Becoming Mrs. Lewis(79)

“It reminded me of your stories, of the magic in them,” I said.

“Joy. A shamshir—a magical sword from all fairy tales. It’s exquisite. I shall hang it right above the fireplace, allow it to remind me of you, our friendship, and your boys fighting with their invisible swords.”

He ran his hand across the top of the metal sword, and then his finger slipped ever so slightly. A thin line of blood appeared on his forefinger as he withdrew his hand.

“Oh, Jack.” I took his hand in mine and bent to kiss the wound, a quick and natural reaction to injury.

He withdrew quickly and with such deft sureness that my lips landed on nothing but air. He put his finger against the wool of his coat and laughed. “I’m such a clumsy bloke. It’s no wonder they never let me play sports.”

Red heat filled my chest. He turned to place the sword on the mantle, and the structure of his chin, the lines of his smile, caught the firelight. A line of poetry surged forward in my mind: the accidental beauty of his face.

I was dangerously close to allowing this love to become what it must not.

He set the sword on top of the fireplace mantle. “Thank you, Joy. Look at it up there, so stately.”

Together we sat on the chairs and stared into the fire, the quiet stretching into sleepiness until I shifted in my seat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about a book I just finished. It really must be your next.”

“Tell me.”

“I think I’ve told you of Arthur Clarke. He’s one of the sci-fi boys in London. He’s written a book titled Childhood’s End. He’s sold so many copies, hit the jackpot if you will.”

“Jackpots aren’t always the best things,” he said. “But it will be my next read so we might talk about it.” He leaned forward, his eyes catching the shadows of the fire. “It is jolly well one of my favorite things to do—talk about stories with you.”

“And I, you.” I glanced around the room. “Where has Warnie gone?”

“He fell asleep in his chair when you tucked the boys into bed. I helped him upstairs.” Jack’s voice held the anxiety and grief I knew well—that of loving another who is destroying himself with alcohol.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I know how you feel.”

“Just when I believe he’s kicked it, he hasn’t. It’s the war. It still lives in him, and he tries to quiet it. I’d rather not speak of it. But thank you for your sympathy. It’s a hell of a thing.”

I did reach for him then, across the space between us. I touched his skin, the small space between his shirt sleeve and wrist. I ran my finger down to the knuckles, a gentle trace, and then gave his hand a squeeze of sympathy. This time he didn’t withdraw.

“You love Warnie deeply and with such devotion. If only everyone in the world had such love.”

“He’s my brother,” Jack said, as if that answered all doubt. “When Mother died, I would have also if not for him.”

I withdrew my hand from his wrist and settled back into the chair. “Jack, have you ever been in love?”

He laughed, and in his way scattered the question across the room like ash. “If I ever find the beautiful blonde I’ve been looking for all my life, I will let you know.”

His joke, so like him to deflect, hurt no differently than if he’d taken down the sword from above the mantle and swiped it across my heart. But I tried to laugh. “I will keep my eyes out for you.” I smiled.

“Of course I’m being cheeky, Joy.”

“Your humor, Jack, you use it to hide your heart, an armor to keep anything from touching it. I know because I do the same.”

He was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I had crossed a boundary. When he spoke it was with his face set to the roaring fire. “Do you know the German word sehnsucht?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “The idea of an inconsolable longing for what we don’t understand. You believe that longing is for God. Or heaven. And that we can confuse it with longing for someone or something else.”

He leaned forward, and for a moment I thought he might touch me, but no. “This deep and abiding friendship means more to me than I can say.”

“Yes.” I bowed my head. “It means more than we can say.”




The morning came bright and clear, the fog lifting for the first time since we’d arrived. By the time I appeared in the kitchen after a restless night’s sleep, the boys had already gobbled down their breakfast and set off into the woods to say their farewells to the pond and the kilns and the forest itself. I dropped our packed bags by the front door. Jack sat at the wooden kitchen table still in his lounging clothes, a cigarette already lit. “You must eat before you leave,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.” I patted the packed bags. “I’ll eat when I arrive back at Avoco so I don’t get travel sick.”

The boys then burst back into the kitchen, a whirling cyclone of my sons.

“Well, boys,” Jack said. “I have something here you might enjoy.”

They stopped dead still, bundled in their coats, and looked at him.

“What is it?” Douglas asked eagerly.

Davy adjusted his crooked glasses and leapt forward.

From the side table Jack produced typeset pages. “This is the newest Narnian book, set to come out this year. I’ve dedicated it to the both of you. It’s called The Horse and His Boy.”