All the Stars in Her Hand

Chapter Four

London”s papers and literary mags in the train station”s newsstand were carrying the story of Alistair Davies” double life. It confronted me in a sea of tabloid scandals and news of real disasters, like earthquakes and floods. ”Mystery Author”s Identity to be Revealed?” asked one headline. ”Speculation Swirls in Literary Community About Real Author Davies.”

As Dean predicted, it had probably been read by Sidney”s mother, along with other people who could likely guess the mystery figure”s name. It was too late to control who had read it and who hadn”t. I knew how much he wished it hadn”t been exposed, however; or that, if it was fated to be, he had been able to decide how it happened.

We dropped my luggage at Megs”s flat, where I let myself in with a spare key she had hidden for me, then we went by cab to a posh district of the city that was not familiar to me at all. The Gresham family home was in a quiet district with trees, gardens, and neighbors located at a more discrete distance than Adele”s. It was a house even older, with more dignity, which I imagined was the mark of multiple generations of inheritance.

Parking on the lane was crowded, with newer-model cars with luxury detailing splattered by today”s mist of rain. The steps were slick, lined on either side with topiary trees in large French terracotta pots. Sidney rapped the door knocker with three polite knocks. The intake of his breath sharpened. My hand reached, finding his, and felt his fingers intertwine with mine for a brief, tight squeeze.

His knock was answered by a woman probably close in age to him — I knew her, but not from any real-life meeting. From the photos which had been on Dean”s bedside table, of him with a woman who shared his complexion and dark hair, who was smiling blissfully over his shoulder in their selfie.

”Hester,” he said. Attempting a smile.

”Oh, Sidney.” She slid her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Her eyes were clouded with tears just before they closed. ”I”m so glad you”re here.”

He hugged her back, silently. I could hear his breath exhale in a sigh.

________________________

The rest of the family was gathered in a brightly-lit drawing room, where Hester ushered us as soon as she regained her composure. A little of Dean”s genetic material was visibly shared by his brother Nathan, who was sitting on the sofa with a few people close in age, one of whom was thumbing through an antique photo album.

The woman in the dark mourning dress and modern necklace, sitting in the chair in the corner, was his mother, only a decade older than the last photo I had seen. Irene really was the opposite spectrum of Dean on the genetic scale, just as he said — strawberry blonde, medium complexion, eyes that looked almost blue.

The painting above the mantel was a portrait of a dignified, elderly woman. I knew it right away as the canvas realization of a photo in one of Dean”s albums, for his grandmother”s portrait. I wondered where the garden scene would hang in the future.

There were words of greeting, introduction, condolence — all mixed together in my ears, like a dull hurricane wind. It was the sound of my pulse I was hearing, a numb veil keeping me smiling in politeness despite the tears in the eyes of the person whose hand I held. Now was not the time to give in to pain, especially not one that felt small in comparison to the grief of the woman who had known and loved him as a part of herself, and not a friend.

A momentary pause in these connections left me briefly detached from the scene which felt both vivid and blurry. Another person peeled away from one of the conversation circles and approached me.

”Hello,” I said. He was shaking my hand now, and offering me a cup of tea from the nearby table with its tray. ”I”m Maisie.”

”I know,” he answered. ”Sidney told us you were coming with him. I suspected your identity the moment you entered.” He smiled, but without full heart behind it. ”Marsden. Irene”s husband,” he said.

”I”m sorry for what”s happened,” I said, in a quiet tone. It felt strangely awkward to give my condolences again. I felt strangely out of place, a distant and polite attendee, not a fellow mourner.

He nodded. ”Everyone is,” he answered. ”Not that we didn”t expect it, you know. The prognosis was never very good after a certain point. He”d had several bad episodes with his lungs.” He sighed. ”The doctors warned us it was a dangerous precedent, but we were always hoping it was one of those medical overstatements. Buying ourselves more time to put things right.”

I had a feeling that much of this preceded my time of knowing Dean. ”He was a good friend,” I said. ”A very kind and generous person. I used to tell him so, but I don”t think he believed me.”

Marsden laughed, just a tiny bit, then became solemn again. ”Probably merely because he knew how very abominable he”d been immediately after his accident,” he said. ”He felt terribly guilty. Not that he didn”t mean what he said at the time, of course — but everyone who says those sorts of things to the people they love never feels that way deep in their soul, do they?”

”Probably very seldom,” I answered. ”Not if they really love one another.”

”Sidney would have told you that he began feeling regret for it only a few months afterwards. Dean was such a stubborn old sod. He would never bend. It was night and day, the way the accident changed him. At least all that was in the past before the end.”

He sipped his tea, lines of sadness appearing in his forehead. ”In a way, it was fitting for it to be Sidney. At the last, I mean.”

I closed my eyes. I could see that moment come again, the look in Dean”s eyes, the look in Sidney”s, and felt the rift inside tear itself a little deeper. Fitting that there was a goodbye between them. But that was barely a reason for me to bear that scene”s existence.

