Chapter 8
By morning, I learn Ms. Fernsby makes a to-die-for English breakfast.
I’ve never cared for beans, but there’s something special about Ms. Fernsby’s not-too-sweet, smoky baked ones. So flavorful
and stewed to perfection. While eating the beans and bacon, I watch Heathcliff chatter to Ms. Fernsby about his Batman comic
book. I zone out, remembering Philip and me making marvelous weekend breakfasts—quiches, specialty pancakes, hash brown casseroles,
and French toast. For the French toast, Philip would make a sourdough bread starter a few days earlier, allowing the yeast
to properly ferment. Then by Saturday, we’d make thick cinnamon French toast, sprinkled with dark brown sugar. Working next
to each other in our tight, warm kitchen was like a type of foreplay. We felt especially close while cooking together, and
we both agreed that post-cooking weekend sex was the best sex.
I haven’t used my stove since Philip’s death and instead heat up all the frozen casseroles in the microwave. The stove sits untouched like a sacred relic.
I glance up, meeting Ms. Fernsby’s sympathetic gaze.
“Why don’t you and Heathie start exploring things today? The weather is supposed to be lovely.”
“How does that sound, Heathcliff?”
“Good, I guess,” he says, mouthful of toast.
On my way upstairs to get ready, I turn on my phone and check my messages. Bella had replied almost immediately to mine from
last night: Hey Lizzie! Yes, we’re heading to London! Getting ready to board a red-eye in a few minutes. Our agents want us to be seen at some events before the sequel news is announced! So freaking exciting! And YES—I’d love to meet up!
Sequel? I haven’t written a sequel yet, so this is curious.
I jump over to my texts and see a quick response from Sarah: Good news, and it’s all happened at lightning speed. We MIGHT have a sequel deal (book and film!). I’m up to my eyeballs in
conference calls regarding offer details this morning, but I’ll be in touch very soon!
I blink, unbelieving, trying not to pinch myself. Writing a sequel would be amazing, but between Mom’s illness and then losing
her and then Philip, my brain has felt like mush. Still, if my audience is hungry for more Cathy-Heathcliff-Linton windswept
angst, I can provide it.
We start with the British Museum. By midmorning, Heathcliff and I find ourselves in the Egyptian gallery featuring mummies.
“These are real dead people?” he exclaims, running up to the exhibit.
“Very real. They once lived and breathed and ate like us.”
Staring into the glass, I tell him about how the Egyptians removed the organs and placed them in jars and this had to do with
beliefs about the afterlife.
“Was Daddy made into a mummy?”
“No, we found other ways to honor him.”
Gently, I explain cremation. I tell him how we put Daddy’s ashes in different places to memorialize him, and how when we hold
the little bird urn, we think of Daddy. Heathcliff’s eyes glaze over soon, and he starts shaking his longish hair from side
to side to watch the blond locks fly.
Philip’s little bird urn weighs heavily in my satchel as I stare at the beautiful inner coffin of an ancient priest. I’m mesmerized
by the gilded mask, the intricate designs and bold colors. After losing Philip, I agonized over where to place his ashes.
Now, as I neurotically keep some of his ashes with me, a piece of his hair in the jet brooch around my neck, I realize the
Egyptians and the Victorians understood that the care and placement of bodies, arms, limbs, and organs matters. The Victorians
were quite romantic when it came to death: Thomas Hardy’s heart rests with his wife, Emma. Writer Radclyffe Hall lies buried
at the foot of the vault belonging to her lover, Mabel Batten. Famously, Robbie Ross wanted his ashes placed in the modernist
tomb of his lover, Oscar Wilde. The final resting places signified fidelity and eternal intimacy.
Mom hadn’t been cremated. She’d been buried in a peaceful corner in the cemetery of the little Methodist church I’d grown
up in. As we walked away from the site after the funeral, I looked back and saw Dad lingering in front of her open grave.
His name had been engraved next to hers on the stone. He didn’t cry. Dad just stared at the stone blankly, hands in his trouser
pockets. I felt sorry for him then and even more so now. I understand the weight of separation. It had been strange the first
time I saw my name next to Philip’s on the niche—me on one side and him the other.
A child bumps into me, knocking me into the glass.
“Careful, Heath . . .” But it’s a little blonde girl in a cap. She murmurs an apology and runs back to her mother.
