Time has changed me. I no longer snicker at Uncle Sal’s jokes. I prefer tea over Mama’s imported coffee. I wear designer clothes thrifted from online boutiques, not crop tops bought from the mall. Maybe I should’ve noticed the changes sooner, but I wanted to believe everything was the same—my family would be my family again. Still, as I sat at that dining table, I saw it plain as day. The changes. The differences. Why I couldn’t pretend those years in England hadn’t opened a gaping chasm between us.
We had lived apart from each other. We’d gone our separate ways, and en route I stopped wanting their dreams, like the law degree, husband and kids, moving next door to my parents. I decided to pursue a career in fashion, maybe launch my own store chain like the Kardashians. They think that’s frivolous. I guess . . . my family is disappointed because they want the old Faith, and I’m disappointed because they want someone other than me.
Gah, I miss you so much, Josie. I miss eating takeout with you and your dad. I miss our Saturday strolls through Notting Hill. I miss your dad’s movie commentaries and popcorn obsession. I miss every little thing.
Life seems so different now. I live in a crappy one-bedroom apartment and take summer classes. I eat frozen dinners, binge watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. It’s just . . . Home doesn’t seem like home without Headmistress Poston’s room checks, our plaid uniforms, and Chicken Tender Tuesdays. I still expect to see you reading upside down whenever I enter my room. And thanks to you, I crave Dairy Milk bars at nine o’clock every night.
We’re not kids anymore, but we’re not grown-ups, either. People said we were adults once we turned eighteen. Do you feel like an adult? I sure don’t. I can’t figure out how to reload my transit card or file taxes. Sometimes I think life would be easier if we could rewind time and do high school all over again. Maybe we’d do it better the second time around. No Rashad. No bangs and Converse. No fights over who’d play Sandy in Grease.
I’m still with Noah, by the way. We managed to survive two years of long-distance dating. He moved to Brooklyn, too, so we see each other all the time. Recently he’s started talking about marriage, which terrifies me. I am NOT ready for more adulthood.
That’s all my news! I guess the best way to conclude is to say you’re forgiven, Josie. We’re friends. Through messes, sucky boyfriends, bad haircuts, whatever—we’ll stay friends. I hope you enjoy your time at Cadwallader Manor. Breathe. Learn to be alone. Figure out what you need to figure out, and I’ll be here, ready to talk or listen or send memes.
Please tell me about Atteberry and your dad’s secret estate. I need details!!
Faith
P.S. Let’s stick to emails for now. I need to download a messaging app so my cell phone provider won’t charge a fortune for international texts and calls.
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, June 20, 11:37 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Cadwallader Manor
Faith, here is my detailed report, per your request.
Atteberry rises from kilometres of farmland, its sprawl nestled at the base of a grand hill. The town possesses a cosy sort of quaintness, almost like that porcelain village my grandmother displays at Christmas. People wander its cobblestone streets and live in homes with thatched rooves. Very old-fashioned. Don’t fret, though. I spotted a few restaurants and bakeries while Norman drove me to the Cadwallader estate, so I won’t starve or lose my mind to the North England quiet. And according to a gentleman at the bus station, Atteberry houses the finest knitting clubs in the country. Would you like a scarf for your birthday?
Norman seems quite a character. He and his wife, Martha, take care of Dad’s estate and inhabit a cottage on the property. One word to describe them: adorable. Norman served in the navy, then became a farmer once he retired. He dons a wool jumper and navy cap. Martha, on the other hand, resembles Headmistress Poston. Same bobbed grey hair and motherly smile.
The landscape here projects a vibrant gloom—beautiful and melancholy. Every coppice and patch of grass blazes green, and the overcast sky washes the world with a blue haze.
Did you consider London a dreary place? I used to love the city. Dad took me for picnics in Kensington Gardens. Once a month we had cream tea at a shop near Windsor. It must’ve rained then. But I only noticed the dampness when he got sick.
Mum doesn’t understand. Granted, she left after the divorce and refused to join our outings. Oh, I need to tell you!! Dad’s lawyers want to sell the town home. I won’t let them. That house means the world to me—to us. (Your pyjamas are still in the guest room.)
Going to FaceTime you after I use the loo.
Josie
(Sent from iPhone)
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, June 20, 11:50 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Cadwallader Manor
I saw your Instagram story, Faith. I know you’re watching television with your dog. Do you like Netflix more than your friend? LOL
Whatever. I’ll tell you about Cadwallader Manor, and I’ll be extra wordy because I’m petty and have nothing better to do.
The house stands at the end of a gravel drive, built in the Gothic Revival style with buttresses and stone walls. Do you recall Thornfield Hall from Jane Eyre? That’s where I now reside—within an eerie manor surrounded by moorland and fog.
I asked Norman about the estate and why Dad kept it a secret.
