CHAPTER 14

LONDON

MAY 2019

I sat amid the piles of letters and photographs at the dining table in Precious’s flat, watching the sun rise over the London skyline and bathe the buildings outside the large bay window in buttery light. Morning had always been my favorite time of day, the chatter and static of life briefly held inert. When I was little, I’d wake up early and go sit with my mama on the front porch swing while she drank her coffee. We’d talk about nothing in particular. Sometimes we wouldn’t talk at all. But when I looked back, I felt as if we’d spoken volumes, that our time together on that swing had been the most profound hours of my life.

I’d heard Colin leave an hour before. Now George was lying at my feet, snoring loudly while Oscar sat nearby, eyeing me. I turned at the sound of tapping on the doorframe and smiled at Laura, who held out a double leash.

“I was wondering where the dogs were. It’s time for their morning walk and breakfast.” She bent down to affix the leash to the dogs’ collars.

“Is there a printer in the flat that I can use? I could go to Arabella’s office, but it’s a bit far.”

“There’s a nice one in Colin’s room—on the big desk. He lets me use it all the time, so I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t allow you to use it, too.”

“In his bedroom?”

“Yes—but it’s perfectly all right. You can text him, if you like.”

“All right—I’ll do that.”

“I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything. Precious is still asleep. Usually she doesn’t have breakfast until eleven, so she shouldn’t need anything before then. Listen for her bell, though, just in case.” Laura gave me a thumbs-up and led George by the leash but picked up Oscar, and the little dog peered at me over her shoulder. I could have sworn he was narrowing his eyes like Clint Eastwood in a gunfight.

I usually viewed and organized my photographs and notes on my laptop, but for this project, I felt the need to print everything out. I wanted to get a better idea of how everything would fit together and which holes could be filled if we found Eva. There was something about Precious’s story that defied containment, that made me think I was on a circuitous path with no beginning or ending. I sent Colin a text, asking for permission to use his printer. And when I hit “send,” I immediately heard a ping from under a pile of newspaper clippings on the other end of the table.

Carefully, I removed the papers and saw Colin’s phone. I picked it up, and as I held it, it rang. No name or picture was attached to the number, so I assumed it was Colin calling from someone else’s phone in an attempt to find his. I swiped to answer and said hello.

A woman’s voice said, “You’re not Colin.”

“No, I’m not, but I have Colin’s phone. Who’s this?”

“I’m Imogen Smith.”

I tried to place her accent—not quite cabdriver Cockney but not without some of its idiosyncrasies and odd inflections. Like someone pretending not to have a particular accent. It reminded me of how my aunt Cassie had sounded when she’d returned to Georgia after working in New York for more than a decade. “He’s not here.”

“Are you his new girlfriend, then?”

“No.” I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “Definitely not. Colin’s at work. Why don’t you call him there or text him so he can reply when he collects his phone?”

She paused. “Are you sure you’re not his girlfriend?”

“Quite sure.”

“Good. Because I’m the old girlfriend, and you seem rather nice, so I wouldn’t want to hate you without having met you. Besides, you’re an American. I never thought Colin was especially fond of Americans. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. But it’s Madison Warner.”

“Oh! You’re that Madison.”

I shouldn’t have been having this conversation with a complete stranger, but I had to know. “You mean he talked about me?”

“Yes. Quite a bit, actually. He talked about how you two didn’t suit, and how you had appalling taste in men and a sense of humor that bordered on childish. I’ll have you know that I had to do a lot of distracting to get him to stop talking about you. It was very frustrating.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, eager now to get her off the phone. “I’ll tell him you called, but send a text just in case. . . .”

“It’s better I don’t communicate with him, or I might start crying again. Could you please just let him know that I still had the key to his house in Cadogan Gardens, so I put it through the post slot in the door?”

“I’ll tell him.”

I was about to end the call when she said, “Has he mentioned me?”

I paused a moment before answering, deciding that the blunt truth was what she needed. “No, Imogen. He hasn’t.”

