Chapter 6
Henry: Hey, Liz. I know things are pretty darn awkward after the other night. You might not want to talk to me, but we need to talk
about Miss Mirabel. Just call or text. How about it?
Lizzie: I’m on my way to London. I’ll call or text when I get there.
Henry: LONDON???
During the plane ride, Heathcliff alternates between sleep and his tablet. With the time change combined with the airport
donuts and screens, he’ll be a gremlin by the time we land.
Meanwhile, I’m flying through Blood Oath.
Sure, Chadwick Hall is a royal ass, but with his suave moves, fast car, and the lightning-speed plot, it’s pretty hard to put down.
As the cabin lights go out for the night, I reluctantly put it away, monitor Heathcliff as he brushes his teeth in the closet-size bathroom, and give him a melatonin gummy.
I settle back in my seat and (perhaps unwisely) think about some of the problems I’m leaving at home.
Philip hadn’t liked talking about his family.
Did he have a good relationship with his parents?
Yes, I suppose he did. I never saw him argue with them.
But were they close? That’s a different question.
He never called Ted Dad—only Ted. He called Mirabel Mama.
But there was something very formal about their relationship.
In fact, there was something very formal about that whole
sprawling house—The Azalea Dream.
Bordering the Ashley River, the white clapboard structure with painted black shutters looks like something from the pages
of Southern Living. Azaleas, daylilies, and bold pink zinnias bloom in the surrounding gardens, while star jasmine wraps up along the tall porch
columns. Ted himself always seemed more porch fixture than human, an accessory for Mirabel and her home. With his red bow
tie, newspaper, little mint julep, he naps through weekend afternoons on one of Mirabel’s many white wicker rockers. Mirabel
tends the gardens herself—her yellow gardening gloves matching the large yellow bow of her sun hat. Everything always looks
coordinated and picture-perfect in her world.
Years ago, Mirabel told Philip she’d never really loved Ted, and they weren’t more than roommates. She’d confessed this after
an evening of too much Chardonnay with the Methodist Women’s League. He’d been twelve at the time.
“It was weird and confusing,” Philip told me. “I asked her about it the next day, and she said she never said it. But I know
what I heard.”
Mirabel fights hard to keep everything perfect.
I remember portraits lining the Azalea Dream halls—posed photographs of Philip in perfectly pressed sailor suits and pristine seersuckers, an oil painting of Mirabel as a young debutante.
She lies about smoking; what else does she lie about?
What did Philip want to tell me so badly on the night of the accident?
Heathcliff snores softly, and I tug his Batman blanket up under his chin.
I put my black satin sleep mask over my eyes and lean my seat back. I haven’t had any weird widow dreams yet, but maybe due
to the melatonin and two glasses of airplane Merlot, I slip into one now. It’s nothing too gothic or Bronte-ish. I’m simply
following Philip through Mirabel’s big azalea garden at the back of the house. We’re on a meandering path at the peak of spring;
fat honeybees buzz lazily among the bright pink petals. Philip wears khakis and a light blue checkered pressed shirt, something
he would wear to work when he’s not in court. He walks ahead of me, sunlight glaring on his neatly cut blond hair. The distance
between us grows with each step. I can never quite catch up. I call out to him, but he never turns around. The garden melts
away to Parliament Square on a sunny morning. Jostling against picture-taking tourists and people on their way to work, I
follow him, calling his name, but he never looks back. Again, the distance between us increases until he’s lost in the crowd.
I wake up, a sick feeling of separation and loss spreading through my gut. The cabin lights are still off, but early twilight
peeks over the clouds outside my window. We’ll land in London before long, and I’ll take an Uber with Heathcliff to the Bloomsbury
row house. We’ll eat whatever delicious meal Sarah’s housekeeper has waiting for us.
Meanwhile, no matter what happens around me or wherever I am, in my heart, I’m always chasing Philip.
Ms. Fernsby stands in the door of the row house, and I almost drop my third Starbucks coffee of the day.
Around sixty, she looks like she stepped out of a Masterpiece Mystery!
episode, one of those cozy murder mysteries where she’s the sweet, pink-cheeked hobby-investigator who gets villagers to spill the beans over tea and scones.
Gray hair pulled back in a neat knot, she wears a flower-print dress down past her knees with gray tights and loafers.
Everything about her is warm and inviting. I want to tell her all my secrets.
