CHAPTER 4

LONDON

MAY 2019

I stood by the phone in the small alcove in the front foyer, glittering gems of sunlight filtering through the leaded glass casement windows and dotting the walls and floor, making me think of ghosts. Grief is like a ghost. I imagined years of ghosts trapped in each dust mote and shard of light in the old flat, waiting to be set free. I stared at a gray leaf frozen in the glass of the window, my thoughts making me pause, giving me a new perspective on my assignment.

I was supposed to interview a ninety-nine-year-old former model and write an article about how contemporary fashion had been influenced by the Second World War. The idea had seemed very accessible, and I’d had the time available, so I’d agreed. Arabella planned to run my piece in the magazine in conjunction with an exhibition of 1940s fashion at the Design Museum, many of the clothes provided by Precious. It had all seemed very standard.

Then I’d met Precious Dubose, and I’d realized that the assignment wasn’t as clear-cut as I’d assumed.

Grief is like a ghost. Maybe Precious Dubose had been waiting all these years to set some of hers free.

I yawned, feeling completely exhausted. I hadn’t been able to sleep past five o’clock—midnight New York time—and not just because of the time difference. My phone had been binging since five with incoming texts from my sister Knoxie asking me to call her. I had a feeling it was about the small-rodent taxidermy-of-the-month club I’d enrolled her in for her birthday, so I was in no hurry to call her back, even if she just wanted to chat. My family and Walton, Georgia, seemed so very far away, like a movie I’d watched and loved a long time ago that was no longer relevant. It was how I wanted it, and the main reason I now lived in New York.

I bent my head over my phone as I walked toward the kitchen, in desperate need of coffee.

My progress was stopped by a solid chest in a starched white shirt that smelled faintly of soap and dog.

I stepped back quickly and looked up into blue eyes that could have been amused or annoyed—it was hard to tell this early in the morning and without coffee. “Excuse me,” I said. “Could you please point me in the direction of a coffeemaker?”

“And good morning to you, too, Madison. Follow me.” Colin led the way into the kitchen, and I dutifully followed, my phone vibrating with another text. The door to the small bedroom off of the kitchen—the former maid’s room, I’d been told, but now occupied by Laura and Oscar—was slightly open, revealing an empty room and a made bed, making me assume the nurse was already with Precious.

“I have a cafetière. I hope that’s all right.” Colin motioned for me to sit at the table while he poured coffee beans into a grinder and turned on the kettle. At my blank expression, he said, “A French press.”

I glanced behind him to the counter to make sure there wasn’t a regular drip machine or a Keurig. “As long as it has caffeine, I’m good.”

He shook his head slightly as he scooped in the coarsely ground coffee and poured in hot water, then pressed down the lid.

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” I said.

“Some things are worth it. I suppose that’s why fast food was invented in America. It’s not so much the taste and experience, but the haste in which it can be prepared and consumed.” He pulled out two mugs and a pint of milk and set them on the counter.

I wanted to argue with him, but I was useless before my first cup of coffee. And he was probably right.

Leaning against the counter, he said, “I already spoke with Arabella. She didn’t want to disturb you if you were still sleeping.”

Another text vibrated my phone, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“She’ll be here shortly to go over some of the outfits she’s selected for the exhibit, although she’s sure Nana will have her own opinions and will most likely request more or different ones. There are quite a few boxes down in the storage room that I will be happy to bring up after work, but there are plenty already in the spare room down the hall to get you started. Arabella thought you might use Nana’s memories of when she wore each outfit and what was going on in London at the time as a framework for your article—her words, not mine.”

Colin turned around and poured milk into the largest mug, then poured in the coffee before handing it to me. I accepted it gratefully and took a sip before looking up with surprise. “How did you know how I like my coffee?”

He looked at me over the rim of his cup. “I suppose I have a good memory.”

There was something in his voice that made me look away, feeling as if I’d just been scolded.

“Why did you decide to become a freelance journalist? At university, you and your camera were never apart. I thought you wanted to be a famous photographer.”

“I did. Once. And I still love taking pictures—I actually brought my Hasselblad with me, and I’ll take photographs of Precious and the clothes for inspiration. I know Arabella will use the magazine’s professionals for anything that will go in the actual issue. But I still love photography—can’t really imagine ever stopping.” I took another sip of my coffee, feeling the steam brush my nose. “I guess at some point I realized that the written word is sometimes needed to complete the story that a photograph has begun.”

I allowed a smile to creep across my face. “I’m surprised you remembered that about me.” I’d almost used the word “embarrassed.” Not because he had remembered so much, but because I hadn’t remembered very much about him. That had been intentional. Because there was a lot about Colin Eliot that I’d wanted to remember and hold on to. Or would have if life was different and I was meant to have long-lasting relationships.

