Page 29 of Memories of the Lost

Arlette had died of a heart attack, which seemed sudden but turned out to be something she’d known about—she’d had one before, and was being treated, but she never told Tillie a thing. She’d dispensed with a great many of her things after that first one—as ever, puttingher daughter first—and there had only been books and clothes to go through, a few papers, dishes and pans and aged furniture, most of which didn’t even interest thrift shops.

Liam showed up at 7:00 a.m. with two paper cups of drinks: coffee for Tillie, tea for him, judging by the dangling paper tag. “Lots of cream, right? A little sugar.”

“Yes.” She was touched that he’d noticed. It was an aphrodisiac to be seen.

In the car on the way up, they listened to folk songs, singing along to Joan Baez and Eva Cassidy, the Lumineers, and Paula Davies, the lesser-known artist they’d realized they both liked. “She’s married to my cousin,” he said.

Tillie’s mouth opened. “What? That’s a weird coincidence.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure we’d find other connections if we kept talking. The world is smaller and stranger than we know.”

“True.” Tillie passed a lumbering truck. “I thought your family was in New Zealand?”

“Yeah, first generation. My mum was from Devon.”

“Is that north or south? My knowledge of England is pretty limited.”

“West,” he said. “Far west. Looking at your paintings, I’m surprised you haven’t gone. The west is magical, full of legends and lore and fairies all about.”

A yearning swept through her like a brisk wind. The forest from the painting wafted over her imagination, a forest filled with enchanted and dangerous creatures. “That sounds amazing.”

“You should go.”

It seemed suddenly odd that she hadn’t, but she had no real reason other than always choosing somewhere else. “I’ve always traveled for the adventure, or really, Jon does. England seems ... less of a challenge.”

“Yeah, no. Americans think they know it, but ... England is not America.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. Tillie was aware of the smell of him in the small space, that note of lime. “I dunno. It’s just not the same country.”

“Have you been back since your gap year?”

“Oh yeah.” He sipped his tea. “We’ve done a few gigs in London. I haven’t been back to Devon since I was a kid, but I’m going this time. I’m pretty solid with my mom’s BFF. She lives in this big tumbledown house and has a bunch of kids. Her husband is a veterinarian, and they always have a handful of rescue animals. A blind goat, a hobbled dog, like that.”

“That’s kind of cool. Another old hippie?”

“Totally.”

The day was bright and sunny, though winter hadn’t entirely burned away. She loved the look of the March fields, empty with that glowing promise of spring. For all her worries about going back to the farm, she felt remarkably calm. Liam’s presence was very peaceful. “Do you have more workshops or whatever before you leave here?”

“Two more.”

“Would you be open to me coming to listen?”

“I don’t know that you’d find it all that exciting.”

“Meditation isn’t meant to be exciting, though, is it?”

“No.” He took her free right hand. “Truth?”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind if I keep that part separate for now?”

A prickle of warning rolled like a burr down her spine. “Are you hiding something?”

“One thing,” he said. “But I swear, it isn’t bad. It’s just that it might interfere. With—” He gestured between them. “Us. This. Whatever it is.”