The next morning Lucy climbed out of bed early and went for a walk. The town wasn’t awake yet, but Pasty Presto down the hill was open and serving coffee. She grabbed a cappuccino and a small bun and ambled to her bench along the water.
The swans, probably fully aware of when the tourists brought their crumbs, hadn’t arrived yet. She sat as the waves of Bowness Bay lapped the shore—tiny when compared to Lake Michigan, miniscule when compared to an ocean.
What she’d thought was a tsunami, twenty years pulling back from the shore, was hitting more like a ripple—changing nothing and unable to sweep the sands smooth.
Each tiny wave brought a discordant memory from the night before. Puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. Or worse, puzzle pieces that did. She couldn’t deny a picture was forming, one in confirmation of her mom’s expectations rather than her own hopes. She kicked at the pebbles in front of her, skidding them into the water.
She tapped her phone. Nine o’clock. It was time. She tossed her paper cup into a bin and followed her father’s directions to The Ship Inn. A little farther down the shoreline, the restaurant was already bustling with patrons and mature smells of grease, eggs, and fish when she arrived. She peered around and finally found her father and a young woman with brown cropped hair huddled in the corner. He was leaning over, talking close to her ear and smoothing her hair as if soothing a child. It was mussed, as if she’d worked to achieve the bed-tousled look, or had, in fact, just climbed from bed. Lucy glanced away.
“Lucy!” He half stood and waved, reaching around the woman to hug Lucy as she neared. “I’m glad you’re here. Come meet Willa.”
Lucy stretched out her hand as she sat.
Willa grabbed it with well-moisturized, thick fingers. She gripped hard, rolling Lucy’s knuckles across one another, and let go before Lucy could react. “Anthony told me you were here. In the year we’ve been together, I’ve never met any of his family. Never even knew about a daughter.” She threw Lucy’s father a quick look before affectionately kissing his cheek. Lucy noticed a tiny diamond in her nose that caught the light as she swung her head back.
“Yes.” Lucy was at a loss for more words.
“The family resemblance is uncanny. What eyes you two have!”
Lucy couldn’t help herself and softly mumbled, “All the better to eat you with, my dear.”
Her father heard her and shot her a look as Willa continued unaware, “But that hair! That must come from your mother.” She reached over and rubbed together the ends of Lucy’s ponytail.
Lucy resisted the urge to pull away.
“Are you on break?”
“Break?” Lucy flicked her neck, sending her ponytail over her shoulder, as she caught her father’s fixed look. She took a moment to absorb the unspoken currents: Willa was questioning her age, checking up on Anthony, calculating the length of her stay—taking her measure. And her dad? He required backup. What had he said? Lucy couldn’t remember. She could only hear another childhood command, returning after a long sleep. Never give more information than necessary.
Lucy determined her own course. “I came for work.” She pressed her lips shut, refusing to elaborate.
Willa’s eyes flashed confusion then resignation.
The conversation flowed formally while the server took their orders and delivered teas and another coffee for Lucy. They waited for their meals in relative silence.
As soon as breakfast arrived, Willa picked up her fork and approached Lucy from a different angle. “Your father says you’re a reader. You read a lot in college? You must come this afternoon.” At Lucy’s blank expression, Willa gently pinched his arm. “You didn’t invite her? She could be our guest and see what you do.”
Willa leaned toward Lucy. “I’m sure your father told you about our tours. They’re not your run-of-the-mill walks to see this and that. They’re literary tours. They were Anthony’s idea and they’re wildly popular. Walking tours, mostly, for now.” Willa nudged Lucy’s father, who opened his mouth, but she spun back to Lucy before he said anything.
“Anthony tells about the area and the sites, but he also reads to them some of the poetry and fiction that came from here. He’s got readings from Pride and Prejudice, Beatrix Potter, some book about swallows—”
“Swallows and Amazons. It’s an adventure story,” he interjected.
“I didn’t mean it was about birds,” Willa retorted, her short hair appearing to stand on end. “But that’d be right too,” she whined before turning back to Lucy. “He talks about some of the animals around here, especially at the Beatrix Potter bits, and there’s Wordsworth and Coleridge and that other guy . . . The critic. You know . . .”
“Ruskin?” Lucy added with understanding.
“Ruskin! Tourists eat it up. It’s like they’ve been transported in time.” She snuggled into Lucy’s father’s side and cooed. “He is so talented.”
Lucy smiled genuinely for the first time. “I can imagine you’d be really good at that, Dad.”