”It feels funny to hear so many people in London call Sidney that name,” I remarked, only to shift away from sorrow, before my composure could crack in two. ”It”s not odd in Cornwall, but here in London, he”s usually Alex.”

”The old moniker? It”s the one they”ve been using for ages. He”s practically a third son in the family. More so than I am, truth be told.” He offered me a biscuit from one of the plates on the tea table.

”Is that awkward?” I asked, trying to make light of it, although joking was hard.

”Hardly. They”ve known him far longer.” He paused. ”Of course, they leaned on him as one for a time. A sort of one-man emotional support network after the accident. But I”m certain you know all about that, through Dean or Sidney, either one.”

”I”ve heard some of the stories.” I left the biscuit to the side of my saucer, after accepting politely. Usually train rides made me hungry, but not today. The topic at hand, however, was one that I still wondered about for its many complexities, and having a biscuit to crumble would keep me too busy to ask questions that might feel intrusive.

Across the room, I watched as Sidney joined another cluster of family, taking both hands of Dean”s mother, who clutched onto his with a look of gratitude and sorrow. ”I”m so glad you could come. I wanted us all to be together,” she said, softly.

She looked at him the way a mother looks at a son, I thought. The way I had only seen Adele look at him once, sadly. The man with greying hair and sorrow lines on his face must be Dean”s father, his hand on the shoulder of the grieving mother, his expression probably saying more to Sidney than his words.

”At least Dean came back to them first,” said Marsden, softly. He poured a new cup of tea. ”That”s the only thing which mattered. It would have absolutely broken their hearts if he had still been estranged when it happened.”

”Deep down, I think he was afraid of that, too.” The tragedy with Sidney had reminded him that chances were slipping away. The gift of time had been short, but it had been sweet to both sides.

”It”s better not to think about it now,” said Irene. She joined us, accepting the cup from her husband”s hand. ”Knowing him, he”d be disappointed if he thought we talked about the accident more than we talked about him.”

”That was a topic he was never very comfortable with, so that”s probably true,” I said, feeling shy of bringing this up.

”He was saying only the last time we were together that the ”ogre within” tended to weaken in the face of reminders of his better self.” She smiled, although it was a pale shade of her real one, I suspected.

Marsden laughed. ”I can almost hear those words from his lips right now. He would prefer us to tell the tale of the lost backpack on the family holiday to Gibraltar.”

”No, not that story,” said Irene, with a little groan of humor. ”He blamed me for it because I dragged him away from those pigeons on the fort wall, being my usual older sister self. ”All my worldly valuables were in it,” he said. Typical drama of an eight-year old boy.”

”That”s a story I haven”t heard,” I said, permitting myself to laugh, but only having the strength for a brief one. ”One of several, I know.”

”That was my favorite holiday,” said Irene. ”We usually went to Brighton. Those were happy summers of sand and fun on the pier, especially for us. Not for our parents.” She glanced towards them, and I could see Dean”s mother was listening, momentarily buoying away from the depths of grief.

”That”s completely untrue,” she protested, joining in the conversation. ”We had a lovely time those summers. I wouldn”t have preferred a hundred in Gibraltar by comparison.”

”Remember when Dean painted a villain”s moustache and goatee on Nathan”s face whilst he was sleeping on the dock?” said Hester, with a hint of a smile.

”I do,” said Sidney, grinning. They all glanced at him. ”That was my evil suggestion, I think.” He hung his head in the momentary state of the abashed.

”Not all of the mischief was your idea,” said Nathan. ”Dean and Hester were terrible jokesters in those days. Irene was the only one who ever behaved. Didn”t Dean try to set up the bucket of sea water above my door? To get back at me for telling tales, I suspect.”

”You mean when our grandmother caught him? She made him write a hundred lines of apology to you, didn”t she?” said Hester. ”He used an old birthday card and crossed out the message inside.”

Everyone laughed, but the moment faded too quickly for Dean”s mother. I watched as she covered her face with one hand, trying to hide a sudden wave of tears. Irene set down her cup of tea and moved to her side. Sidney and Irene were both trying to comfort her again.

The expression of Dean”s father misted with tears, but he turned his face to hide them as he squeezed her shoulder. ”Steady, my love,” he said, softly. ”He wouldn”t want you to let it be the stronger of the two.”

”It”s only hard,” she said, daubing her eyes. ”We had so little time, and it was going so very well and so very happily, until ....” She couldn”t go on.

Irene rose and fetched her a cup of tea, coaxing her to drink it. Two members of the extended family or friends crowd went to freshen the pot, murmuring softly to each other.

In the front hall, I unfastened the pocket on my shoulder bag and reached inside for the Father Christmas. I gazed down at the tiny painted face, the remaining wisps of his beard and robe felt, the snow on his little bottle brush tree that had grown somewhat grimy, and lost its glitter. Protectively, I closed my hand around him.

