The Library of Lost and Found(54)
“Thank you for bringing the tiramisu,” Gina chipped in quickly. “This looks lovely, Martha.”
The sound of wheels trundling on wooden floor sounded in the hallway and Zelda appeared at Gina’s side. She wore a turquoise paisley silk headscarf and a dress with a similar pattern. “Hello,” she said and offered Owen her hand. “I’m Ezmerelda Sanderson, Martha’s nana.”
Owen shook it and smiled. “But surely you aren’t old enough.”
“You smoothie.” Zelda batted her hand at him coyly. “Good choice of guest,” she whispered to Martha as the four of them moved towards the dining room together. Owen and Gina went first, and Zelda and Martha followed. “And you look beautiful tonight. Absolutely glorious.”
Under her beachy-peachy powdered cheeks, Martha blushed.
* * *
Everyone took their seats around the table, a tight squeeze in the cozy room, and Gina poured out glasses of blush prosecco. There were ten people in total, eight women and two men. Martha and Zelda sat next to each other and Gina guided Owen to the opposite end of the table, positioning him next to a young woman who wore a white silk lily in her hair and vivid orange lipstick.
At the other side of the room, Martha noticed a mantelpiece dotted with knickknacks, a white ceramic cat, swirly gold candlesticks and photos in an eclectic array of frames. From where she sat, she could see the shapes of people smiling in the photos, but couldn’t make out their faces. She wondered if Zelda had any of the Storm family on display.
Martha waited until Gina filled her glass before she glanced briefly in Owen’s direction.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Zelda asked.
Martha’s cheeks flooded with color and she quickly sipped her drink. “Don’t be silly. He’s just a friend.”
“I’d snap him up.” Zelda nudged her arm. “He’s hot.”
“Zelda,” Martha hissed, spluttering into her glass. The bubbles tickled her nose. She tried to focus her eyes anywhere other than on Owen. “I’m not a teenager.”
“Tsk. When did you start calling me Zelda? I prefer Nana or Grandma.”
The spread of food on the table looked delicious, baby new potatoes in minted butter, steaming carrots and green beans, a juicy nut roast and slices of beef. There was a huge bowl full of various breads, freshly made and served with salt and peppercorn butter.
As she sat stiffly in her chair, Martha found it difficult to relax in this strange setting. She looked around the room and everyone seemed to be chatting away, comfortable with each other. They were poised and knew how to act, and she didn’t. She felt like she was on show, an oddity. Zelda’s long-lost granddaughter who’d been allowed out of her overstuffed house.
She also knew that no one else was making her feel this way. She was doing it to herself. Her nana had just introduced her as “Martha. A book lover, like us.”
“We like to eat Southern style,” Zelda interrupted Martha’s wandering thoughts as she handed her a bowl of coleslaw.
“Southern?” Martha thought of the UK. London and Brighton, perhaps even Kent.
“Gina and I lived in North Carolina for nearly thirty years, in a cute little town near Raleigh. We only moved back here, after my tumor op, for healthcare reasons. Sharing food was a huge thing out there, with friends and family. Can you hear my American twang?”
Martha nodded, having spotted that her nana’s accent was no longer purely from Yorkshire.
She also noticed how Zelda said “thirty years” as if it was a blink of an eye, the turn of a page. But it hadn’t been for Martha. It had been a long slog. There had been some rewards, knowing that her parents were comfortable and able to stay in their own home, but that couldn’t compensate for the isolation and loneliness she’d endured. The nagging knowledge that she was missing out on life.
And all that time, Zelda had been cooking and feeding other people too much slaw. Shouldn’t she have been in Sandshift, helping to look after Betty? Her own daughter?
Martha’s throat tightened at her own selfishness. She didn’t know why Zelda had gone, or how Lilian knew she hadn’t died. She darted her eyes away from her nana.
“It gets a bit boring on my own, so I invite people over,” Zelda said. “Pass me the wine and I’ll pour you another one.”
“I’ve got plenty left, thank you.” Martha placed her hand on top of her glass, but Zelda tapped it away. She tipped the bottle until the fizzy pink liquid was just a millimeter or two from the rim. Martha had to sip it straight away so it didn’t spill over. After her jumble of thoughts, she was glad of the warm rush it gave her.
Zelda turned her head and took up a conversation with a man to her left. He wore a tweed jacket and had wiry brown-blond hair and a slim mustache that moved as he talked. She introduced him, briefly, to Martha as “Harry, from the next village.”
In turn, Martha found herself talking about her library work, to a lady who had a cut-glass accent and a distracting mole under her eye. Martha felt oddly proud when the lady laughed out loud at her story about the ferret-costumed man.
Eventually, when Harry excused himself from the table, Martha chatted with Zelda again. Her grandmother’s cheeks were rosier now, her eyes a little pink.
“I think Harry likes you,” Zelda confided, too loudly.