“I love it.” He smiled back. “That’s why I sent you the Ruskin book.” He leaned forward, gently dislodging himself from Willa’s grasp. “He was a philanthropist, thinker, and the Victorian era’s most famous art critic. Bringing him into the tours provides a personal opening into the art and social movements of the time—that’s the Golden Age around here and he embodies that vital link between fact and fiction.”
As they ate, Lucy’s father gave his part-life-story, part-résumé, and a description of their tours. Willa interjected every time he paused.
As he talked on, however, Lucy noted a side conversation—unspoken but equally informative, perhaps even more so. Every time Willa strayed into details from his time before Bowness or to their future plans for France or Italy, Lucy’s father steered the conversation back on track with a quick “Where’s the jam?” or a soft “May I try your eggs?” Then a cough and a subsequent search for cough drops, or a “Where is that girl? We need more tea.” And each time, Willa lost her trail and bounced back onto the approved topic. Lucy made note of each digression.
As the plates were cleared, Willa leaned forward and snaked a hand out, dark blue nails flashing, to grasp Lucy’s as she held her third “just a touch to warm it” cup of coffee. “Isn’t he brilliant? Oh, and I keep forgetting that next—”
Anthony sneezed and bumped her, sloshing Lucy’s coffee over the rim.
“Do you have a Kleenex? My allergies are acting up.”
“In here somewhere . . .” As Willa pulled back and dug into her brown bag, Lucy watched her dad. His steady green eyes stayed trained on Willa’s search. “Here you go.” She waved a crumpled tissue at him.
He folded it into his hand. “We need to finish a few details for this afternoon. I must gather my notes and get a few supplies. I try to tailor the tours and today we have an American couple and an Australian family. All are good walkers, they say, so I want to take them up Brantfell Road. There’s a rocky outcrop up there and my Pride and Prejudice quotes really take flight. Wordsworth too. I sometimes have to read them in Fallbarrow Park when patrons can’t take the hills, but it’s not the same. So if you can shift for yourself a couple hours, we can meet up and you can come along for today.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” Anthony stood and scooted Willa’s chair back for her.
“We’re leaving?” She pouted. “I could stay and chat.”
“There’s a lot to do.” He reached down and squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “We’ll meet you at one o’clock in the square outside Windermere Lake Cruises, right on the water.”
“I sat near there this morning. I know where it is.”
“It’s a small town.” Her father slid Willa’s chair out farther.
Willa bobbed her head toward Lucy. “We’ll have such fun. If you’re like your father, you’ll be such a help today.”
Lucy’s father gently pulled Willa away. Lucy picked up her mug and mopped the spill with her napkin.
Lucy wandered up the smaller side streets and bought a few gifts and souvenirs, including another snow globe and two key chains for her new collection. One was a replica of the local church and the other a tiny figurine of Peter Rabbit. She found a few more odds and ends, a bottle of gardenia perfume for her mom, and a couple more silver thimbles for Sid. Waving a small thimble on her finger, she played with the idea of keeping them for herself but suspected Sid would know just the client who would adore them. The thought made her smile.
Shopping finished, Lucy stood at the edge of the lake as several small wooden boats pushed off the shore with kids and adults swaying back and forth searching for their balance and jostling the oars. She turned back onto the sidewalk and tapped her phone, missing only one person.
It rang five times before Helen answered. “I couldn’t find it in my bag. We’re about to leave for the airport. Have you found your father?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“It’s good. He runs literary walking tours.”
“That sounds just up your alley. Why don’t you sound happy? What’s wrong?”
Lucy stopped walking and stepped into a small open park. She leaned against a tree and faced the lake again in time to see one of the boats tip and two kids splash into the water. “I expected to feel like you did when you gave the watch back. It was like you were floating. In an instant, you were free. Remember at the Bloomsbury Coffee House when we declared each other ‘safe’ and we could share and talk . . . You didn’t need me after Peel Street, but I’ve found him and I . . . I’m still calling you.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t feel different. Missing him, finding him, that’s been twenty years in the making and it’s done, and yet, I’m not lighter. I’ve laid nothing down. I feel the same.” Lucy clamped her eyes shut, trying to work out the words. “Nothing is what I expected.”
“Few things ever are. Giving that watch back was the starting point for me. It wasn’t the end and yes, I felt good that evening, but emotions fluctuate. You know that. They never stay. It’s what we do with the facts that counts.” She fell silent and Lucy suspected she was searching for a chair.
She continued, “Did you know Charlie was here when we arrived yesterday? We talked all yesterday afternoon and then through dinner, and it wasn’t good at all. He’s very angry . . . And yet, remember how I said my eyes felt wider?”
Lucy nodded, before recognizing that Helen wouldn’t catch the gesture.
