memories of how her body had felt pressed against his—she had tried to forget about Vermont, about the murders, about the way they had revealed Toby’s family’s secrets, about the way they had driven her into the arms of an enigmatic Englishman, divorced, with a small daughter. Someone entirely unsuitable for her. Too far away, too encumbered.
Still, she read on. “I have resisted writing for weeks now. But this morning I woke up and no longer felt like resisting. It was hugely relieving, as you can imagine, to shrug off this great weight and to sit down to, finally, write you a letter. It is only a letter, I told myself. I will be chatty and tell her of the things that I am doing at work, about Eloise and about my life.
“Work has been fine. We’ve taken on three new people at the auction house and while I suspect one of them of being peripherally involved in an international drug ring, he has quite a good eye. Well, well, as long as he doesn’t bring it to work . . . ” Sweeney could almost see his wry smile, the dark eyebrows rising ironically.
“Eloise is well. She has taken up writing, it seems, and sends me letters from school with long stories in French that seem to be more clearly written versions of her favorite fairy tales, Cinderella down to the basics. As for myself, I’ve been working on cataloging the contents of a country house in Devon. I stayed at the local inn and went for long brisk walks each morning out to the house, where I spent my days with various family members, all suspicious of one another and all watching me like proverbial hawks. There was a bit of a mystery while I was there—about a Chinese vase; I can’t really do it justice here—and I thought of you and how you would have enjoyed sleuthing around and finding out the truth about it. But that brings us back to you, doesn’t it, and to me wishing that you were here. So you see, I have tried to write a letter that did not once mention that fact that I wish you were here, but I have failed.
“I returned to London in early January thinking that I would wait for you to contact me. You have been through so much and I didn’t want to complicate things for you. But then I remembered you standingthere in that awful, cold snow, that snow that seemed to compound the losses we had all suffered during those weeks. As we stood there together in the falling snow you said, ‘Maybe I’ll come visit, in the spring.’
“At lunchtime today, I went for a walk in Hyde Park. The grass is newly green and everywhere there was a sense of life trickling back into things, of that sweet syrup that runs through all living beings. There were daffodils everywhere I looked, daffodils that not so much fluttered and waved at me as bowed. The fruit trees were in full flower, the branches of the cherry trees like lamb’s tails with their heavy flowers.”
There was a word crossed out and then, in slightly darker ink, “It is spring, decidedly so. It is spring.”
And as though the beautiful words had given him courage, he had signed his name with a bit of a flourish. “Yours, Ian.”
THIRTEEN
THE BRIDE STOOD FOR a moment under the arched door at the end of the aisle. It may have been the way the spring light had gathered up behind her in the open church door, but she seemed, Sweeney thought, to be hovering in space, her father beside her, the strains of the Wagner wedding march rising up around the congregation. Her dress was blinding white and the voluminous veil, studded with pearls, shrouded her in mist.
They rose. When Katie and her father appeared at the end of the aisle, Sweeney couldn’t help but turn to look at her groom. He stood next to the minister, his face turned toward the sun in expectation. When he saw his bride, he smiled broadly and didn’t stop smiling.
The guests watched as Katie and her father walked slowly, arm in arm. When they reached Milan, Katie’s father lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, and let it fall
Still, she read on. “I have resisted writing for weeks now. But this morning I woke up and no longer felt like resisting. It was hugely relieving, as you can imagine, to shrug off this great weight and to sit down to, finally, write you a letter. It is only a letter, I told myself. I will be chatty and tell her of the things that I am doing at work, about Eloise and about my life.
“Work has been fine. We’ve taken on three new people at the auction house and while I suspect one of them of being peripherally involved in an international drug ring, he has quite a good eye. Well, well, as long as he doesn’t bring it to work . . . ” Sweeney could almost see his wry smile, the dark eyebrows rising ironically.
“Eloise is well. She has taken up writing, it seems, and sends me letters from school with long stories in French that seem to be more clearly written versions of her favorite fairy tales, Cinderella down to the basics. As for myself, I’ve been working on cataloging the contents of a country house in Devon. I stayed at the local inn and went for long brisk walks each morning out to the house, where I spent my days with various family members, all suspicious of one another and all watching me like proverbial hawks. There was a bit of a mystery while I was there—about a Chinese vase; I can’t really do it justice here—and I thought of you and how you would have enjoyed sleuthing around and finding out the truth about it. But that brings us back to you, doesn’t it, and to me wishing that you were here. So you see, I have tried to write a letter that did not once mention that fact that I wish you were here, but I have failed.
“I returned to London in early January thinking that I would wait for you to contact me. You have been through so much and I didn’t want to complicate things for you. But then I remembered you standingthere in that awful, cold snow, that snow that seemed to compound the losses we had all suffered during those weeks. As we stood there together in the falling snow you said, ‘Maybe I’ll come visit, in the spring.’
“At lunchtime today, I went for a walk in Hyde Park. The grass is newly green and everywhere there was a sense of life trickling back into things, of that sweet syrup that runs through all living beings. There were daffodils everywhere I looked, daffodils that not so much fluttered and waved at me as bowed. The fruit trees were in full flower, the branches of the cherry trees like lamb’s tails with their heavy flowers.”
There was a word crossed out and then, in slightly darker ink, “It is spring, decidedly so. It is spring.”
And as though the beautiful words had given him courage, he had signed his name with a bit of a flourish. “Yours, Ian.”
THIRTEEN
THE BRIDE STOOD FOR a moment under the arched door at the end of the aisle. It may have been the way the spring light had gathered up behind her in the open church door, but she seemed, Sweeney thought, to be hovering in space, her father beside her, the strains of the Wagner wedding march rising up around the congregation. Her dress was blinding white and the voluminous veil, studded with pearls, shrouded her in mist.
They rose. When Katie and her father appeared at the end of the aisle, Sweeney couldn’t help but turn to look at her groom. He stood next to the minister, his face turned toward the sun in expectation. When he saw his bride, he smiled broadly and didn’t stop smiling.
The guests watched as Katie and her father walked slowly, arm in arm. When they reached Milan, Katie’s father lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, and let it fall
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