Hester was in the kitchen, unwrapping a platter of sandwiches. As the cousin withdrew with a new pot of tea, I approached, and put my smile in place again.Be brave. I would not let tears win during this moment. Dean would want me to keep his promise with a smile, I suspected.

I drew her attention with a little wave, and she placed down the tray, giving her attention to me fully with a look of curiosity.

”Before we go back, there”s something I need to give you,” I said. ”Dean told me you were meant to have it. Whether to keep it or share it is up to you, but it”s something he wanted you to remember him by.”

I laid the little Christmas ornament in her hand. ”It was the only bit of Christmas he permitted in the cottage during the worst years,” I said. ”I don”t know if it was part of a set, or had some special meaning.”

I could see the evidence of tears returning. ”I know this little chap,” she said, stroking the felt hood with the very tip of her finger. ”Yes, it did have meaning. To him, at least. His absolute favorite as a boy.”

”I think it was still,” I answered. I smiled, managing to keep my tears buried, with effort.

”We were the sort of family who each had our favorites — the one you look for when the tree is properly decorated on Christmas Eve. Our grandmother used to do the honors, when she was alive. She gave him this at one point. I had one like it, only dressed in blue.”

”Maybe they can share a spot on the tree again,” I suggested. ”He may have been hoping they would. Not that he said that when he asked me.” As usual, Dean was vague about his intentions, as he always had been when he didn”t have an agenda behind them.

Carefully, Hester placed it on a shelf above the counter, where it peeked out from its strangely-incongruous setting, much like at Dean”s cottage, when I spotted it on the bookshelf all by itself.

”Would you mind very much coming into the garden?” she asked. ”Candice will be back for the sandwiches, and I would like fresh air and company.”

She didn”t say it was because grief was stifling; no house could be big enough to hold it all, even when a family tried their best to keep the memories happy. ”I”d like that,” I answered.

The garden was smaller on the inside than it appeared from the front, the kind of manicured space and perfect lawn that I never saw in Port Hewer, where Sonia”s and every other garden tended towards the country gardens of England. The light drizzle was still falling, so Hester wrapped her cardigan around herself, and I ducked underneath the little travel umbrella she opened above us.

”Dean talked about you a great deal,” she said. ”I feel as if I know you already, even having just met.”

”Somehow I”m not surprised,” I answered, laughing. ”He did the same with you.”

”Did he call me his favorite? she asked. ”He always teased me with that, saying that I was the sibling most worthy of being defended. I think it was only because it meant he was no longer the youngest, and, therefore, no longer at the bottom of the family pecking order.”

”That”s not the reason why,” I answered, not believing this.

”It made him feel better to believe it,” said Hester. I could see that she tried to smile, but the loss was too fresh. It came in waves, dampening humor just when it began to salve the pain.

I paused, and my tone grew softer when I spoke again. ”I wished I had met you before this happened,” I said. ”He kept saying that he wanted to introduce his family, but it never quite happened.”

”I suspect he wasn”t certain he could keep what was left of his secret if he did,” said Hester.

She managed to laugh over my puzzled look, although it was as soft as her tone. ”Dean always kept his distance when he couldn”t keep his composure,” she explained. ”Hardly surprising to you. You know how long it was before he agreed to speak to any of us directly. As if we didn”t know that Sidney told him everything.”

”He wanted to know,” I said. ”He just didn”t know how to ask.” I knew the feeling, since, once, I had been hungry for the details of someone”s life when I told myself I had no right to seek them out.

”Sidney didn”t wait for questions, I”m sure,” said Hester. ”We told ourselves that he wanted to know about us. When you”ve shared a life with someone, you tell yourself they can hardly cut you out without pain. They have to be as curious as you are, as desperate as you are.” She lowered the umbrella as the rain tapered from a drizzle to a curtain of mist, folding it closed.

”I”ve never lost anyone in a rift like that. But I think you and Dean proved that love makes it possible to rebuild almost any bridge that was burned in the heat of anger,” I said. ”Maybe build one across any gap, even where there wasn”t one.”

If so, I sometimes wondered if I could build them over the gaps in my past, like the distant shore where my father would probably never be standing and waiting for it, although ”never” was a stronger word than any life possibility deserved. If Sidney could build one to Adele that would heal the breach for good, as if she was not all of the disparaging terms Dean once reserved for her in his bitterest moments.

”He was absolutely mad about you, you know,” said Hester, quietly.

I felt the fire in my cheeks, a quick flash of white heat. I knew what she meant by this.

”Did he say that?” Had there been a confidence with Hester that I was not aware of? It left me surprised. This was the subject we never touched directly — only with the barest tips of our fingers.

”I knew it from the beginning of our reunion, because it was far too obvious,” she answered, with a laugh. ”The way he could never let more than a few sentences go by before you came into the conversation in some small way. He would have denied it, of course, but he was never very artless, even in the days when he was more charming.”

