He reaches out to cover my hand with his, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this contented in my entire life. How can everything change, in a weekend? Then we hear a voice from across the wall.
“Morning!” Sandy says, standing right there, hand on hip, a clownish smile of satisfaction that her matchmaking ambitions have come to fruition.
“Do you want to join us?” Ted asks, leaning back in his chair. I catch a glimpse of his chest beneath his linen shirt, and a flash of what we were doing earlier this morning sends a tingle of heat across my skin.
“I wouldn’t think to intrude,” she says, making wide, embarrassing eyes at us both.
“Sandy, I assume the incredible cabinet Laura gave me is Ilídio’s work?” Ted asks.
“He told me Laura had a big hand in the design,” she says.
“It’s now my favorite object in the entire house,” Ted says, turning back to look at me with a twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s pretty much the only object in the house,” I say, following his eyes with mine. I love that I can just stare at him now. I don’t have to look away; I can just shamelessly stare at his ludicrously attractive face.
* * *
* * *
After breakfast, we set to work clearing the house, and I help Ted pull out a few of the small objects he wants to keep, things that will fit in the little drawers and windows of the memory cabinet.
“I thought this compartment could be for one of your mother’s patchouli bags,” I suggest, “and this one could hold a few pieces of her sea glass collection—”
“I think I prefer seeing the sea glass on you,” he says, pulling me into his arms.
“Come, on, we’ll never get this finished if you keep distracting me,” I say, nudging him away with my head. “These little shelves here,” I say, pointing to two of the rectangular openings at the bottom of the cabinet, my head feeling giddy as he starts kissing up behind my ear. “You could put little photos in, one of Gerry and your mum, and then something of yours here.”
“Can I put you in the memory cabinet?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. Then I admit defeat and give up all pretense of trying to keep the house clear-out PG-rated.
* * *
* * *
It takes us a while, but we finally do get the house empty, the carpet vacuumed, and the last bits and pieces into boxes for either the charity shop or the skip. All that remains to keep, Ted has packed in cases, to either store or drive back to England on the ferry.
“Will you take this back to London with you?” I ask, nodding toward the memory cabinet.
“I guess so,” Ted says, a heavy look returning.
The bubble of pleasure we have found in each other has distracted us from the realities of both our situations. The real world was always going to creep back in sooner or later. I have not opened any of the angry emails from work nor answered the work phone. What will I do now—dust off my old contacts from when I was a freelancer, or temp for a while until I can work out a better plan? I don’t know what Ted is thinking. He told me he has a review meeting with the hospital in a few weeks, about going back to work. If he doesn’t return straightaway, will he even want to be in London? I guess if he stays here for a bit, it’s a short flight for me to visit. Do I want to be in London now that Vanya is moving out of our flat? If I’m not working at Love Life, do I even need to be there? As my mind dances down all these avenues, I try to rein it in—focus on today. Whatever happens, it won’t be impossible for us to keep seeing each other.
“I will keep it with me wherever I am,” Ted says with forced jollity. “The perfect way to remember this house, to remember all the life lived here.”
Then I think of the story Gerry told me—the birds.
“Can I see the carvings in the beams of the attic?” I ask. Ted looks surprised that I know about this. “Your dad told me about the Ukrainian man who was hidden here during the war.”
Ted takes me up to the loft, hands me a torch, and says I need to lie on my back and shuffle backward through to the narrow space behind the water heater. It takes me a while to locate the drawings on the beams, and when I find them, at first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I make out wings, scratches for feathers, the distinct angle of a beak. Though they are rough, there is a real sense of motion in these drawings—the person who made these longed to take flight.
“Do you know if he survived the war, if he ever got home?” I ask Ted through the wall.
“I’m not sure. I think he survived but I don’t know what happened to him. It was my great-grandmother who knew all the details. We should have written it all down while she was alive.”
I crawl back out of the small space and sit next to Ted at the top of the stairs.
“You must write down everything you do know about him being here and give the story to whoever buys the house. Some things are too important to be forgotten.” I wipe my eyes, which are swimming, suddenly inexplicably emotional about the idea that these birds, and what they meant, might be lost.
“You’re right,” Ted says somberly, “we must be guardians of stories more significant than our own.”
He puts an arm around me. The sound of a car crunching on the gravel rouses us from our moment of reflection. We look at each other—wondering who that could that be. Walking downstairs and through to the porch, we see a cabdriver, the one who brought me back from Maude’s party yesterday. He waves my phone out of the driver window.
“I assume this must be yours, love,” he calls. “I’ve been retracing my steps from yesterday to see who might be missing it.”
I’d forgotten all about my phone.
“Oh, thank you so much!” I say, running over to retrieve it. I’m amazed any cabdriver would go out of his way like this—perhaps it’s only possible when you live on a small island. “That is so kind of you—I must give you some money, let me get my wallet.” I start to head to the cottage to find my bag, but he waves me away.
“Just pay it forward,” he calls, then clocks my tear-stained face and says with a wink and a wave, “and cheer up, eh, now you’ve got something to smile about.” Then he reverses far too fast back up the drive. Ted and I catch each other’s eye and start to laugh, the kind of laugh that once you’ve started, it’s hard to stop. It isn’t even that funny, but it might be our first “in joke,” and those are the most delicious kind.
Back inside the house, once we’ve composed ourselves, I plug in my phone.
“Can I take you to my favorite beach now?” Ted asks, but I’m distracted by my phone lighting up with messages. I realize I’ve enjoyed being out of contact for a while, and I’m not sure I’m quite ready to let the outside world back in.