The Art of Inheriting Secrets(52)

An easy place to live for the time being. And I was always more productive when I kept to routines.

After my walk, I would write for a while or sometimes go to the library to read old newspapers on microfiche, trying to find clues about my mother, my grandmother, the mysterious Roger, anything at all. The old papers also proved to be a great source of understanding of the village itself, the ebb and flow of events, births and deaths, names repeated over the generations, rituals of importance, historical notes. I accidentally stumbled on the wedding announcement of Hortense and her husband, which led to reading about Violet and her second husband, a good-looking man who’d distinguished himself in the war. My grandfather, I thought, but I felt no connection to the photo.

Afternoons and evenings, I met with a wide variety of people—Pavi and Rebecca and Jocasta, the garden club and the landscape historian. Every Wednesday, I met with the earl for luncheon on the protected portico, where roses grew up the posts and bees lazed over the flowers. He had taken on my education and took it very seriously. He was an excellent raconteur and loved having a captive audience.

Every week, I left with homework and reading to do. One week, I was charged with the task of meeting all the tenant farmers, one by one. If any of them asked me to have a meal with them, I had to immediately set it up and put it on my calendar. Which I did, and every single family invited me to a meal—my Sunday luncheons and Wednesday suppers were booked for a month.

Another week, my homework was to attend a parish council meeting so that I could begin to understand the village. It was as boring as I’d feared, and I had to keep pinching my thigh to avoid yawning. It also didn’t seem to increase my standing in the eyes of those local politicians at all. They clung to a chilly correctness, and we were all delighted when the meeting ended.

The earl said I would have to return regularly, but I wasn’t sure that would happen.

The reading list he gave me included some surprising choices—biographies of local statesmen, of course, but also those of American businessmen like Warren Buffett and Steve Jobs. It was taking me a long time to get through all that reading, but I did my level best. If I was going to do this thing—and I still wasn’t exactly sure what this “thing” was—I wanted to do it right.

With Pavi’s help, I was making plans for the first picnic for the public, which would be held on the open space of lawn between the house and the gardens. I’d asked the contractors to keep the work trailers and work site on the hidden north side of the house so the lawn would be appealing.

Pavi knew dozens of chefs, and we planned to start small—two food trucks, one offering sandwiches of various kinds and one pies and ice cream. I’d found a local band with a fiddler and a craft brewer to bring in kegs of beer for the adults. Two local moms volunteered to paint children’s faces, and when the tenants of the cottages heard, they offered to rope off a strawberry field for the locals to pick berries.

It came together so quickly that we were aiming for the fourth Saturday in May. When I told Peter, my driver, he practically misted up.

That was the other problem I was gnawing on—I desperately needed to learn to drive so I could make my way around the county. But the usual nerves of driving on the wrong side of the road were complicated by the fact that I had not driven since the accident that had nearly killed me. I also didn’t actually own a car. Did I buy a car and learn to drive it or learn to drive and then buy a car, and if I did that, what would I drive to learn?

Virtually everything else seemed easier.

The person I had not seen much of was Samir. He pleaded a heavy work schedule, but I noticed that even on the rainiest of days, he was still absent. I’d invited him to have a cup of coffee one Saturday afternoon, but I didn’t hear back for hours, and then it was curt.

Sorry. Out of town today.

He did, every few days or so, send me a text with an animal or bird group name. A coalition of cheetahs, one day. A puddle of platypuses. I responded in kind. An exaltation of skylarks. A charm of finches.

I missed him. Aside from Pavi, he was my main friend in the village. I hoped that eventually we could get back to the easy connection we’d had, and to preserve the possibility, I resisted reading anything about Samir Malakar, the writer. Even if we never talked again, I would show that I could be trusted.

So that was that. It made me sad that in trying to preserve the friendship, I’d damaged it instead. Not to mention the fact that I had to shove the memory of that kiss out of my mind a hundred times a day. An hour. It haunted me when I slept. Come back to my house.

But there was too much on my plate to brood about any one thing. One afternoon, I took my mother’s sketchbooks to Helen Richmond, the bakery owner. We met in her garden, a sunny place with wind chimes tinkling from every corner. A bird feeder ten feet tall nourished the birds away from the pair of black cats who swished their tails in the shade beneath the table. “I made lemonade,” Helen said. “Will you have some?”

“Of course.” It wasn’t lemonade made from a packet or a concentrate. She’d squeezed the lemons, and slices floated in the glass pitcher. When I took a sip, it was icy cold, sweet, and tart. “Perfect.”

She nudged a bowl of strawberries my way. “I didn’t bring anything from the bakery. One doesn’t like sweets so much on warm days.”

Around the garden were abstract mosaic pieces, copper shapes filled with stained glass. “Your work?”