I recovered my normal complexion with effort, trying not to think about the meaning of that statement. ”I never stopped to wonder if he told you personal things about his friends,” I answered. ”He didn”t say anything to me about feelings. Not like that.”

Only in a roundabout way that still left me mixed up inside — somewhere between the flattery of how very passionate his gaze could be, and the fears that it all jeopardized that friendship we both relied on so heavily the past few years.

”Probably he would never have admitted it to anyone,” she said. ”I”m not certain he would have admitted it to himself. He would”ve much preferred to pretend to be unaware. Too much of a gentleman in the chivalry sense of it to be otherwise. Much too fond of Sidney.” Her smile was wistful. ”He would have given the world to protect him, after all that happened.”

”I know,” I answered, just as quietly. ”That”s what made them better than brothers.”

I hoped that the previous topic of delicate and dangerous nature was not coming back. Dean never needed to say the words, beyond that hypothetical scenario we once discussed after Sidney mistook his intentions for me. Blushing was giving nothing away that Hester had not already realized, for it was true that Dean was far too honest to be very artless, even when protecting the feelings of others. Even those of his closest friend.

”I”m glad of it, you know,” she said, glancing at me.

I felt surprised again.

”Even though he wouldn”t have said anything, it means a great deal to know that he had a little of that love in his life. If you knew ... I hope that you understood.”

My answer was something I could not say. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. We had stopped walking now, standing beneath the shelter of a little patio roof, trellised for heavy canes belonging to climbing roses.

”He was one of the best friends I could ever have known, your brother,” I said. ”Having him in London made it far less lonely for me when I lived here. I was alone and naive ... no social life other than wandering libraries, until I began going to his flat to watch him paint. You”d be surprised how much I actually learned, given I can barely finger paint.”

Sidney had been the better student, the one who had learned to develop an eye for color and shading, for the sake of helping the old canvases Dean wished to see finished, but I was the one who learned the basic schools of art and names of artists for the sake of flattering Dean”s talent — giving him an opportunity to correct me now and then, as if he had become the teacher in real life that he once imagined himself becoming.

”He would be flattered to know it,” said Hester, as if she knew my thoughts as we walked on. ”He always loved teaching. He had a bit of an ego, you know.” This, she added with a wry smile. ”He tried to hide it, but it was quite obvious, really. He wasn”t a snob, nor superior about it. I always thought he would be an excellent tutor. He regretted later that he didn”t take the offer he had after uni, so I think it still lingered. That wish that he shared more of it when he had the chance.”

Maybe she did know what I was thinking, in a way.We both knew how complicated her brother”s nature could be.

Near the garden fence was a little bench with a bird on it, shaking off the rain from its feathers. It sensed us and fluttered away. ”This will be hard for Sidney,” she said. ”They really were like brothers. I always thought of him that way — it grew out of the sort of fancy one always develops for an older brother”s schoolfriends.”

His eyes were still dry, and the grief only in their depths. It made me worry that he had not reacted to it, only carried it with him since the moment he felt the pulse of life leave his best friend”s hand.

”Sidney wasn”t ready,” I said. ”I know it sounds strange, but I think ... in some ways ... Dean was.”

The place of peace in his life these past few years had changed him into someone capable of acceptance, not just bitterness. Relationships restored, artwork thriving — even the ”ogre within” had been softened. The day Sidney returned to his abandoned novel, and by its proxy, his uncanny emotional gift as a writer, had been Dean”s last great worry finding a ray of hope.

”I know,” said Hester, quietly. ”I think so, too.” We both grew silent, watching the rain drip from the foliage of the climbing roses, and from the edge of the birdbath in the middle of the lawn.

The holiday had been one last adventure for the wanderer in body who had been cheated of his nature; his way of embracing the happiness of compromise at its zenith, since time was not on his side. This had been my conclusion in the days which followed. Dean”s last sketch from long-ago dreams, creating one more perfect canvas in his mind. Even though it had not struck me in that manner when we were on the banks of the river together, it made sense to me through the lens of time.

In the drawing room, more friends had arrived to offer condolences to Dean”s parents. Sidney was sitting apart with Irene and Nathan, talking about something in serious tones. There were aspects of their relationship as almost-family that I knew went beyond my own level of grief.

This was what tied him to their lives — I was an outsider by comparison, having befriended Dean only the past few years of his life. The nuances of my relationship with him charted a different path, not one which was intended for others to share, as part of the complicity with Dean”s silence.

A flicker of fear came through me, that Sidney blamed himself for what happened overseas. He might even be afraid that the Greshams blamed him for it, for taking Dean out of the country and setting the stage for the crisis.He can”t possibly think any part of this is something he could have prevented.

