house,” he said. “They would all love to see you, and you’d adore it.”

“What house?” she said, lifting the chicken to her mouth and not noticing that gravy dripped down the front of her silk blouse.

“Mother,” he said, his heart again fluttering with fear. “Have you been to see a doctor recently?”



* * *



? ? ?

They managed to get in that afternoon.

“Who says the NHS is rubbish?” muttered Topher in the waiting room, stunned that they got an appointment that day, and that there was no wait.

“It’s wonderful here,” said his mother, back on peak performance. “London was so challenging for doctors. I once spent eight hours in Accident and Emergency and not one person came to see me.”

“What was the matter?”

“Theater!” His mother was distracted by a poster on the bulletin board. “Oh, look, they’re doing Bedroom Farce! Oh, we must go and see it. Darling, will you get tickets?”

“Of course.” Topher took out his phone and took a shot of the poster so he could call for tickets, thinking how unlike her it was to be so easily distracted.