It wasn’t at all true—not with the amounts of food my great-aunt Lucinda insisted on heaping on the table—but I rarely got care packages. Not that I blamed my dad or Suzanne; they had five other kids to worry about. But looking at Colin’s socks and knitted scarves, I’d felt a resurgence of the old grief I’d folded up and packed away, suffocated by thick layers of denial and years of absence. And I’d felt angry, too, that he could be so dismissive of his mother’s care and love.
Arabella slowed the car and turned without signaling into a paved drive between an iron gate and an impressive Edwardian sandstone mansion block with multiple front entrances. Attractive cornices edged the roofline like cake frosting. Arabella was muttering to herself as she looked for a place to park. “Colin usually uses his nana’s parking space since she doesn’t have a car. But he said he’d let me have it today.” She tapped her long red fingernails against the steering wheel. “I just need to remember which one it is.”
I gathered my backpack and looked outside. “Nice building.”
Arabella nodded. “It’s called Harley House,” she said, turning too sharply and hitting the curb. “It was built in nineteen-oh-three to house the Irish servants who worked in the large houses nearby.” She maneuvered the car away from the curb. A man with a dog stood on the sidewalk, keeping clear. “Funny, isn’t it? Decades later, it became home to a lot of VIP types—movie people, authors, that sort of thing. Cliff Richard and Mick Jagger lived here at some point. And Joan Collins, the actress.” She hit the brake hard as a black Jaguar pulled out of a parking spot in front of us, causing me to bite my lip.
“Now it’s mostly filled with American expatriates and the stray Russian oligarch.” She began to back up into a parallel space against the curb, barely squeezing between two other cars. I sucked in my breath, as if that might help. “I sure hope it’s this one, because I’m not certain I can do this twice.” Satisfied with her parking job, she switched off the ignition and turned to give George a scratch behind the ears.
“Aunt Precious first lived in this flat in the late thirties, before the war—I’m sure she’ll tell you all about that. Marylebone wasn’t quite as fashionable then, but it’s always been a perfect location—close to shopping and restaurants. And Regent’s Park, of course.” Arabella unbuckled her seat belt.
“Precious?” I asked. “According to my sister’s ancestry chart, her name is Jeanne Dubose.”
“Oh, sorry—thought I mentioned that. Precious is Miss Dubose’s nickname. Her real name is Jeanne. The story goes that when she was born, the nurse took one look at her little face and said she was precious. From then on, that’s what everyone called her. I think it’s rather adorable.”
“For a baby, but I can’t imagine calling an old woman Precious.”
“Just don’t . . .”
“Call her old,” I finished. “I remember. It’s just going to be hard using her nickname. Although, come to think of it, I grew up with a Sweet Pea and a Stinky, so maybe it won’t be as challenging as I first thought.”
Arabella sent me a sidelong glance as I grabbed my suitcase from her trunk. I followed her and George toward the second block of flats and up a set of wide steps leading to two glossy and dark wooden French doors. They sat recessed behind a broad archway between two mottled marble Ionic columns. A tall man emerged from the outside set of doors as we approached.
George let out a loud yelp and leapt forward, pulling the leash from Arabella’s hand and nearly toppling the man over. His paws held on to the man’s shoulders, and the giant tongue bathed the man’s face.
Blinking, I recognized the sandy blond hair that threatened to erupt in waves if allowed to grow just a little longer. And the intense blue eyes that were scrutinizing me as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. A brief flash of surprise was quickly replaced by remembered wariness.
“Hello, Colin,” I said stiffly. “It’s been a while.”
When he didn’t respond right away, Arabella interjected, “You remember Maddie Warner, don’t you? From our Oxford days.”
The wariness remained as we continued to regard each other. His eyes seemed bluer against his vacation tan, and he still had a slim and muscled body. I recalled that he’d rowed during his years at Oxford; apparently, he still did. I remembered, too, how he loved dogs and Star Wars. And that he was a stickler for safety and always made sure everyone wore their seat belts when he was driving. Not that I’d ever let him know that I’d noticed any of it.
“Madison,” he said curtly. “I do remember you. Vaguely. You liked your beer ice-cold, and you had quite a portfolio of unusual phrases that no one ever understood. You’d drop them like little bombs into conversations. You enjoyed childish pranks like substituting salt in the sugar bowl. And apparently you are loath to say good-bye, so you don’t.” He bent to scratch George behind the ears, his gaze sliding to Arabella. “Am I to assume she’s the journalist writing the article about Nana?” His tone was between forced politeness and white-hot annoyance.
“Isn’t it lovely? A sort of mini school-chum reunion. I wanted to keep it a secret so you’d be surprised.”
He stood,