“Like I said, I have a good memory.” As if to change the subject, he said, “I forgot to mention—there are several boxes containing miscellaneous items that belonged to my grandmother Sophia stored at my parents’ town house in Cadogan Gardens. Papers and letters, maybe a few photographs—that sort of thing. Arabella thought they might be helpful for your article.”

I nodded eagerly. “Definitely. They could provide some background for the era. When can I go collect them?”

“It would be easier if I brought them here—I still have my ancient Land Rover.”

I smiled in surprise. “I remember that—your parents gave it to you when you went to university. And it was practically prehistoric back then, right?” An old memory hit me. “I remember being driven back to my room more than once from the local pub. You were always the designated driver, I think.” I stared at him, recalling something else. “Did you drink?”

He reached for my empty mug and turned his back to refill it so I couldn’t see his expression. “Someone had to be sober. You couldn’t even manage a pint before your knees went soft. You’re also rather talkative when you’ve been drinking.”

“I am?”

“Quite,” he said, facing me again and returning my now-full mug. “You once accused me of being a misogynist for carrying you up to your room when your feet didn’t seem to be working properly.”

“I don’t remember any of that. What else did I say?”

He was silent for a moment, thinking. “You talked a lot about someone named Rob. You’d been engaged, I believe.”

The light seemed to dim in the kitchen, but I knew it had nothing to do with the ceiling fixture or the clouds outside. The gloom came from inside of me, from the dark place that I liked to keep hidden. Until someone said something and dimmed the light.

“I told you that?” I asked, my voice sounding thick and unnatural.

“Yes, you did.”

I turned away, spotting a small fishbowl on the counter by the sink, two fat goldfish swimming around inside, happily oblivious that they were headed right back to the place they’d started. “We broke it off.”

“I gathered.”

“He’s married now with a baby girl. He has my dad’s old job teaching English at the high school and coaching the football team.”

“And that’s not the sort of life you wanted.”

I slid my chair back and stood before rinsing my empty mug in the sink. “No,” I said softly.

Colin didn’t ask why, as if he knew I wouldn’t say any more. He joined me at the sink and placed his mug next to mine. “Well, then. I need to get to work. George is with Laura and Oscar, and Arabella will be here soon. I’ll see you later this evening.”

I nodded, not ready to meet his eyes, waiting for the light to return to my own.

He paused in the doorway. “Look. Madison.” He cleared his throat. “I’m about as thrilled at this situation as you are. Should we just make a truce to be on our best behavior so you can do your job and be done?”

“Sure. Of course.” I nodded like a bobblehead, unable to stop. The tension between us hummed like unseen radar, bouncing against our invisible walls. I needed to make it stop, or I’d never be able to focus.

“So . . . ,” he began.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, feeling the need to clear the air so that the little ball of guilt didn’t clog my throat every time I looked at him.

He raised an eyebrow.

“For not saying good-bye. I don’t like good-byes, so I avoid them. It wasn’t personal. And to be honest, I didn’t really think you’d notice.”

“Duly noted,” he said. “And apology accepted.” He didn’t smile, but at least he wasn’t frowning at me anymore.

We both turned at the sound of the front door opening, and then Arabella appeared in the kitchen doorway next to Colin, looking nervously between us. “Is everything all right?”

“No blood’s been spilled, if that’s what you mean,” I said.

She smiled. “Splendid. Come, then, Maddie—let’s take a look at the clothes. I only have thirty minutes, but you’re a self-starter. I won’t need to hover. My assistant, Mia, will be contacting you later today with a schedule of appointments I took the liberty of setting up for you with the museum people as well as with a historian whom I think you will love getting to know and chatting with. You are welcome to talk with as many people as you like, but I thought they would be a good start. I will happily step back now and let you take up the reins.”

“Sounds good. I look forward to speaking with them.” I met Colin’s eyes and could tell he was trying not to smirk. We were all too familiar with Arabella’s penchant for organizing and moving friends and others in her sphere of influence into position like a master chess player.

Colin said good-bye and left as Arabella led me toward the long hallway of bedrooms. My room was at the end, next to Precious’s, past all the framed photographs on the wall. Several other doors lined the hallway, and Arabella took me to the first one on the right.

Like all the other bedroom doors in the flat, this one had a leaded glass transom window over it, allowing light from the large plain window on the far side of the room to spill into the hallway even when the bedroom door was closed. The small, sparsely furnished space contained only an iron double bed, a 1920s-style armoire, and a dressing table with a stool and an attached trifold mirror that looked as if it had come from the same era. Smoky clouds bloomed behind the glass like age spots on elderly hands, distorting my reflection.