Her voice with that odd accent seemed resigned. “I suppose I already knew it, deep down. Sometimes we just need to have someone else say an unpleasant truth out loud for us to believe it, don’t we?”

“Probably.”

“Thank you, Madison. Good-bye, then.” She’d ended the call before I’d had the chance to say good-bye.

I stared at the phone in my hand, her words ringing in my ears. Sometimes we just need to have someone else say an unpleasant truth out loud for us to believe it. The words unsettled me, and I found myself staring out the front window for a long time, watching as morning bloomed around the buildings across the road.

Eventually, I fished out my own phone again and called Aunt Cassie. She picked up on the second ring.

“Maddie, sweetie. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah—it’s all good.”

“Can I call you back? I’m about to start a conference call.”

“No need. Just wanted to hear your voice. And to tell you to go ahead and make that appointment with Dr. Grey for the week after the wedding. Yes, it can wait that long—it’s just more tests. Nothing urgent. I’ve got some projects coming up before then, and I don’t want to be distracted.”

“Now, Maddie, are you sure you want to wait . . . ?”

“I’m sure. Just make the appointment, please, and we’ll go from there. No sense borrowing tomorrow’s troubles for today, right?”

I heard the smile in my aunt’s voice. “Your mama used to say that all the time.”

“I know.”

We said our good-byes, and when I looked up, I saw Arabella in the doorway. “Everything all right?”

I nodded, avoiding her eyes. “Everything’s fine.”

She walked into the room, not looking entirely convinced. “I had a bit of time between meetings and I was curious about your two a.m. e-mail. You said you’d found something interesting?”

I stood and led her toward the corner where a stack of hatboxes waited. “These belonged to Sophia. I was hoping that even if we can’t find anything about Eva, there’d be something about Graham, right? Sophia and Graham were siblings, so it makes sense. And if we find one, we should find the other.”

“One could hope.” The clothes racks had spilled over into the dining room, and Arabella stroked the sleeve of a fur coat, its nap flattened by years in storage. “Look at this beauty. Precious has a few pieces of Chanel from after the war. You know I’d love to showcase them in the exhibition, too, but she’s not keen on talking about her time in France.”

“I did ask her why she went. I thought maybe it’d be a gateway to my questions about the Resistance, her experiences modeling in an occupied Paris, and all that.”

“What did she say?”

I considered not answering. When Arabella held her ground and didn’t look away, I said, “According to her, she went for the same reason I left Georgia. To escape her ghosts. She’s wrong about me, of course. I left to pursue my education.”

Arabella dropped the sleeve to face me. “Why do you think she came back after all that time—and to London, not Memphis?”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with my friend’s scrutiny. “Why indeed? Maybe her ghosts found somebody else to haunt.”

“Perhaps. I’m curious what makes a person leave their home for so long, and then what it is that eventually brings them back.”

Eager to change the topic, I grabbed Arabella’s arm. “Come on,” I said, leading her to the hatboxes. “This is what I found.”

I lifted the top box and moved it to a clear spot on the dining table. “I was assuming these all had hats in them, which is why I didn’t go through them right away. But I was very excited to find pictures instead. Early nineteen forties—don’t you think?”

The box was half-filled with black-and-white photographs. I recognized the bright blond hair in the images on the top layer and wondered if Precious knew these existed.

“Wow,” Arabella said, lifting the top photo. It showed Precious walking down an aisle surrounded by chairs filled with well-dressed women and a few men. She wore a long gown in a shiny material. A matching stole was draped around her creamy shoulders, her face soft and open, wearing an easy smile. Of all the expressions I’d seen on Precious so far, I’d yet to see that particular one.

I did a mental calculation and figured she’d have been in her late teens or early twenties. Maybe that was the look most young women wore before time and life etched themselves on their innocent faces.

“I love this one,” Arabella said, reaching in to pull out a photograph of Precious sitting on what appeared to be a park bench. Her hat was in her lap, her head turned toward the right. It looked as if she was laughing with someone just out of the picture frame.