“Oh, hullo, dearie,” she coos at Heathcliff, kneeling down and hugging him tightly. He grins dopily. For all his Batman-toughness, he
loves to be babied. “You’re a cute one. I’ve heard your tummy doesn’t like cheese and milk, so I’ve been baking you dairy-free
treats all morning.”
“And you, luv.” She stands, hugs me tightly now.
God, she even smells warm and inviting—like garden roses and baking chocolate. “Sarah told me about your loss. I’m so sorry. I hope you can breathe
a bit here.”
She leads us into the house. The front door opens into a sizable parlor with damask curtains, a little fireplace with a cuckoo
clock on the mantel, a comfortable vintage love seat and sofa, and polished walnut floors. Except for outlets tucked into
the whitewashed wall beams, the room looks unchanged for the past two hundred years.
A large tabby lingers on the sofa.
“Cat!” Heathcliff yells.
The cat hisses and runs from the room. Heathcliff follows in hot pursuit.
“And don’t mind Lucy,” Ms. Fernsby says as she fluffs up a sofa pillow. “She’ll warm up to him in no time.”
“And he won’t hurt her,” I promise. “He just wants to cross-examine her a bit.”
As we leave the parlor, we pass through a small dining room.
An antique table takes up most of the space, with classic touches everywhere—a simple, elegant chandelier, long peony-print curtains framing the windows.
The dining room opens into a small but adorable kitchen where light blue painted cabinets display crystal glassware and antique plates.
The only modern furnishing is the large high-end gas stove taking up half a wall.
At the opposite end of the kitchen, I follow her up narrow wooden stairs, the wall lined with framed pressed flowers and pinned butterflies.
Sarah’s silver-haired House of Lords father stares imposingly from a portrait at the top. I’ve always assumed she wasn’t particularly
close to him. She talks more about Ms. Fernsby and her serial nannies than her parents.
“This is young Heathie’s room,” Ms. Fernsby says when we walk by a little room with a twin trundle bed.
“Hey, Mama,” Heathcliff says from where he’s sitting on the area rug making a LEGO building. Poor Lucy must be hiding somewhere.
“I knew he’d take to LEGO. They were my daughter’s years ago.”
“Oh,” I murmur, wondering about Ms. Fernsby’s backstory.
She shows me her cozy bedroom. A well-worn Harlequin, The Governess and the Duke, lies open on the bed’s pink rose-patterned coverlet. “It’s been my place for the past forty years, and then . . . here is
where you’ll be staying.” She opens a door at the end of the short hall. The room is pleasant with a large, canopied bed,
a comfortable sitting area with more antique chairs, and a bathroom. The bathroom has a large garden tub and a new sink embedded
in an old walnut vanity lined with scented soaps, lotions, and candles. A plush marigold-colored robe hangs from a hook on
the back of the door. This must have been Sarah’s parents’ room. I picture her politician father shaving, stern-faced, in the bathroom mirror as Ms. Fernsby
calls him to breakfast.
“You’ll make yourself at home here, I hope. I’ve left some books on the nightstand.” Her blue eyes suddenly sparkle as she nods to The Heathcliff Saga atop the stack. “It was such a pleasure reading your book. I love a steamy romance, and I flew through it in three days!”
She leans forward as if to whisper a juicy piece of gossip. “Is it true that Bella Patel was dating both of them?”
I feel my mouth twitch as I remember all the romantic drama between the actors. Bella Patel (Cathy) dated both Harry Waters
(Linwood) and Everett Dane. I still remember how she’d confided in me with all her angst last fall after the premiere. Still,
I want to maintain her privacy.
“I’m not really clear on the timelines.”
“Well, I say good for her!” Ms. Fernsby says, tightening her apron strings. “You’re only young once, and if she has a chance
with both of those handsome men, she should take it.” She heads toward the door. “Get some rest, luv.”
“I should get Heathcliff settled.”
“Now, don’t you worry about him! I’ll put him down myself if he gets tired. I’m about to pour myself a cuppa, and I’m sure
he’ll want a treat.”
She winks and shuts the door.
I open my suitcase, staring at the folded black leggings, blouses, and dresses. Philip’s bird urn lies nestled within the
fabrics. What am I doing here? As I stare at my Victorian-ish widow styles, touch gently the jet necklace at my throat, a
strange mix of fear and anticipation swirls in my chest like a whirling dervish.
My brain is too foggy to sort through it all, so I brush my teeth, and sink into the bed. I clutch the bird urn and fall into
a deliciously deep sleep.