Slipping on my jacket, I went outside to wait on the curb, tilting my face to the rainy mist above. My cab pulled close to the pavement, and I climbed inside, giving him the directions to Dean”s London flat.

Through the windscreen”s wipers, I watched the scenery become more familiar, a misty view of the posh lane, where a too-cool-for-anything fashion diva was stepping out of a shop of Italian footwear.

The next lane was Dean”s. I asked the driver to wait as I stepped out on the pavement outside of his building. A young man was waiting. Phil in jeans and trainers, his thick knit pullover beaded with water. He hugged me, briefly. His smile was a subdued version of his usual grin.

”Come on up,” he said.

As Dean”s former caregiver, he still had the spare key to the flat. ”I have the bequest”s details,” I said. I dug the slip of paper from my bag, which the solicitor”s clerk had given me, along with permission to pick up the painting from Dean”s flat. ”I brought them along, just so you know that I”m not taking anything I shouldn”t.” Not that Phil didn”t trust me after so much time, but I wanted him to feel safe of his role.

”It won”t be hard to find,” Phil answered. ”I”ve been here before, so I know where it is.” He grinned at me over his shoulder, but only for a brief second. I smiled back, but mine was absent its true nature also.

He slipped the key into the lock, and turned it, letting me enter ahead of him. I heard the familiar sigh of its hinges as it closed behind him.

I walked into the entryway, then turned to face the living room, with its pocket doors drawn wide.

Some of the furniture was draped with sheets, as if converted into ghostly versions of itself. Everything else was untouched, as if any minute now, its owner would come back and open the house again. Soon enough, all of it would be packed into boxes to be distributed between members of Dean”s family and charity shops.

”It was good of him to remember me,” I said, as Phil paused to switch on the lights. ”I didn”t expect it. I mean, I guess I never thought about what he did when he met with his solicitor.” I assumed he made adjustments to the expenses his part of the trust covered, not that he added a gift for someone like me to his final communications.

”Nor did I,” said Phil. ”He left me a bit of something — nothing much, just a couple of pieces of artwork by a bloke whose stuff is worth a bit of money now. I joked to him once that he could sell them and use the extra quid if he ever had to live as a starving artist.” Something of chagrin touched Phil”s humor now. ”I never thought he”d put a note in his will and leave them to me.”

”He probably thought you”d have a similar use for them someday,” I said, glancing at him. ”I think he just wanted his closest friends to know he thought of them, if something happened.” I couldn”t say anything beyond this point. I imagined it was likely there were a few other gifts set aside, either valuable or sentimental in nature, for individuals like Callum. Possibly even Nancy was on the list, knowing Dean.

I stepped into the studio, where Dean did the majority of his painting. His favorite easel and the bulk of his art supplies had been sent to Cornwall, as had many of his projects, but there were still paints and brushes, paintings on the wall. The summer birds Dean had sketched, then painted, and a still life of two hands holding a bird”s egg. The rough canvas, the first he had painted with a human figure after his return to art, propped on the spare easel with the rotted leg post, one left over from Dean”s art student days.

The canvas he was giving me hung in an adjoining nook that had been a painting spot for Dean”s portrait artist friend Allen and his young protege, who had assisted Dean sometimes with his own projects. It was a close portrait of Sidney — not yet twenty, sitting at his typewriter at the dock near the boathouse of one of Dean”s relatives, a look of intense focus in his eyes despite the casual posture and setting. Dean had it painted from a matching snapshot I had glimpsed once, tucked in the case of the legendary Royal ”MM” responsible for typing all the first drafts of his novels.

”This one, right?” said Phil.

The paper in my hand contained the painting”s official name, noting it was labeled on the back as ”True Self, a Portrait: Allen Grant.” The clerk had noted no appraisal value, just writing ”unframed canvas, signed” in the notes.

”This one,” I said. I didn”t need to check, because I knew exactly which one from the moment the solicitor had told me Dean left a painting in my possession.

I stepped aside as Phil hoisted it off the hooks that supported it on the wall. ”I”ll wrap it for you to protect it from rain,” he said, laying it on the table that had probably been the resting place for palettes and brushes during the painting days. ”It wouldn”t do to have it ruined.”

Unfinished canvases were propped to the side, a mix of projects belonging both to Allen and to Dean, most of which would probably remain in a perpetual state of rough outlining now. I tilted aside the first two, of a person slicing bread, one of Dean”s unfinished Impressionist pieces, and an outline of a rooftop scene that could be anybody”s. Behind them was a portrait shaded in light blue, of a girl in a lacy bohemian blouse and denim shorts, with a chain of daisy flowers in her hair. It was me.

I paused, unable to believe my eyes at first as the recognition clicked in my mind. It still had the lines of a rough sketch and the paint”s color was patchy and daubed in places, creating the first flush of a portrait. He never mentioned having it made, but I knew that he must have commissioned it some time after the portrait of Sidney was finished, for there was no other explanation. He had said I should be painted with denim and daisies.

