Becoming Mrs. Lewis(53)

“That’s Bruce III.”

“He’s magnificent,” I said.

“You like dogs,” Warnie said. “That’s a good thing.”

“I have two at home. Four cats. A whole cast of animals.”

I rose and Bruce III followed; we walked silently for a while until we reached a gathering of crouched and freezing trees.

“Jack, Warnie!” A voice flooded with a Cotswold accent so thick that their names were scarcely recognizable.

Then there stood a great tree of a man, the cracks in his clothes caked with dirt. He dusted his hands, one against the other, and smiled at us. His teeth were yellowed and crooked, his lips chapped, and his face wrinkled like a sheet from the wash.

“Paxford,” Jack said. “Meet our American friend, Mrs. Gresham.”

He was quite rotund. His chin . . . there must have been three of them. His stomach was so round, one could place a glass on top of it. A cigarette was firmly set in the corner of his mouth, and his white hair was slicked back. It was his nose that was incongruous with his face, so large it looked as if it were a replacement.

“I knew you were coming, and it is jolly good to meet you,” he said.

“You’ve done some wonderful things on this property,” I said. “I can’t wait to see your garden unfold.”

Paxford’s eyes grew wide. “You will be here in the spring?” He pulled up his shirt sleeves to show his forearms, hairy and thick.

Silence stretched into discomfort, until far off a single bird let loose a torrent of a song. “No,” I said. “I won’t be, regretfully.”

“Well,” Warnie said, always the one to smooth the awkward moment. “Let’s get ourselves inside to warm up. You have plenty of time to explore the acreage.”

Once our coats were hung on the hooks in the back hallway, we settled into the common room, and Jack poured us all a sherry as we each settled into a chair.

“Blackout curtains.” I pointed at the windows. “You still worried about the German invasion?”

Warnie and Jack both laughed, and Warnie told me, “We’re lazy old bachelors. It might just be bloody time to take them down.”

The fire crackled, dwindling. Jack turned to Warnie as he must have done a million times during their thirty years of cohabitation and said, “Your turn to stoke.”

Warnie rose, and Jack spoke around his cigarette. “Joy, it’s difficult to believe your journey is nearly over. You had so many writing projects. Did you find the time that you needed?”

“I did. As you know with writing, it’s never enough. But”—I leaned forward—“your edits on Smoke have been invaluable.”

“As have your notes on O.H.E.L. I feel I’ve found a treasure in you.”

Warnie returned to the room with a load of firewood and dropped it into the fireplace, stoking it with a brand and jumping back from a litter of sparks that landed on the carpet. Neither Jack nor Warnie rose to put them out, and I jumped up.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Warnie said. “Not much else can be done to this rug. It’s a disaster.”

And he was right—it was dirty and full of holes, ash scattered here and there. “I wouldn’t have noticed,” I said.

“Tollers’s wife won’t even allow him to visit us anymore—says he comes home a mess and muddy.” Warnie shrugged. “Wonder if she’d be willing to come clean it up for us.”

“Well, housekeeping ain’t one of my best attributes. Just ask Bill.”

“Ah, your husband.” Warnie sat again, settling into a slouched posture of comfort.

“If one can call him that at the moment.” And the fresh pain rose again in my belly.

“And why wouldn’t you call him that?” Warnie’s question was hesitant, wary.

“I’ve just received a letter,” I said and glanced between the two of them. “He is in love with my cousin and wants to marry her.”

Jack and Warnie exchanged a glance, both seeming to flinch as if I’d picked up the hot poker Warnie had just laid beside the fire with my bare hands.

Jack leaned forward, his hands set on his knees. “Perhaps you misinterpret his meaning. Letters can be waffling and misleading sometimes. I know that. Sometimes I’ll receive an argument against something I’ve written that I didn’t write at all.”

I stood slowly, my knees and hips aching from travel and the walk through the grounds. I limped to my purse on the side table across the room and took out the letter. “Here,” I said. “You tell me if there is anything at all to misinterpret.”

Jack was silent as he read, and Warnie sat quietly in his chair. The fireplace flames rose wildly, smoke wafting upward, fire licking the black walls.

“‘You will never be anything but a writer’?” Jack spoke Bill’s words aloud and glanced at me. “What a cruel thing to say.”

“That’s the least of it,” I told him. “Go on.”

Jack’s eyes fell to the page until finally he spoke. “‘I have never yet known determination and willpower to make a go of marriage,’” he quoted and then asked, “and you are returning home to this?”

“My ticket is booked,” I told him. “My children are there. They’re my family.” I leaned forward and pressed my fingers into the corners of my eyes.