“It’s one of the very few that hasn’t been cut.” I reached inside the box again and retrieved three more photos, each one with a clean edge, the white border of the print conspicuously missing. “This reminds me of something my sisters did to photos of them and their exes. They’d cut out the boyfriend instead of destroying the photo because they were good shots of my sisters.”

“And you never did that?” Arabella said absently, digging through the box.

“Hardly. Mostly because I’m the one who does the jilting.” I plucked up another photograph from the top, one of Precious seated at a white-clothed table, a glass of something raised to her darkened lips. “Although, since these belonged to Sophia, that theory doesn’t really makes sense, does it?”

“No, not really.”

“You know,” I said, running my finger down the smooth edge of the photo, “I don’t think the damage to these photographs was done in anger—it was more of a planned thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re not torn, are they? This looks like it was done very calmly. Assuming it was Sophia, it looks like she had time to think about what she was doing. And it’s so precise. My guess is she even used scissors.”

“Have you found the other halves?” Arabella leaned over and picked up one of the smaller black-and-white photos.

“No, but I haven’t gone through everything here yet.”

Arabella nodded, studying the photograph in her hand. It showed Precious from the waist up, her head nearly hidden by a hat with an enormous brim. A dark-haired man in a black silk top hat, a waisted black coat, and a white cravat stood next to her. They were both looking into the camera, and Precious was smiling the kind of smile that made me think of a woman thrilled with her life.

The man was smiling, too, but it had nothing to do with joy or happiness. It was a smile someone planning to rob a bank might have worn, part cunning, part deception. As I looked closer, I couldn’t help but think he had the look of a satisfied squirrel, one who’d hidden all of his acorns and wasn’t planning to share.

“It looks like they’re at Ascot! But that man—who do you suppose he is? Definitely not Graham—wrong hair—and I don’t think it’s Sophia’s David, either. But he’s a looker for sure.” Arabella grinned at me, excited. “Have you looked in all the hatboxes? Silk top hats like he’s got on here are rare—they’re made from hatters’ plush, and there just aren’t any looms capable of producing that material anymore. Vintage models in good condition can go for tens of thousands of pounds. I would kill to have one for the exhibition.”

“I haven’t come across one, but be my guest. I was more interested in these photographs. I’d love to know why Sophia would have cut them.”

“How peculiar,” Arabella said, turning over a picture of Precious, with a darker blond woman who looked like Sophia, leaning against an old-fashioned car. “I wonder why they weren’t thrown away. I mean, they’re all damaged, so it’s not like they can be framed or put in albums, so why keep them?”

“I agree.” I took the photos from Arabella and put them back in the hatbox.

“By the way,” she said, leaning across the table, “Aunt Penelope called me yesterday. Her friend Hyacinth Ponsonby from the WI volunteers at the National Archives, and Penelope said Hyacinth is thrilled—her exact word—to help dig for information on Colin’s great-uncle Graham. A lot of new information has recently been released to the public, and Hyacinth is very excited to delve into the mystery. Aunt Penelope did say she was scolded for not having asked sooner. Even explaining that Colin’s father never heard Graham’s name mentioned while growing up didn’t exonerate Penelope’s oversight. Apparently, genealogy is Hyacinth’s passion, and she says that Colin’s branch of the St. John family is quite illustrious. Sadly, unless he has children, he’s the last of them. And at this rate, I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen.”

“I have to ask—what is the WI? And is Hyacinth Ponsonby a real person, or did you just make that up? If I were writing a cozy British mystery, I’d probably use that name for the old lady who accidentally solves the murder. I bet she has cats, too.”

Arabella let out a heavy sigh. “The WI is the Women’s Institute—a women’s organization that provides a lot of services to the community. It’s been around for ages and was virtually mandatory if you lived in the country during the war. The WI made sure the home front was operating efficiently, that gardens were growing food, not flowers, and all sorts of other things. Penelope and my mother are members. So am I, but I don’t have a lot of time for meetings. Mother said at the last one, one of the members made a fruitcake in the shape of a corgi in honor of the queen’s birthday.”

“Wow. Sorry I missed that.”

“Me, too.” She plucked a yellowed clipping from the table and handed it to me. “Oh—look at this! It’s from The Tatler, July 1939. Really just a huge gossip rag then and now, but very illuminating.”