“Heathcliff?” I look around me. There’s a moderate crowd in the gallery, but I don’t see him anywhere.
He’s probably just looking for a bathroom.
Quickly, I walk through the gallery. All the glass cases look the same with mummies, jars, hangings and exhibit descriptions.
I approach a middle-aged security guard who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. “Did you see a blond-haired child
run by?”
“We have many blond-haired children here.”
“He’s wearing a Batman shirt and worn white tennis shoes.”
The guard audibly sighs and motions for me to follow him.
“You’re taking me to him?”
“I’m helping you find him.”
He says something into his walkie-talkie about locating a missing child.
I’m not in a full-blown panic yet, but I’m getting anxious. Children must get lost here all the time, and surely all museums
have organized systems for finding them. Still, my maternal reptile brain fires up. My son isn’t in my sight. He’s lost, away
from me and in danger of predators . . .
“Mom! Hey! Over here!”
I whip around and see Heathcliff on the shoulders of a ridiculously handsome British man.
“Here you go, Mum,” the man says, swinging Heathcliff down and into my arms. I hug him hard as he squirms away excitedly.
“There was this room with giant gold statues and creepy art and it was so big . . . and . . . cool . . . a little scary, and I couldn’t find you, and I only got a little scared, and I tried to stay where I was like you told me
to when I was lost but you didn’t come and my eyes watered a little . . .”
“He was a brave chap when I found him,” the man says, winking at me.
“So we’re all okay now? Happy reunion and all that?” the bored guard asks.
“Yes, fine. You’ve been very helpful,” I snap irritably.
Now that I have Heathcliff, I can’t stop looking at this dashingly beautiful man. There’s something vaguely familiar about
him. Did I meet him at a conference?
“August Dansworth,” he says, extending a hand. Tall, with blue eyes, dark hair, and a dimple, August is about my age and sports
a jaunty Hugh Grant–like demeanor. I hope Philip can’t see me right now, how my palm sweats as I shake August’s hand. He squeezes
mine warmly, and I accidentally happen to notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring.
“Lizzie Wells.” I’m glad I wore my nicest black sundress and cardigan. Nervously, I tighten my grip on my satchel and play
with my jet necklace. My mouth dries, and I’m not sure what to do. What did proper widows do with this kind of excitement?
He lingers. He’s wearing a nice tweed suit and looks like the type of dashing college professor I always imagined myself working
with in graduate school. Not porky, sexist short men like Bill Rhodes.
“Guess what, Mom? August knows Batman!”
“Guilty,” August says, dimple deepening. “I told him I’m Alfred Pennyworth’s long-lost son and pop in often for tea.”
“Isn’t that the coolest?”
“The very coolest. Thank you, Mr. Dansworth.”
“August, please. Mr. Dansworth is my father.” He lingers. “Your blood sugar must be ghastly low after that fright. The least
you can let me do is take you and Heathcliff to my favorite pub.”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .”
“They have fabulous sausages and cake.” He smiles at Heathcliff.
“Please, Mama! I want cake!”
Within an hour, I’m squashed into a pub booth too close to August Dansworth as Heathcliff makes paper shapes out of the children’s
menu. I’m pretty sure this isn’t proper Victorian widow behavior, but it also seemed rude to turn down his lunch offer. And it would have disappointed Heathcliff.
“So what brought you to London?”
Grief. Asshat colleagues. Asshat Brad McGregor. An embarrassing public meltdown.
“I’m a writer and professor, so I’ve been here to research a lot. This time, though, Heathcliff and I are just on summer vacation.”
“There is something saucy professor about your style.” He glances over my jet necklace and black clothes. I squirm, self-conscious
about my weird widow fashion.
Our drinks arrive. He sips his cider while I put Heathcliff’s straw in his lemonade cup and then he screams at me that he
wanted to do it, pulls it out, splashes lemonade on my cheek and does it himself.
I take a long sip of wine.
“What do you write?” August asks.
“It was a young adult book. You might not have heard of it—The Heathcliff Saga.”
“You’re bloody kidding.”
“You have heard of it?”
“I love it. I thought your name sounded familiar. And the movie—it’s like the new Twilight.” He smiles, revealing nice straight teeth.
“You’re not exactly the target audience.”
“I’m not young, cool, hip, as you Americans say?” Rakishly, he raises an eyebrow.