”When did he do this?” I asked.

Phil glanced. ”What?”

”This canvas.” I tried not to blush as I asked. The former carer looked closer.

”I dunno. I suppose it was Grant, though. Dean had him come back a few times after this portrait was finished. I thought they were working on some of the house paintings of Dean”s.”

Had Allen set it aside because Dean wasn”t satisfied with it, or wanted a different composition for the portrait? Some lines were visible, partly erased, that would have created a slightly different pose on the canvas for the girl in the lacy blouse. Her smile was so much my own, enough to make me shiver a little, only because it was so unexpected to see it like this.

I could see nothing wrong with any of it, even as rough as it was.

Closing my eyes, I was holding back the blur of tears that gathered, if only for a moment. I pulled the canvas from the stack, carefully, and let the others fall back in place.

”This one, too,” I said. ”I know it isn”t on the list. But it would have been, if he knew this was going to happen,” I said. ”No one else is going to want it.”

No one else would, except for Sidney and myself. I wasn”t going to leave it behind, to be packed up in a box and sent back to Allen, who had no reason to finish it now.

Phil studied it, then glanced at me. ”That”s what he”d want, I expect,” he said, softly. ”I won”t tell if you won”t.” He reached for a second sheet of packing paper and began wrapping it.

”Thank you,” I answered, gratefully.

He carried them through the studio as I followed, giving one last glance to the remaining pictures in frames, including one that Dean had failed to send for after Cornwall, his first commission as a paid artist. He hadn”t been sentimental about it on the surface, but I knew what it meant for him to become a professional painter after the accident. It meant something to me, seeing the ”coffee girl” draped over her exotic tin of ground Brazilian beans, like a temptress from the Edwardian era.

”Remember that one?” I said, pointing to a sketch of a single red cardinal flower in a glass.

”You waded out into the stream to pick it, didn”t you?” said Phil. ”I helped. Probably it was a violation of some sort of protected plant code that we did it, but it was too muddy for him to get close on the bank.”

”He was furious that we did it.” Somewhere in me, faintly, a laugh stirred for the recollection. ”Plus, we tracked mud on the car”s rugs. And a bit on the carpet.”

”But that sketch turned out nicely,” said Phil, who had a near-grin on his lips in response. ”It would have made a great painting. He never got to it, though, he had so many others in progress. He was always driving on to finish one or another as perfectly as possible.”

I lifted one of the brushes from the table. The handle had paint stains that had dyed the wood permanently, leaving a rain of green and grey down one side, like the water from the stream that had fed the flower in the sketch. Dean had been touched that we had brought it to him, so he could see the details that were part of the splash of red that had been deeper in the wild than he could venture.

”He could be a curmudgeon at times to the worst degree,” said Phil. ”But he had a good heart underneath it all.” A sigh followed. ”I”ll miss the old badger.”

”I will, too,” I said.

He switched off the light in the living room, so only the grey natural light filtered by the drawn curtains illuminated the living room with its grand mantelpiece and old carpet which Kip had tried his best to ruin, once. He carried the paintings downstairs to the cab for me, waiting to transport them and me back to my temporary digs at Megs” flat, until I went home to Cornwall.

I took one last look around the silent rooms, frozen in time since the last visit I paid here with Dean. This would be my last chance to see them, and remember them as they were.

________________________

The service at the graveside was drizzly as well, with the first leaves shed by autumn on the walk that led from the church to the burial plot, amidst the family mausoleums and memorials, to the plot where the Gresham family members were buried. Sidney and I stood with them, among the small crowd of mourners, friends whom I did not know, with the exception of Dean”s artist friend Troy. And Phil, who wore a suit today, and stood on the fringe of the crowd.

Everyone was somber, looking gray in the overcast world, their hands folded throughout the minister”s prayer. I thought Adele might come to pay her respects, but I didn”t see her among the attendees. Probably one of the large floral arrangements was from her, however, among those which waited to cover the mound of earth.

At the prayer”s end, the undertaker”s assistant lifted a basket of white carnations for the family. Dean”s mother was the first to toss a single one into the grave as her goodbye. Silently, it was passed to each family member to do the same, then to Sidney.

Hester passed it to me. Inside, nothing was left but a single daisy. I glanced at her, and she gave me a tiny smile. I returned it, then lifted the flower and tossed it gently into the grave with the others.

The moment of last goodbye was here. The earth covered the flowers, then the coffin disappeared. We were among the last to walk away. Sidney pressed the hands of Irene and Nathan in his, and hugged Hester. A whispered exchange with Dean”s parents that lingered a moment longer, with the boy who kept them connected to their son with years of Christmas cards, phone calls, and letters.

The complexity of the situation still remained beyond my grasp in some ways. None of us think about the magnitude of it until we see those situations in real life, when someone is thrust into instant maturity and responsibility. He volunteered to step into their place — they volunteered to let go against all the instincts of loyalty and love. It had looked very different from the outside. But Dean could never have pushed Sidney away, the way he did others when he was vulnerable, because Sidney would simply push back, without ever losing that stubborn, offhand grin of his.

