The world was shaded by a velvety dusk as Adam left Oxford and headed west into the Cotswold Hills. Adam’s day had remained dominated by a sharp sense of detachment. Few people spoke with him. The company was locked in morose anxiety. He had begun his search for new investment prospects, yet could not shake off the conversation with his mother. The company car passed through fields shaded flaxen and rust and pearl. Trees still clutched a few autumn-flamed leaves. Towering elms stood sentinel about ancient farmhouses and herds of sheep. Hamlets were timeless works of art. Rosebushes grew high as young trees and clung to many houses. Time had decreed the homes and vines must join as one, for the branches ran like brown limbs about windows and doors and eaves. Between the tiny villages, stone walls and hedgerows moved in to clutch the road.
They turned onto a smaller lane that ran along the base of a valley. Adam pointed at the river rushing alongside the road and asked, “Does it have a name?”
“That’s the Avon, sir. One of many. A thousand years back, give or take a century, every Cotswold village with a decent stream laid claim to the Avon. The courts tried to sort it out back before the last war. Didn’t get far. Problem is, the river splits so often round these parts, they might as well name the rain in the sky.” The driver was a ruddy-faced man with a walrus mustache and seen-it-all eyes. “But that’s England for you, sir. We’d argue over the song a kettle sings, given half a chance.”
They entered a village signposted as Hawthorne. They climbed a hill, the road a tunnel beneath flanking oaks. The peace was strong enough for village children to play an intent game of soccer in the middle of the street. “Here we are, sir. Hawthorne House.”
The house and the neighboring church were built of daub and wattle, with crossbeams hewn in a time when trees were not expected to grow straight. Both had newer additions of honey-colored stone, which had obviously been cut by hand, for the chisel marks were very evident. The house was almost as high as the church and shaped like a barn. Metal braces attached to cross-ties kept the walls from bowing more than they already did. The roofs of both structures were of slate so old the lichen grew in a rainbow of grays.
Peter, his wife, and his daughter came out to greet him. Peter Austin’s wife was a beauty in her mid-thirties with a distinctly English complexion, not so much pale as delicately col-ored. Honor was dressed in linen slacks of autumn copper with a matching sweater that revealed her growing belly. She held her husband’s hand through the greetings, saying little, but saying it with genuine warmth. Kayla’s greeting was a subdued hello that matched Adam’s own internal state.
The home’s interior was a remarkable contrast of the ancient and the new. The original barnlike structure was one room almost fifty feet long, segmented by hints of walls and broad single stairs. The front and rear of the house contained broad windows. The dining area grew by the north wall, the kitchen by the south. This meant all three rooms were illuminated by the setting sun. The living room contained slender-limbed furniture of suede and flowing wood colored to match the walls. An open balcony lowered the ceiling above the kitchen. The kitchen was rimmed by a counter and framed by spotlights. Adam felt ever more the stranger, a product of crisis and strain that had no place in this warm haven.
Kayla had experienced a recurring dream during the lonely time surrounding her mother’s final illness. Not lonely in the sense of not having friends or a loving father. But Kayla and her mother had known a very special relationship, and Amanda’s death had left a gaping wound in her thirteen-year-old daughter’s life. Around that time, Kayla dreamed she moved to a different universe, one where her mother had never left. When she awoke from these dreams, she lay in bed for hours, the blankets up high enough to block out every hint of light. She relived the dream over and over, skipping downstairs and hearing her mother singing in the kitchen, and everything back the way it should have been.
There was certainly nothing about the young man seated across from her to explain why she should think of the dream now, for the first time in years. Adam Wright followed the conversation with a smile that only heightened the sorrow in his eyes. He said little but listened well, drawing the home’s story from her father and Honor.
The house and the neighboring church were two of the oldest structures in a very ancient region, both dating from the late tenth century. Medieval life in this region, Peter Austin explained, was dominated by two forces, wool and the church. At one time, the church had owned all the surrounding land. Their home had been the village tithe barn, erected inside the church wall so thieves would be discouraged by the unspoken threat of stealing from God. The practice of serfs tithing to the church was lost when Henry the Eighth broke from Rome and distributed all the church’s lands to his loyal followers.
“The barn was a ruin,” Peter Austin said. “My first wife, Kayla’s mother, found this wreck of a house the year after I started my company. I could hardly afford to buy a place that would take three years to rebuild.”
“Five.” Kayla spoke for the first time since they had seated themselves at the table. “It took five years.”
“Of course it did.” Peter smiled at the memory, his weary strain easing momentarily. “My first wife sold a farm she had inherited, some stocks, and all her jewelry except her grand-mother’s broach and her wedding ring.”
When Honor rose and began gathering plates, Adam asked, “Are you sure I can’t help with anything?”
“Next time. Tonight you must play the honored guest.”
Peter Austin said to his wife, “Adam was very taken with your photographs of Mount Kilimanjaro.”
“Actually, the photographs are Kayla’s.” Honor began carving a roast of lamb. “I had a professional studio enlarge and frame them as a present for Peter. He missed Kayla so, especially now with the company going through such trials.”
Peter interrupted with, “We won’t discuss that tonight.”
Kayla saw how Adam had intended to do just that, only to subside with his questions unspoken.
Honor went on, “I thought it might draw Kayla a bit closer, if you could be reminded of the reason why she was absent.”
“They’re beautiful,” Adam said. “Truly.”
Kayla looked down at her empty plate. Learning that the photographs had been Honor’s gift heightened her sense of disconnect. Kayla listened to her father and his new wife moving about in the kitchen. She did not need to lift her head to know she would see a couple moving about their home with the ease of genuine love. The facts were inescapable. She should never have come home.
Adam asked very softly, “Are you all right?”
She looked up. Adam was watching her with an intensity that and left her feeling very exposed. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
He kept his voice so low that the pair in the kitchen could not hear. “I don’t mean to pry. You just . . .”
“What?”
“You look like I feel.”
The words draped themselves over her heart. Impossible that she could feel such sudden tenderness toward a man she did not know. “How did you know about the pictures?”
“The Arnold prints, or the ones in your father’s office?”
“Both.”
“My mother was a photographer. Eve Arnold was her favorite professional. I grew up around those pictures.”
“And Dar es Salaam?”
“My mother has been very ill. About eighteen months ago, she got so much better we thought maybe the worst was behind us. She’s always wanted to go to Africa. It was her dream. So I gave it to her.”
“And you couldn’t go?”
“Mom didn’t have health insurance. By then my finances were in pretty awful shape. I got her into one of those package tours to Mount Kilimanjaro. She didn’t try the climb, of course. But she had a wonderful time.”
Honor had joined them by the table. “I’m sure it meant the world to her.”
When the evening closed, the farewells were said and the guest smoothly dispatched. Kayla joined Peter and Honor on the front step and watched the company car depart in a quiet swirl of polished speed.
Honor said to the star-flecked night, “What an utterly astonishing young man.”
Peter turned to his wife. “Why do you say that?”
“When I know, I will tell you.” Honor stared at the empty forecourt. “In some way I can’t quite explain, he reminds me of you.”
Kayla shivered against more than the uncommon cold and wrapped her arms more tightly about herself. She studied the two of them, a couple in love and sharing a world where she was merely a guest.
Honor said, “I like him. Very much, in fact.”
“I’m so pleased to hear you say that.”
“I’d like to see more of him, Peter.”
“That can be arranged.” He stroked her face.
Kayla mumbled a good night and reentered the house. As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she was struck by two thoughts, both equally hard to absorb. The first was, her father had found the home life she had yearned for in her dreams. Not once, but twice.
The second was, she was a guest in this home only because she herself had made it so.