“Wow.” Metal rolling racks had been piled into the room, leaving just enough space to maneuver between them and the furniture. It was a little girl’s dress-up fantasy: long gowns with sparkling stones; an entire rack devoted to furs—the old-fashioned kind found in the black-and-white movies that Aunt Lucinda had allowed me to stay up late to watch with her. Silky chiffons in various hues floated from another rack, Ginger Rogers–type dresses that seemed to be begging to be twirled in. “Wow,” I said again.

“Back when Aunt Precious was a fashion model before and after the war—here in London and then in Paris—the models were allowed to keep some of the clothes they modeled or to buy them at an enormous discount. This is her collection. The pieces are quite valuable, but they were choking on mothballs in the storage room until Aunt Penelope—Colin’s mum is very active as a supporter of the Design Museum—rang me up with the idea of an exhibition. I thought it was brilliant, and I immediately thought of you—not just because of the personal angle, but also because you are an amazing writer. I knew you would do it all justice.”

Arabella followed me into the room. “All these gowns and beautiful materials,” she said. “I sometimes wish we still dressed like that—but can’t imagine what my cleaning bill might be like.”

“And no children to leave them to.”

“Sadly, no,” Arabella said, shaking her head. “I’ve always wondered why Precious never married. From what I’ve gathered she had plenty of suitors. Aunt Penelope has lots of fascinating stories from before and during the war—Miss Dubose was quite the heroine in the French Resistance, not that you’d ever hear her say it. All of those stories were told to Aunt Penelope by Colin’s grandmother Sophia, since she and Precious were such great friends. Aunt Precious has never been keen to talk about her past. Until now, of course. I suppose when one is at the end of one’s life, it becomes imperative to pass along our stories so they won’t be lost to posterity.”

She moved past me to a row of evening dresses, the clusters of pearls and rhinestones shimmering like sea glass on the beach. “Just look at these! Imagine everything they’ve seen.” She carefully lifted a long silky sleeve crusted with jet-black beads. “I thought that once we’ve decided which pieces will go in the exhibit, you could write the description cards they’ll use at the museum.”

I nodded, then stepped closer, a faint mothball scent wafting across my face. “What happens to them after the exhibition?” An odd sense of nostalgia hit me, the same feeling I got while looking at the scrapbook album of the first eighteen years of my life, the one my mother had started and Suzanne had finished. Like the old photos, these dresses were merely pale shadows of the vibrant life they had once been a part of, static reminders of something irretrievably gone.

I turned my back on them, waiting for Arabella to answer.

“I’m not sure. Aunt Penelope is trying to work it out. She thinks one of the old country manor houses that are now open to the public might be interested in hosting them as a permanent exhibit.” She offered me a bright smile. “I’ve got to run. You go take a look—just try not to drool. The fabrics are rather delicate. They really are quite beautiful.”

Arabella left, and I retrieved my camera from my backpack, the Hasselblad that Suzanne had given me when I’d gone to college. It was old and lacked the technology of the newer cameras, but it was still my favorite.

I touched the sleeve of a tweed jacket with a deep shawl collar that seemed more silk than wool, rubbing it carefully between my fingers, enjoying the feel of the lush fabric. I let the sleeve drop as I lifted the camera and snapped photos of the clothes hanging listlessly from the racks like dancers waiting backstage.

Finally satisfied, I stooped to stash my camera in my backpack. As I stood, a reflection of light from one of the racks caught my attention. I moved aside several hanging garments and spotted a dark green velvet purse in the shape of a box poking out from the silk lining of a woman’s coat, a gold cord chain dangling from the same hanger.

Unlike my sisters Sarah Frances and Knoxie, I wasn’t into purses, but this one was different. Gold embroidered leaves seemed to grow out of the velvet; the fabric was a bit crushed but still soft. A rhinestone clasp—the source of the reflection I’d seen—latched the lid at the front. I lifted the bag. Something about the texture and pattern of the embroidered leaves begged to be touched. It was heavier than it looked, surprising me. I put my fingers on the clasp, then paused, the sense of invading a stranger’s privacy stopping me. My mama had taught me better.

I let go of the bag, watching it dangle as it caught the light again, almost as if it were winking at me. A door opened and shut at the end of the hall, followed by the jangle of dog tags announcing the approach of Laura and the two dogs. I left the room, feeling the need to close the door behind me, as if to guard all the stories lingering like moths within the old fabrics and inside a green velvet purse.