Becoming Mrs. Lewis(43)

“And the entire Oxford set has snubbed me since his death. All except Lewis. So I can’t reach out to them for help. And what would it matter if I did? Maybe I don’t want to know what those women have or know. Perhaps it’s best if I just let it go.”

“Just let the sleeping women lie,” I said. “Let them keep their papers and their souvenirs.”

She leaned closer. “I think you’re right, Joy. I don’t know what letters are out there either.”

“It’s horrid. Men can be absolute animals,” I said. “Others see them as heroes, while we’re the ones who live at home with them and are expected to tolerate their infidelities and peccadillos.”

“Yes.” Her head bobbed in agreement.

“Not Jack.” I glanced toward the door as if my voice might hurry him to us.

“You think he’s different? That once you lived with him he wouldn’t have the same proclivities?”

“I do think he’s different.”

“Oh, Joy. You might be right. But how could we ever know? How could any woman but Mrs. Moore—God bless her soul—know? She’s the only one that ever lived with him, or probably ever will.”

“You might be right.” I took a long sip and felt the warmth of the sherry fill the cold crevices inside. I wanted to ask more about Mrs. Moore, things I wouldn’t ask Jack, but I stilled those inquiries and smiled at Michal.

“Joy.” Her voice was soft. “Tell me what’s troubling you. I want to help if I can.”

“Am I that transparent?” I lifted my glass in salute.

“To me, yes, you are.”

“It’s hard to pin down, but it’s Bill. Something seems really off. He’s not answering me, and he’s not sending money. I’m busted. I know I could ask Jack for money, as he’s offered, but I’d rather cut off my ear.” I pulled my coat tighter around me. “I’ve asked Bill for my thyroid meds and some food and a few books, and yet he’s sent nothing.”

“I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“You don’t need to do anything. Just being here, being my friend is enough. I’ve given Bill so many ideas of what to work on—we have half-finished projects that he could delve into.” I rubbed my fingers against my thumb. “Right now I don’t even have the money to buy a ticket home.”

Her eyes glazed with tears—for me! The empathy felt as comforting as the blazing fire at the far end of the bar.

“I sound like I’m complaining,” I said. “I know that. But I’m going to write like crazy. I’m going to finish this project and then I’ll make everything right at home.”

“Where are you with your Ten Commandments?”

“I’m almost done—only five more articles to go, and I have them outlined. And I’ve found a title for the book: Smoke on the Mountain.”

“So your work is chugging along, but you don’t seem yourself, Joy,” Michal said, catching me staring off to the front door.

“I believe I might be a bit homesick,” I said. “I don’t much want to talk about it. What else has gone on in London while I’ve languished?”

“You’ve heard about Charlie Chaplin, right? He sailed here for his Limelight premiere and he’s decided to stay.”

I laughed and felt warm enough to shed my coat, setting it across the back of my chair. “Good for him. If all Americans came here, I believe they’d stay. And I don’t think you want that.”

Michal waved her hand. “Well. Do you know what beats all? The tea rationing ended yesterday.”

“It ended? Well, thanks be to God.” I pretended to cross myself, and she clasped her own hands in false prayer.

“Oh, the sacrilege,” she said. “We might be struck any moment.”

Our conversation flowed easily. We caught up on what we’d been reading, and she told me that her son Michael had found a job. I told her that I’d been working on O.H.E.L.—and Jack had sent me edited pages of the Ten Commandments manuscript.

“Well, you and I will have some grand times with the days you have left, Joy. You must come over for dinner, and we’ll go to a vaudeville show, and of course we’ll enjoy our White Horse boys.”

I took her hand and held it in mine. “I’m thrilled you’ve come into my life,” I said just as Jack and Warnie entered the lounge. Jack saw us waving at him, and together they joined us, shedding their coats and hats.

With greetings all around, Jack turned to me first. “How pleased I am to see you. We must hear everything about your travels. We have missed you.”

“Yes, we have.” Warnie beamed at us all, tipping his hat.

Jack sat next to me, and I caught the warm aroma of him—tobacco, wet flannel, and rain.

“I’ve written about everything to you,” I said. “And poor Michal here has had to listen to me for an hour now.”

Jack slapped his hand lightly on the table. “Then I shall start with this—I want to proclaim here in front of our dearest friends that you have written a divine sestina.”

“I’m glad you think so.” My smile broke through the words. He loved my sestina. And if he didn’t love it, he certainly liked it.

“What have you ladies been talking about and drinking?” Jack pointed to our half-empty glasses.