I looked at her. “Illuminating?”

“Yes. A recent headline accused Meghan Markle of being the next Wallis Simpson, which I thought rather brilliant. But that’s not what I’m referring to.” With a manicured finger, Arabella tapped on the clipping page. “Recognize the photo?”

I frowned down at it, wondering why it seemed so familiar. Then, brightening, I straightened. “Of course—it’s Sophia’s wedding photo. Still without the entire wedding party.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“True,” she said. “But look—it lists names of those in attendance.”

I quickly scanned the paragraphs printed beneath the photograph.

Miss Sophia St. John of Hovenden Park in Guildford and Mr. David Eliot of Stoke-on-Trent were married at the bride’s home on the 10th of July. Bridesmaids were Miss Eva Harlow of Devon and Miss Jeanne Dubose of Memphis. The groom’s best man was the bride’s brother, Mr. Graham St. John. Also in attendance was fellow Harrovian Alexander Grof of Prague.

“Well,” I said, “we now know Eva Harlow was from Devon. That should help our search.”

“True,” Arabella said. “Precious will be so excited that she doesn’t have to remember some of these details. I asked Aunt Penelope to see if there are any of Sophia’s photograph albums at Hovenden Hall, and she said she’d look. There are dozens of course, probably going back to the invention of the camera, so it’s just a matter of finding the right one.”

“I’d like to think that a house that managed to hang on to a panel of Henry the Eighth’s banqueting tent would probably still have photographs taken only eighty years ago.”

“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“Definitely,” I said. I pointed to my laptop. “I need to use Colin’s printer. Laura said she was sure it was fine, but when I texted him to check, I discovered he’d left his phone here. Should I go ahead, or will Colin have a hissy fit?”

A male voice said from the doorway, “Colin’s not sure what a hissy fit is, but probably not.”

We both turned to see Colin. He wore a navy suit and tie, looking like the quintessential British businessman. Except for the cleft in his chin and the smattering of freckles on his nose and cheekbones, which hinted at the boy Colin tried his best to hide. He held a brown paper package tucked under one arm.

“Sorry—we didn’t know you were there,” I said.

“Apparently. I came to fetch my phone.”

“I know. I texted to ask if I could use your printer, and it pinged.” I picked his phone up from the table and handed it to him. “Also, you missed a call from Imogen. She said she put the key to the house in Cadogan Gardens in the mail slot.”

His face might have paled a bit under his tan. “You spoke with her?”

“Of course I did. It would have been rude not to.”

He looked at me expectantly, but I was enjoying myself too much to say anything else.

We continued our staring war until Arabella interrupted. “What’s in the parcel?”

Colin’s gaze shifted, and he looked at the bundle under his arm as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It was downstairs by the postboxes. I didn’t look at the address, but I’m assuming it’s for Madison.” He handed the parcel to me.

A paper grocery bag had been cut and taped together as wrapping, and there were probably twenty or more small-denomination American stamps plastered in the top right corner. Crayon pictures decorated the front and back, and my name and the address had been written in alternating colored crayons in clear block print. I brought the package to my nose, smelling the unmistakable scent of Ravished, the signature perfume of the cosmetics line that Lucinda sold door-to-door and from her shop, Lucinda’s Lingerie.

“I wonder why they used a grocery bag instead of a corrugated box,” I mused.

Colin actually smiled. “That’s your first question?”

Arabella laughed. “I think it’s adorable.”

I turned the package around in my hands, looking for a way to get through the tape. “This looks like it was wrapped at Fort Knox. I’m going to need a chain saw. I’ll open it later.” I turned to Colin. “If it’s all right with you, and you have a few minutes before you have to get back to the office, I’ll go ahead and start printing while Arabella shows you what we’ve discovered so far.”

“Sure. The power is always on.”

Although I’d passed by Colin’s bedroom door each time I went to Precious’s room, I’d never glimpsed inside. The door was always closed. Now I reminded myself that I had his permission, and there was nothing weird about this at all. I picked up my laptop, shoved it into my backpack, and juggled it with the bulky package as I walked down the hallway, then paused just a moment before I turned the knob.