“I didn’t say that,” I mutter, blushing.
“I do a bit of writing myself.”
“Really?”
“Really. I write murder mysteries. Have you heard of A.D. Hemmings?”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” Guiltily, I glance over at Heathcliff, but he’s concentrating on shaping an origami piece of
poop. “I love your books. I just finished Blood Oath. I’ll say—you had me on the Cardiff Strangler. I didn’t see that end coming.”
He beams. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. He’d been wearing tortoiseshell glasses in the black-and-white
headshot at the end of the book. That must have thrown me off.
He scoots a little closer. He smells nice—like cider and floral aftershave. “What a fortuitous meeting, then. Right?”
“Ummm . . . yeah.”
I’m a little lightheaded, like I’m back on the couch with Henry Lawton. What’s wrong with me?
I straighten my back. Time to sound professional. This is fine, actually. We’re two writers. It’s just a business meeting.
Networking. Nothing more.
“So does your writing research bring you often to the museum?”
He points outside. “I live just around the corner, in a flat near Bedford Gardens. When the writer’s block hits, I take a
stroll through the galleries.”
“Sorry my son interrupted your creative flow.”
He smiles at me over his pint rim. “No, not at all. I love all the galler . . .”
“I have to potty!!!”
“Oh god,” I murmur, scrambling to get myself and Heathcliff out of the booth. In my rush, I knock over my satchel.
The bird urn propels out across the pub floor.
“No, no, no . . .” I whimper, horrified as a server almost trips over the urn, accidentally kicking it farther away. Customers stare as
I dive out of the booth and scramble on all fours across the sticky floor. The urn slides straight toward a large intake chute.
Then August is suddenly beside me, deftly catching the urn just before it falls through the grate.
“Thank you,” I whisper through tears of relief as we stand. My heart pounds, and my fingers tremble as I take the urn from
August. Philip’s ashes were almost lost for good in the bowels of this stupid crowded pub.
August watches me quizzically.
I carry the little urn like an actual baby bird back to the table where Heathcliff waits.
“Special paperweight?” August’s blue eyes search mine as we slide back into the booth.
“Yes.” I wipe the dust off the urn with my black cardigan sleeve.
“It’s Daddy’s ashes,” Heathcliff says. “Mama says I can hold it and think of Daddy.”
August stares at me as he sips his cider, his expression both horrified and (possibly?) turned-on. He might be a bit of a
flirt, but I’m drawn to him. He’s like a Pandora’s box of wit and delight rather than curses and woe.
“Can I hold Daddy now?”
“Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” I hiss, dropping the urn safely back into my satchel. I feel like a complete weirdo.
By the time Heathcliff and I return to the table, our meals have arrived. I squirt ketchup onto Heathcliff’s sausage to meet
his specifications and then squeeze a lemon wedge over my calamari salad.
Heathcliff stabs the little side dish of steamed spinach with his fork. “Grandma Nora said to always eat my vegetables first. She said they’ll make me like Batman.”
“Your grandmum sounds like a wise woman.” He turns to me. “So you’re a widow.” He thoughtfully takes a bite of kidney pie.
“I’m a rather recent one. His name was Philip and we were very close, married fifteen years.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
“It’s been awful.” I stare into my now-empty wineglass. “We had one of those rare friendship marriages.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“I’ll be alright. This trip was actually much-needed.” I tell him about our adorable town house and housekeeper. “We’re in
good hands.”
After a minute, August asks Heathcliff about his favorite superhero, and my son’s ensuing monologue carries us through the
remainder of lunch.
When we leave the pub, I thank August, telling him that this really was a lovely treat.
“Will we see you again?” Heathcliff asks pleadingly.
“Heath . . .”
“Actually, Lizzie, I wouldn’t mind seeing both of you again, or perhaps just you? Would you fancy a little tour of the area and dinner? Perhaps your lovely Ms. Fernsby could give you a well-deserved night
off? I promise, I’m going to do everything possible to get you out of your brilliant mind while you’re here.”
My words won’t work.
“Lizzie?”
“Ummm, yes, sure. Why not?”
“Excellent!” We put one another in our phone contacts.
As Heathcliff and I walk away, I feel like I’m getting the vapors again, kind of lightheaded and trembly. If I had a corset,
I’d loosen it to breathe.