Becoming Mrs. Lewis(83)

“‘Surprised by joy—impatient as the wind,’” he said, quoting Wordsworth, the poem from which he took his title.

I replied in same. “‘I turned to share the transport, Oh! With whom but thee.’”

“Indeed,” he said quietly and then took me in with his gaze, steady and still. “Nothing is ever wasted on you, is it? I believe more than anyone I know, you are enchanted by this world and its sentiments.”

I couldn’t respond to this compliment, to the vision he had of the woman I was and always had been. Had anyone ever known me so well? I allowed the intimacy to linger between us for a moment before I drew a breath and kept on. “If people are expecting you to reveal secrets of your life in this biography, they’re going to be disappointed.”

“It’s meant to be a story of conversion, not a tell-all,” he said.

“Of course. You aren’t quite the tell-all type.” I tipped my imaginary hat to him with a laugh. “To me it feels like the story of a conversion that is ever unfolding, as if you could write this book for all your life. But there is something I want to ask you,” I said quietly, so Warnie would not hear.

“Yes?”

“I see parts of us in your work, pieces of our relationship and our discussions.” I swallowed. “Is this true?”

“Of course it’s true. How could you not be part of it? But if anything has crossed the line, you must point it out, because nothing would be said or done without your permission, or if plagiarized.”

“No, Jack! Nothing like that. But when you describe your conversion, for example, the way it sneaked up on you, the ‘reluctant’ conversion, it’s like my essay.”

He shook his head. “Your description rang the same bell as mine.”

I didn’t feel he was stealing my words, and I didn’t want him to think so either—he’d started this book long before he met me. I wanted him to see that we’d landed on the same shoreline after two disparate shipwrecks, that our love wasn’t merely intellectual, but also spiritual—I pointed at our inevitability.

We reached the pond’s edge, and Douglas ran to Jack. “Mr. Lewis, can we go out in the canoe?” He pointed to the red punt sinking into the new-soft spring earth. “Please? It was too cold last time.”

“Of course you may, son, but don’t go scaring my two ducks. They aren’t used to such exuberance. They’re accustomed to two old men piddling about.”

“Old men?” I said. “Ha!”

Jack bent over to help my sons drag the punt from the mud with a great sucking noise. With effort, and merry laughter, they launched from the dock with a paddle. The boat shimmied and rocked and then settled on the lake, ripples radiating outward, a circle of misplaced water that reached the shore’s edge to dance with the tall grass.

We stood watching until Jack roared out to the boys, “Narnia and the North!”

“Narnia and the North,” they cried in unison, raising their fists as they paddled to the far edge of the pond.

Jack then turned to me with such a serious expression I at once thought something wrong. “I would like to talk to you about something, Joy.”

“Anything. What is it?”

“Warnie,” he said and turned to his brother, “would you mind very much making sure those young chaps don’t drown while I return to the house with Joy? I’d like to ask her opinion on Cambridge.”

“I believe it is a task I am fit for,” Warnie said and smiled.

Settled into the common room at the Scrabble table, Jack took his lovely time tamping tobacco into his pipe and lighting it with a match. Then he looked to me, smoke curling from his lips, the sweet aroma of the rich tobacco filling my senses.

“Joy, I’ve been offered a job at Cambridge and I’ve turned it down, but now I’m having my doubts. I’ve talked to Tollers and wondered if you too would delve into the problem with me.”

“Problem?” I asked. “Aren’t you honored?”

“Of course. It’s Cambridge.” He drew on his pipe. “And they’ve created a position just for me. Professorship of Medieval and Renaissance Studies.”

“Oh, Jack. That’s simply wonderful.” I leaned my elbows on the table, avoiding the tiles, and told him, “When I first visited it last year, I wrote to Bill and told him how much I loved it, how it is more compact and harmonious than Oxford, more Old World. But that I love the architecture better in Oxford. It’s a glorious city, Jack.”

He was silent as he set a word on the Scrabble board between us, as if it helped him think. He was beating me. I then placed my four tiles, the z on a triple score—zeal. “Looks like the game isn’t quite as over as I thought,” I said.

His laughter caused him to sputter smoke. “Do you mean my career or this game?”

“Both,” I said. “Tell me everything. This offer must feel like redemption after Oxford’s pass-over.”

“It does, but here’s my concern: how could I leave here, Joy?” He spread his hands across the room. “I’ve been at Oxford for thirty-five years.”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s a long time. A little less than a lifetime for me. But maybe change is good. And Cambridge is only a couple hours away; it’s not another country.”