It was a large room, about the same size as mine, with a big bed—neatly made—in the middle. The plain glass window faced the same side as the spare room, where we’d stored most of Precious’s clothes. I reminded myself that his accommodations in Precious’s flat were only temporary, and that was why the space was devoid of personality—which I appreciated. It was easier to work if I could pretend I was in a hotel room.

I set my laptop on his desk—clear of clutter, of course—opened up the picture folder, and selected the best photos I’d taken so far. After loading the printer with my photo paper, I hit “print” and sat at the desk to wait. I pulled out my phone to scroll through e-mails; finding nothing important enough to open, I placed it on the desk and noticed for the first time Colin’s few desk accessories, which added personality to the room.

A well-worn Rubik’s Cube sat within easy reaching distance, next to a mouse pad—minus the computer—with an image of Darth Vader battling Luke Skywalker with glowing light sabers. A stack of ancient leather-bound books held up a brass lamp. I leaned forward to examine the lamp, smiling to myself as I realized the object in the middle of the brass stem was a Golden Snitch of Harry Potter Quidditch fame. A monogrammed notepad on the corner of the desk contained doodles of interlocking circles, surrounding a pencil drawing of a dog’s face, maybe a whippet, its eyes full of expression, its ears on alert. It was pretty good, and I wondered if Colin had drawn it.

The printer stopped, and I stood to replace the photo paper with regular paper for my notes before returning to my seat, noticing as I did a wood-and-leather frame lying on its back behind the stacked books. It looked as if it had been placed there while someone had cleaned the desk, and then forgotten.

I picked it up to put it back, bumping something over with my arm as I lifted it. A small metal soldier wearing a red coat and a tricorn hat and carrying a musket lay on his face where I’d knocked him, an old-fashioned toy cannon sitting next to him. I actually apologized to the toy as I stood it up. The little soldier’s red paint was chipped, and his musket wobbled, as if he’d been well played with.

The printer continued to whir. I glanced down at the frame in my hand. A younger version of Penelope was pictured standing with a man, presumably her husband, James, and a little boy about three or four sitting in a stroller. He wore socks with sandals—acceptable only in the very young, in my opinion—and a plaid newsboy hat, and clutched a purple Barney dinosaur doll. The arm wrapped around the toy was almost painfully thin and pale, like the bare legs showing between his navy blue shorts and his knee socks. A dark brown suitcase was partially visible behind the stroller.

The three faces were smiling, but they weren’t the kinds of smiles one would see on a family vacationing at Disney World. They looked more like survivors who’d witnessed a tornado ripping the roof off of their house and were happy just to be alive. I stared at the photo, trying to figure out what seemed so familiar to me about it.

Then I noticed the blurred Welcome to Atlanta sign in the background. I remembered Penelope saying that they had spent time in Atlanta, and this photo must have been taken at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. It wasn’t a great picture of any of the subjects, and I wondered why it alone was the photo Colin kept on his desk. I set it next to the Rubik’s Cube and then decided the tin soldier and his cannon belonged with the picture, too, and moved them to the other side.

Satisfied, I picked up the package, trying to find my way through the tape. I glanced around for scissors, and saw a slim, lidded rectangular box being used as a paperweight. Not wanting to appear nosy, I nudged up the hinged lid with my pinkie, excited to see the glint of brass from the handle of a pair of scissors. I pulled them out without completely opening the lid.

With enthusiasm I stabbed at the paper wrap and tape, spending a good five minutes just trying to make a hole that I could dig my finger into and tear off the rest of the wrapping. Another five minutes later, I found myself surrounded by strips of paper grocery bag and a box from Lucinda’s Lingerie. Hoping it wasn’t something from the store, I lifted the lid.

Layers of scented lilac-colored tissue lined the box. I had to carefully dig through them to make sure I didn’t miss anything. A Lego fireman fell to the floor, most likely a stowaway hidden by my cousin Sam Junior, and a broken red crayon dropped into my lap before I reached the bottom of the box.