Helen continued, “His are today too. They’ve lost that tight look that he’s given me for years. So I think, despite the difficulty, we are on the right road. You stay on it too.”
Lucy nodded again. “I will.”
“You aren’t any more responsible for your father’s choices than Charlie was for mine. I learned that yesterday; he felt such pressure to live up to what he thought I was and wanted him to be. I suspect James has suffered under that same weight. Don’t you make that mistake. And as for what you said in the tea shop? Emily Brontë was wrong if she ever meant that our ancestors fix us and determine our lives and choices. People can be redeemed.”
“Maybe I was projecting.” Lucy heard a rustle as if people entered Helen’s room to collect bags. “Have a safe flight.”
“James is here. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.” Helen’s voice dipped low and sincere. “Enjoy your visit.”
Lucy thanked Helen and slipped her phone back into her bag. Enjoy your visit. It seemed so simple, almost too simple, for all she hoped to accomplish here. But perhaps Helen hadn’t said the words blithely. Perhaps that was the proper perspective. This was merely “a visit” and she need only enjoy it. No more, but no less.
As she watched the lake, another boat came alongside the capsized kids and an older man dragged them aboard. A young woman then jumped into the water, righted the capsized dinghy, and alone rowed it to shore.
At one o’clock Lucy stood at the back of the small group wanting to watch her father at work more than participate. Willa’s short hair was sleek, styled, and tucked behind her ears; her outfit, sophisticated and refined; and her voice . . . Lucy almost didn’t recognize her as the same woman. She spoke slowly, with more intonation and definition.
Lucy stared as Willa passed around tea in paper to-go cups to the adults and bottles of ginger beer to the kids. She sprinkled little comments among the group and soon everyone was talking and laughing—even the two new families who’d joined the tour since breakfast.
Willa glided between the women. “I love your shoes . . . Such the right choice for today . . . And you were wise to bring dark glasses. It’s a gorgeous spring this year . . . Have your kids tasted ginger beer? Such a treat . . .”
Lucy had to give her credit. Each woman and child stood taller and swelled with pride at their importance, dress, and general preparedness by the time Willa stopped talking and shot Lucy’s father a We’re ready glance.
The motion sent Lucy’s eyes toward her dad as well. He’d clearly been working the same magic with the men. It brought to mind Sid’s advice one day as they had sat debating a sketch. Enchant the wives and stay within budget to please the husbands. They may not care about the rooms, but they want to keep their wives happy and feel smart doing it. Her father clearly followed the same dictum—but played it with a different hand here.
Catching Willa’s look, Lucy’s father raised his voice and addressed the entire group. “We are so delighted to have you join us on our little adventure today. We will start with a short walk through Bowness-on-Windermere, this lovely town with foundations dating back to 1415, as you’ll see when we visit St. Martin’s church. And, since you all are such strong walkers, I’m going to treat you to some special stops more abroad than the usual fare. This will allow you to more fully appreciate the romance and unique history of the area.”
He started through the town, calling above the din created by cars, tourists, and general commotion. Within minutes they were on a small outcropping nestled into the lake. He pointed to the sky. “ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud; That floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze . . .’ ” He continued in a strong, melodic voice, weaving a spell around his walkers.
Even the children quieted and listened. And just when the first child twitched, he drew himself upright and laughed. “Wordsworth is a genius and probably the most noted poet from the area. Those were just a few choice lines from ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,’ composed here”—he spread his arms to encompass the lake, the town, the listeners—“in 1804.”
Without another word, he walked farther down the walk and up a scanty path into the trees, talking Wordsworth and poetry as they followed. At a bend, he shifted topics. “Now, ladies, this lovely path is for you. Visiting manor homes, such as Darcy’s Pemberley, is out of the scope of our walk today, but you will find ‘a noble fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods’ and ‘spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander and charming views of the valley.’ And here, note the . . .”
With dips and rises in intonation, Lucy’s father made it clear when he was quoting from Pride and Prejudice, again imbuing the walk with an almost magical aura. Lucy began to believe that she herself was following in Elizabeth Bennet’s footsteps and holding her gown high, so as not to stumble over branches along the path.
As they emerged onto a one-lane road overlooking the lake, her father’s tone changed again. “Here you see some of the spectacular views that inspired, not only the great poetry you’ve heard, but some exquisite landscapes and even portraiture. This was a thriving art scene and John Ruskin, the leading art critic from the Victorian era, embodied that sensibility right here in Bowness. He was an avid watercolorist, social thinker, essayist, and philanthropist. Here are some of his favorite views . . .”