”I thought your mom might come.” I said this to Sidney as we joined the final trickle of mourners walking towards the gate.

He shook his head. ”She doesn”t like funerals,” he said. ”Days like this, her health isn”t always at its best.”

”Do you want to stay on another day?” I asked. ”You could stay with the Greshams. Maybe go see your mom. I could stay on at Megs”s until the day before my next shift, then see you as soon as you came home.”

”I”d rather go back, too,” he said. ”London”s rain doesn”t do much to cheer one at a time like this.” He took my hand, and I felt the coolness of the weather diminish with a human touch. This day”s length would make itself known in long hours today, with grief numbing within as the weather touched the skin with its own chill.

”Alex.”

Before we reached the end of the monument path, I heard this name spoken by a man who had been among the mourners on the opposite side of the grave, near the back. I could tell that Sidney didn”t quite recognize him by the uncertain smile on his lips as we paused and turned.

”I take it we know each other?” he said.

”In a manner of speaking we do, Alex.” The man approached, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat, now that he had our attention. ”Or should I say, Alistair Davies?” he continued. ”As your agent, I should ask which one you prefer being called by.”

His accent was American. He was in that state of seniority that follows late middle age, but is nowhere near the modern sense of ”old”, with a strong-looking figure and a head of thick greying hair. Comprehension cleared Sidney”s gaze, replacing the previous uncertainty with a flicker of embarrassment. I felt tension tighten his grip on my hand a little, and squeezed it back.

”Are you the latest in the queue of professional apologies I should make?” Sidney asked. The lightheartedness of this answer failed to take flight, helium balloons tied to an anvil. ”If so, it”s yours. I offer the same to Saxx and Brighton and all the rest who were fooled by my ruse. One that wasn”t very professional of me.”

”No, I”m not here for anything like that,” the agent answered, sounding faintly amused. He surveyed Sidney with a long, impenetrable look — one which reminded me of the way my ex”s father Morgan Sutcliffe used to appraise prospective buyouts at social functions. ”I”ve been waiting a long time to meet the man behind the name. We weren”t quite the strangers I expected after all this time.”

He extended his hand. ”Byron Duncan,” he said. ”You may have a memory of me tucked away somewhere. But I”m sure you looked me up long ago and know all the pertinent details.”

Sidney extended his hand to complete the greeting. ”I do. And did,” he answered. ”Again, I apologize. It may be too little and too late, but I offer it as proof that I didn”t mean for all of this to go as far as it did.”

”Can we talk?” said Byron.

Sidney shook his head. ”I promised Dean”s family the rest of my time here,” he answered. ”I have to pack and catch a train, because I”m not staying in the city for long.” This answer, the verbal equivalency of trying to edge away from a conversation by turning a shoulder to the other person.

”Eleven years of representationdeserves the little I”m asking. Between us, you and I have a complicated business and a complex problem,” said Byron. ”Let me give you a word of advice as we walk out, at least.”

His stare was intractable, not quite as casual as his friendliness of expression and tone. His glance and gesture motioned for Sidney to follow him along to the side gate across the graveyard. With reluctance, we peeled off from the main path, joining him.

”I know you didn”t want this secret to come out, for many reasons,” he said. ”Secrecy and privacy — it”s something that writers tend to value intensely on the professional level, and they”re one of the few who have the luxury of it — except in cases like yours, where the fame eclipses all the rest. Now they”re after you, they”re hungry for what they can get, and you”re simply looking for a way out.”

”You make it sound like I”m doing a runner from either coppers or some hitmen from organized crime,” said Sidney, making a joke.

”Sometimes they have a lot in common with the press and the professionals who want us to meet their game,” said Byron. ”We”re at their mercy unless we can beat them at it by playing it better.”

He glanced at Sidney, with another of those searching looks which plumbed for details. ”I can”t say I wasn”t surprised,” he said. ”I recognized you in the article. Not at all how I pictured the famous writer. And I should have been prepared for anything after Meg Holcombe.”

”She was probably a surprise,” remarked Sidney. He didn”t quite laugh, as if gravity pulled it back down.

”More so in the fact that she seemed to know so little about the books she authored, which I took for coyness at the time,” he said. ”Just one of those writers who distrust sharing their creative habits. Not the case, as I found out recently, knowing how many hours I wasted trying to squeeze out a little bit more information, not to mention talk her into a finish. Not that I can”t see the humor in it.”

”Not many people are laughing over this,” said Sidney. ”Nice to know someone is, since I can”t be.”

Byron stopped at the gate, below the arch grown over with thick ivy, like the red-hued variety which had crept up the side of the church. ”Eventually, we both know we”ll have to talk about your situation, but for now, the press issue is something that won”t go away,” he said. ”So take my advice. Instead of running from this, meet it head on and tell them your story from your side.”