A bundle of magnolia leaves covered the bottom, shiny and green and unmistakably real, their scent carrying with it the memory of long golden summers. I imagined Aunt Cassie neatly snipping them from the old tree in her front yard. She and my mother had grown up under its sheltering arms, chased lightning bugs around it, and shared secrets beneath it.

Confused as to why she’d sent the leaves, I went through the tissue again, shaking it until a small piece of notepaper drifted into my lap. I recognized Aunt Cassie’s handwriting and felt a hard tug in my chest as I read the note.

Home is the place that lives in one’s heart, waiting with open arms to be rediscovered.

A noise erupted from deep inside me, a sound that was part laugh and part sob, my shoulders shaking with unnamed emotion.

“Madison? Are you all right?” Colin stood in the doorway, a look of concern on his face.

I quickly put the lid on the box, not wanting to explain. Not even sure I could. “I’m fine,” I said, standing. “And it looks like the printer’s done, too. Thanks for letting me use it.”

“You’re welcome.” He was staring at the scissors, his face unreadable. “Are those mine?”

“Yes. I borrowed them to open the package. It was harder than breaching the beaches on D-Day.” Noting again his expression, I said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

When he didn’t say anything but looked at me oddly, I added, “Sorry. I guess I should have asked. But I saw this box on the letter tray. . . .” I lifted the lid with my finger, and this time it flipped all the way open, revealing a framed photograph, the subject faceup.

“Oh.” I met his gaze, understanding now why he was looking at me like I’d just kicked his dog.

The black-and-white photo was one I’d taken when we were at school, during my portrait phase. The young woman—a girl, really—was staring into the camera lens with the intensity of someone trying very hard not to smile. Her face was more interesting than beautiful, the hair not light or dark, her freckled nose a little too long, but just like her mother’s. The most arresting part of the photo was the look in her eyes. It was so open and honest; at the same time, it seemed to belong to someone completely and utterly lost. I remembered that girl. I still saw her every once in a while when I looked into a mirror.

Colin cleared his throat. “You left it behind in your dorm room. Arabella gave it to me.”

It took me two tries to find my voice. “I meant to throw it away. Self-portraits were never my forte.”

“Really? I thought it quite good.”

He held my gaze, and I couldn’t look away. “Is that why you kept it?”

“No.”

We continued to stare at each other silently, both of us relieved when Arabella appeared beside Colin in the doorway. “Are you two done in here?”

“Are we?” Colin asked, his voice casual.

“Yes, I’m done printing,” I said, hearing the relief in my voice. “Why?”

“I have something I thought you’d want to see.” Arabella walked to the desk, holding her phone. “Aunt Penelope found Sophia’s wedding album. She wants to know if she should send it to you or if you’d like to come by and look at it there.”

“I suppose I do owe them a visit,” Colin said. “We can bring Precious. Let her know that I’ll call her as soon as I check my calendar.”

“Smashing. She said she found Sophia’s wedding gown, too—that will certainly be in the exhibition.” Arabella looked at the floor where the torn pieces of the grocery bag lay. “Did you open your parcel?”

“I did.” I pressed my hand to the gift box, making it clear that I wasn’t interested in revisiting their contents right then. “My aunt Cassie sent me leaves from a magnolia tree in her front yard. I’m not sure what she wants me to do with them, but maybe Precious would like me to decorate her mantel? Mama used to do that when I was growing up, and she’d spray-paint them gold at Christmas.”

“Interesting.” Arabella raised her eyebrows. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the office—can you join me there around two? I want the whole team gathered so we can finalize the clothing selections. I’d like to begin photographing the outfits and coming up with a story order for them.”

“Sure. That will give me some time to speak with Precious first, to make sure I haven’t left out anything that she wants to include.”

I kept my head down, taking my time stacking the photographs and closing my computer, trying to gather thoughts that wouldn’t come, trying to think of all the reasons why Colin would have kept my photograph in a box on his desk. But when I finally found the courage to lift my head and meet Colin’s gaze, the room was empty.