Bill nodded slowly. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait and see,” I said. “And in the meantime, help me think of something to tell your father.”
* * *
I had called Emma and Derek from MacLaren Hall to give them an update and they were waiting for us at the cottage, flashlights in hand, when we drove up. I fetched the one I had purchased at Harrod’s and Bill took the emergency lantern from the car. The three of them exchanged looks, but asked no questions as I led them through the back garden to the path up Pouter’s Hill.
The woods had been dim in full daylight; now they were black as pitch. We had to stop frequently to search for the path and the beams from our flashlights danced like will-o’-the-wisps as we swung them from side to side. I could hear Bill puffing behind me, and the faint rustling noises of night creatures running for cover. I wondered what they made of our peculiar expedition.
As we reached the top of the hill, the gray predawn light was beginning to filter through the swirling mist that had settled in the clearing. When I pulled up short at the eerie sight, Bill walked into me and then Derek and Emma bumped into him, so our entrance was more in character with the Marx Brothers than the Bronte sisters, which was okay by me.
I led the way to the old oak tree and swung my carry-on bag to the ground. Kneeling, I pulled out a trowel and began to dig between two gnarled roots. Emma and Derek and Bill switched off their lights and watched in silence, and when the hole was deep enough, I paused to look up at the heart Bobby had carved so long ago. They followed my gaze and, one by one, knelt beside me, eyes alight with understanding.
I took from the bag the folded notes, still tied with the pale blue ribbon, and placed them at the bottom of the hole. From a pocket I took the blue box, then unclasped the chain from around my neck. I slipped Bobby’s ring onto it; it clinked softly as it touched the locket. I placed them together in the blue box and set it gently atop the bundle of notes. Bill troweled the dirt back in and as he patted the last scattering into place, the sun rose.
The clearing glittered with dew-diamonds and a lark sang out the first sweet song of morning. The mist rolled back from the valley floor, and the fields and hills emerged, flushed pink and peach and golden. It may have been a trick of the light, and I’ve never confirmed it with the others, but I’m willing to swear that the heart on the old tree shimmered as I stood up.
The scene was complete now; nothing was missing or out of place, and I knew that when the sun was high, the hawks would rise again to ride the thermals.
25
I’m not sure if the mind at work was that of a son or a lawyer, but Bill managed to come up with a fairly convincing story for me to give to Willis, Sr. It had to do with running into old friends during our country ramble, being invited to visit them at their home in northern Scotland, and getting drafted into arranging a surprise party. It sounded farfetched to me, but Willis, Sr., seemed willing enough to accept it. I figured that sort of thing must be routine in their circle.
Much to my surprise, Willis, Sr., was also willing to go along with my request to end our question-and-answer sessions. He seemed to understand when I told him that they weren’t needed anymore, that I was ready to begin writing. I called Bill into the study to say hello, and when he had hung up the phone, I pointed to the door. “Now go away,” I ordered. “I have an introduction to write.”
From that moment on, Bill was like a second ghost haunting the cottage. Sandwiches and pots of tea mysteriously appeared and the empty plates and pots seemed to vanish on their own.
At one point, a cot showed up in the study, then an electric typewriter, with Reginald perched jauntily on the keys. Needless to say, my memory of those days is hazy at best, but nine drafts later, with a week left to the end of the month, the introduction to Lori’s Stories was finished.
I slept for fourteen hours straight, then typed it up and went looking for Bill. He was upstairs on the deck, luxuriating in the sun. He squinted up at me, then waved. “Hello, stranger. I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you talked to Dimity lately?”
“Yes, but there was no reply. I didn’t expect one. She had a lot of catching up to do. Have a look at this, will you?” I handed the pages to him, then stood by the railing to wait while he read them.
I had put into them all that I had learned since I had come to the cottage. I wrote about pain and loss and disappointment; about splendid plans going tragically awry. And I wrote about courage and hope and healing. It wasn’t hard to do—it was all there already, in the stories. There were no names mentioned, of course, and the sentences were simple, and that had been the most difficult part: to say what I needed to say, in a voice that would speak to a child.
I also tried to speak to the adult that child would one day become. I urged her not to let the book lie dusty and forgotten on a shelf, but to keep it nearby and to reread it now and again, as a reminder of all the good things that life’s trials might tempt her to forget.
I had added a final paragraph, one that I would not include in the next and final draft because it was intended for one pair of eyes only. In it I wrote of the terrible, wonderful power of love; how it could be used to hold someone captive or to set someone free; how it could be given without hope of return and rejected without ever being lost. Most of all, I wrote of how vital it was to believe in the love offered by an honest heart, no matter how impractical or absurd or fearful the circumstances. Because all times were uncertain and the chance might never come again.
Bill seemed to take forever to finish reading it, but when he did, the look in his eyes told me that it had done what I had hoped it would do. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s very good. I think the critics will be writing about this instead of the stories.”
“As long as the children remember the stories.”
“If they pay attention to what you’ve said here, they’ll remember them all their lives.” Bill left the typed sheets on the deck chair and came over to me. “That last part might be a little tricky for them, though. It’s beyond the scope of the assignment, isn’t it?”
“It’s not part of the assignment.”
“I see.” Bill’s hand reached out to cover mine, where it rested on the railing. “And did you mean what you wrote?”
“Every word.”
“In that case…” He got down on one knee and looked up at me. “Lori Shepherd, I have nothing to offer you but… well… the family fortune and a slightly warped sense of humor. And my heart, naturally. Will you marry me?”
“An interesting idea,” I said judiciously, “and one to which I have given much thought. After due consideration—”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” Bill grumbled, shifting his weight from one knee to the other.
“After due consideration,” I repeated, “I have decided that I will accept your proposal, with two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, that you tell me what the ‘A’ stands for in William A. Willis. Does it really stand for Arthur or am I just imagining a family resemblance?”
“I prefer to think of it as an affinity with a great, imaginative mind,” Bill said haughtily, “but yes, you’re right. Quick now, before my leg falls asleep—what’s the second condition?”
“That we spend our honeymoon here at the cottage.”
Bill’s face fell, and this time there was nothing theatrical about it. “Lori, you know I’d arrange it if I could, but it’s impossible. The cottage has already been sold. The new owner is moving in at the end of the month.”