Lucy turned toward the lake, letting his words wash over her as she wondered where the line spanned between fact and fiction on this tour. She had read the Ruskin book, and while most of her father’s facts were true—even those he tinged with a softer glow—he did create links and made inferences never stated. She began to note how often he used words such as “surmised” or “tacitly understood” or, her personal favorite, “privately known.”
“. . . And today I have the special treat of my daughter’s presence. An art expert and specialist in the field of silver and antiques, she can answer any of your questions about the art, lives, and interests of this area and its Golden Age.”
Lucy blinked, catching the last words as every head pivoted to her. She gave a small wave as her father walked on. Only one woman dropped back, the American with the right choice shoes. “How do I know I’m getting a good deal if I buy something here? How do I know it’s a real antique? What does that even mean?”
Lucy fielded the question with honesty. “There’s no way for you, as the customer, to truly know unless you have some experience and a feel for what was made within different eras. The term ‘antique’ classically means older than one hundred years. I can say I spent the morning in and out of every shop in Bowness and nothing caught my eye that wasn’t appropriate. There was one shop, Finley’s Fine Treasures, that— Ouch!”
With a crash, Willa tripped and plowed into Lucy and clutched at her to keep from falling. “I didn’t even see that. Thank you for catching me. I almost fell.” She held her hand to her throat and glared at the ground as if it had bitten her. “I’ve been on this walk so many . . .”
Lucy quit listening as the woman tourist touched her arm, mumbled a quick thanks, and returned to her husband. Lucy turned and whispered to Willa, “I gather I misspoke?”
“Not at all. You’re wonderful.” Willa took a few steps in silence. “Finley overprices a touch, I know, but she’s a dear friend and sends lots of business our way.”
Lucy nodded, casting a quick glance to her father. He was absorbed at the front of the group. “You both are good on these tours. I can see why they’re popular.”
Willa beamed. “I don’t have all the schooling Anthony does, but I take care of the details. He’s forgetful about those, but what a wonder with the talking! He tells such a good story, makes you feel the facts rather than just hear them. That’s a gift, you know.”
Willa cast her eyes to the front of the group with such adoration that Lucy trailed Willa’s gaze. Her father gave Willa a quick wink before addressing a tall man’s question. “You can see why everyone loves him.” Willa gripped her elbow.
“I can, which makes it surprising that the tours aren’t selling well. My dad mentioned that you’re moving to France,” Lucy whispered.
“Oh no.” Willa tucked closer. “They’re selling like mad. We’ve pre-booked more extensive, driving ones with overnight stays, all through next summer. Multiday packages and real ‘Sensory Experiences,’ as he calls them. They’re so popular, clients smack down a 90 percent deposit just to get on the books, but we—”
Willa twisted toward the front again and jumped. “Oh, he needs me . . .” She darted up to assist one of the kids who drooped beside his mother and instantly her voice regained its slow, cultured tones. “Is this walk too long for you, dear? Well, I may find a treat right here . . .”
Lucy lost the rest of Willa’s wooing as her father’s lilting accent recaptured her attention. “Beatrix Potter, as a young girl, lived . . .”
The tour landed back in the town square, where the men all shook hands and pressed bills into their tour guide’s hands. “Couldn’t have been better,” “Jolly good afternoon,” and other compliments hung in the air around them.
Lucy heard her father gently chide one man, “It’s a commitment, but we’re filling fast. I strongly recommend registering soon for the three-day package we discussed. I don’t want you to miss out. It’s a much finer experience because we have the time and ability to introduce you to the food and wine and some of the finest accommodations in the area. And”—he addressed the man’s fawning wife—“if you’re committed to seeing Bath, we can offer the same experience there. I’ve studied Austen’s Bath years intimately.”
“That’s the trip I want to take.” She beamed.
Lucy’s father nodded in agreement and stepped away, allowing the couple to talk. Within moments, the man returned to him and said, “We’d like that trip.”
As Willa gathered their information in a ledger book, Lucy left the group and retreated to the water’s edge. Within moments, she heard the pebbles crunch behind her.
“You were marvelous today.” Her father moved closer.
“I was a participant. Only one woman asked a question.” Lucy glanced over her shoulder to find everyone had gone. “They all loved every minute, even the kids.”
“It’s a good tour.”
Lucy twisted again, realizing everyone had gone. “Where’s Willa?”
“She went to run errands. I told her I wanted to spend some time with you alone.”
Lucy stumbled back. “You don’t need to do that, Dad. I came to get to know you, and Willa’s a part of that.”
“I appreciate that, but I want to give my daughter my undivided attention. Let’s grab an early dinner. All that walking has worked up my appetite.”