He lifted the gate”s latch. ”It”ll be better if you do, for your family and yourself. Hiding and waiting won”t make it disappear.” He held it a moment. ”I”ll be in touch,” he said. ”Good luck, Alex.”

We went to Krystal”s, a restaurant where we used to go for cheeseburgers and crinkle chips, when I was missing the diner in Manhattan. Mostly because it wasn”t in view of the newsstand display with the latest story about the Alistair Davies” mystery, now echoing the reactions of literary communities around the world.

”Literary Critics Cast New Eye on Celebrated Works for Clues to Identity.” I had read it from the corner of my eye in passing this morning, now imagining critics from traditional newspapers scouring the books for new meaning — or disparaging them, knowing now that Alistair Davies was no Grayham Hunter.

I picked at my potato crinkles, laced with ketchup from the squeeze bottle next to my plate. Sidney hadn”t touched his fish and chips, even with salt and vinegar.

He was thinking, with marks of tiredness settling around his eyes. I noticed the paper left at the neighboring table by the last patron was open to the ”light” entertainment section. The latest ”In This Week” column was entitled ”Literature Has Its Own Identity Mystery to Probe.”

”Are you okay?” I asked, softly. He glanced up.

”Fine,” he said. ”Or I will be when on the train home.” He poked at one of his chips.

”So that was your literary agent.” I could not help thinking of Dean. He had told me that the man who managed Alistair Davies” publishing career had mishandled the contract out of greed, and suggested he was too incompetent to fix it. It was easy to see with one meeting that competency was not the issue, because I had spent too much time reading the nuances during weekend visits to the homes of financial hawks as Ronnie”s girlfriend, towed along by the reluctant Sutcliffe family.

”Apparently.” His smile barely etched itself in muscle movement. ”I saw a photo once on a website. Of course, Alli met him several times whilst pretending to be me. He didn”t come up in many of our conversations, except that he was pushing her hard to finish the book.”

”He talked as if you should know him.”

”In a roundabout way, I do. Not as the agent, but from some time before. He came to parties my mother used to give — he”s part of society, he knows all the same people. I think he fancied her, but my mother isn”t very interested in anyone who isn”t strictly her equal.”

”She isn”t?” I pretended this was news to me.

”Otherwise she could have had any number of interested men. Robert would have married her ages ago,” he said, with the touch of a smile. ”Anyway, it”s what helped make him a top literary agent, having friends in high places. When his office sent a letter to my pseudonym self, offering representation on his behalf, I was flattered.”

”That”s how any typical writer would feel,” I said. ”Usually it”s new agents that make offers to fledgling writers.” Like me and Arnold. It was proof of how special Sidney”s manuscript had been to have a top-tier literary agent personally represent him.

”I was young and headstrong. Fairly stupid, too,” he said. His smile was that of rueful admission now. ”I shouldn”t have let myself be beguiled so easily.”

The rest of Dean”s warning. ”Beguiled” troubled me a little bit, as if it was symbolic of a deeper problem than Sidney”s contract clause, which was coming into my perspective on things again. I didn”t even know this person, nor whether they would be willing to change the contract on Sidney”s behalf after all these years.

”I wonder if he”s right, though, about the press.” Sidney watched as the waiter cleared away the newspaper on the table across the way, along with the empty coffee cup. ”It might be better to give in.”

He was quiet after this. He hadn”t bothered to touch his food yet, and I found I wasn”t all that hungry for my hamburger. There would be tea and biscuits at the Greshams, not that I wanted another chocolate-dipped biscuit that tasted of sorrow. Like Sidney, I only wanted to be supportive to the people who loved Dean, and it would be better to be doing that than getting lost in thought here.

I asked the waiter for takeaway boxes, as he took away Sidney”s empty coffee cup and my half-finished tea. Outside, the breeze played with an escaped sheet of newspaper, and ruffled a girl”s pleated skirt as she stepped out of a cab with an umbrella ready to snap open.

”If you want to stay in London longer,” I said. ”You know I would tell you to stay.” He could spend as much time with Dean”s family as he wanted. Share their grief and healing, with his own equal in weight.

”Dean wouldn”t want that,” he answered, quietly. ”He knew ... he knew this would happen someday. They knew it, too. It isn”t what any of us wanted, but he would be upset to think we kept mourning him.”

I felt his hand brush my arm, fingers light and soft in their touch. His eyes met mine, briefly, but not to let me read the depths for long. I could see the pain deep within, underneath the calm.

”The wind”s beginning to pick up, so we should run for the Tube,” he said. ”A storm must be coming in. Maybe we”ll keep from being caught in it, if we go now.” He shrugged on his coat again, and reached for mine to help me with it.

He spoke too late. The first shower began coming down before the waiter returned with our boxes.