“We should hop on the Tube. Gran has been tracking your flight since it was over Ireland and calling me every ten minutes to make sure I haven’t forgotten that I’m to pick you up,” David said, taking her suitcase so gently she hardly noticed he’d done it.
“She sounds like quite the woman,” she said as they fell into step.
David’s eyes slid over to hers, and the corner of his mouth kicked up again as though he were enjoying a joke that only he knew the punch line to. “Oh, she is.”
* * *
Throughout the entire trip into London on the Piccadilly line, David carried the burden of the conversation as Samantha’s foggy brain tried to contend with being rocketed six hours into the future. He was just telling her about his work as a strategy consultant for a digital marketing firm when he paused.
“Let me know if you’d like me to stop talking. It’s just that I always struggle to stay awake on the train back after flying in from the States and find distraction helps,” he said.
“Do you work in the US often?” she asked.
“From time to time. It depends on the client and the project.”
“Well, please don’t feel as though you need to stop talking. If I don’t have something to focus on, I think I’ll fall fast asleep,” she said.
“Gran will help, too. She’s thrilled you’re visiting and will want to hear all about your family.”
She shifted in her seat, acutely aware of the notebook filled with half-started ideas and crossed-out lines that was wedged in her purse. “I don’t know what I’ll be able to tell her that she doesn’t already know. Nora said she wrote Grandma Marie letters right up until she died.”
He nodded. “Your grandmother was one of the few people she would still write to with pen and paper. She has arthritis in some of her fingers, and holding a pen can be uncomfortable. She mostly emails now, although she is a demon with texting, too. I taught her how to use dictation software about six months ago, and she’s better at it than I am.”
Samantha found that she liked the idea of a 103-year-old woman so effortlessly adapting to technology that stumped people fifty years her junior.
After they transferred at South Kensington and rode the District line three stops to West Kensington, David led her up the stairs and out of the train station to a large street he told her was North End Road. Black cabs, red buses, motorcyclists, and cars streamed by on the wrong side of the road. People lined up outside of a minuscule boutique coffee shop. A couple of schoolgirls in matching blazers and pleated skirts shrieked and ran, pursued by a pair of boys in maroon sweaters and navy trousers.
“They’re still in classes?” she mused out loud.
David glanced over. “What was that?”
“I’m just surprised. I’m an elementary school teacher, so my life has always been dictated by academic year. It’s actually the reason I’m here now. We let out the third week of June, but I gave myself a week off before traveling,” she said, trying not to think about how she’d also let the academic year serve as a convenient excuse to put off her trip until now.
“Then you have good timing. Schools don’t let out here until closer to the end of July, which is when most people with kids go on holiday. It can become a little hectic traveling,” he said.
They turned off the main road, and David led her down a couple of side streets before stopping in front of a three-story white Victorian terraced house. He pulled out a key, opened the door, and stepped back to let Samantha pass him.
“David, is that you?” called a voice through an open door off the hallway on her right. The voice was aged, but unmistakably strong. “Is Samantha with you?”
“In you go,” he said, nodding to the door with a smile of encouragement.
Keeping her left hand wrapped around her purse strap to hide its tremble, Samantha edged through the doorway and into a wide room painted in a soft white with two bay windows that looked out over the street. Generous deep blue curtains fell in graceful folds to the floor, and a black iron fireplace topped with an elaborately carved mantel on one end of the room emitted a sense of grandeur and comfort all at once. And sitting near that fireplace in a high-backed wing chair was an old woman who sported a carefully combed snow-white bob and cherry-red lips. Nora Fowler.
Nora, who Samantha could see was tall even sitting down, was swathed in a gray cardigan with a colorful silk scarf tied at her throat. Near at hand on a side table rested a late-model iPhone and a slim computer.
“You must be Marie’s granddaughter,” said Nora, nudging her glasses up her nose to study Samantha with sharp pale blue eyes.
“Hello,” said Samantha, the leather of her purse strap cutting into her hand as she gripped it even tighter.
“My word, you look like her. You have the same hair.” Samantha had to resist the urge to fuss with her shoulder-length blond hair.
“I’m glad David found you,” Nora continued. “I should’ve known when he didn’t text me.”
David, who’d just rounded the door, swooped in to give his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “I should’ve texted you.”
“Yes, you should have. Come, sit with me, Samantha,” said Nora, gesturing to the sofa across from her.
Samantha sank down into the spot. “Thank you for sending David. He has been a great help.”
“I didn’t want you lost and wandering around London, although he very rightly pointed out that it’s difficult to become lost these days with mobile phones. Still, I couldn’t take the risk. Not when you said you have something for me.”
Samantha sucked in a breath. She had expected to have a little more time to… she didn’t know. Make small talk and drink tea? Wasn’t that how her grandmother had said Brits started every visit? But somehow Samantha doubted that small talk had ever interested the woman in front of her.
“When Grandma died, I found out that she’d made me the executor of her will,” said Samantha, pulling out the packet she’d carried with her from Chicago.
“Not your mother or your aunt or uncle?” asked Nora.
She hesitated. “I was surprised, too. If there was a motivation behind the decision, Grandma never shared it with anyone. She laid out her wishes, and she had three very specific instructions. She wanted a memorial service, not a funeral, and she was very clear that it should be celebratory, not sad.”
A soft smile touched Nora’s lips. “What’s left of my generation has seen too much sadness to want to invite any more somberness into the world.”
“She liked summer best, so the ceremony will be next month.” A sudden wave of longing for her grandmother’s soft accented words, brilliantly colored dresses, and orange blossom perfume came over her. She wanted to hear Grandma Marie call her mein Liebling again. Samantha cleared her throat around a lump of emotion. “The next request was that she wanted me to deliver this to you. In her will, Grandma said it had to be delivered by hand. She wanted to make sure that you received it.”
“What is it?” asked Nora, eyeing the parcel in Samantha’s lap.
“I don’t know, actually. All the instructions said was that it’s meant for you. I’m sorry that it’s taken me until now to bring it to you.”