The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

Arabella, telling her I was done with the hangtags and was now going home to work on the article and that I’d be in touch. I couldn’t stay for the funeral—I hadn’t been to one since my mother’s, and I had no intention of ever going to another one before my own. I did tell her to say good-bye to Penelope and James. And to Colin.

It didn’t really count as saying good-bye, but it was the best I could do. It was time to go before any more damage was done. But I was afraid I was already too late.

CHAPTER 40

WALTON, GEORGIA

DECEMBER 2019

Time marched slowly in Walton, and I sometimes wondered if it marched at all. It had been more than a decade since I’d lived here, yet it seemed everything had remained frozen in time, like a lightning bug stuck in amber. The welcome sign that greeted all visitors to our small town still stated proudly, WELCOME TO WALTON. WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY. The unique Statue of Liberty sculpture with the driftwood head continued to give its come-hither look to the Confederate soldier on horseback on the opposite side of the town green. The Dixie Diner still did a brisk breakfast and lunchtime business, although they’d added a vegetable plate and gluten-free items to their menu. This last was served with a side of pork rinds, but the citizens of Walton didn’t seem to mind.

Reverend Beasley still worked hard to come up with new slogans for his sign outside the First United Methodist church, and he had hired my fourteen-year-old brother, Harry, to help. This week’s was TWEET OTHERS AS YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE TWEETED. The week before it had been WALMART ISN’T THE ONLY PLACE THAT SAVES.

It all made me feel as if I’d been away too long and at the same time like I’d never left. I’d sublet my New York apartment and had my mail forwarded; I spent my days keeping busy with Knoxie’s wedding plans while accepting new freelance work and writing copy for my aunt Cassie’s advertising firm, which I found I actually enjoyed.

I had finished and submitted Arabella’s article. It wasn’t the entire story I wanted to write, but the article simply didn’t have the scope to include it all. But I’d kept my notes, my copies of the photographs and letters. I wanted to find a way to honor Precious and the lives of those who’d survived the turbulent war years, to capture all the wisdom she’d shared with me and taught me. I simply didn’t know if I could give her story the dignity and justice it deserved.

My article had been published in the July issue of British Vogue, in conjunction with the new exhibition at the Design Museum. Arabella had sent me an invitation to a private black-tie event the night before the grand opening, but I’d declined, citing other obligations. It was only partly true, as I’m sure Arabella guessed.

I hadn’t heard from Colin at all, aside from Arabella’s communicating his disappointment that I hadn’t said good-bye. I found myself wondering what she really meant by “disappointment”; the British understatement could have meant anything from a frown to the gnashing of teeth.

I told myself it was for the best, but in the wee hours, in my father’s house, I’d sneak down to Suzanne’s home studio, where she had her large-screen monitor, and stick in my memory stick to watch the videos I’d filmed in London. It hurt to see Precious, to remember that she was gone, but it almost hurt more to see Colin again.

Suzanne had walked in on me once when I’d frozen the frame on Colin’s face. Immediately, she’d gone to the kitchen and brought back a half gallon of Blue Bell Buttered Pecan ice cream with two spoons. She sat next to me while I told her everything. About Precious and Eva. About Colin. She didn’t ask me what I was going to do. Like Aunt Cassie, who’d also heard the whole story, she understood that I would eventually figure it out on my own. And if I needed a little advice, I knew where to turn.

After two months of carefully avoiding places where I might run into him, I’d finally bumped into Rob Campbell with his pregnant wife and little girl at the playground named in my mother’s honor. Contrary to what I’d imagined, I didn’t burst into flames or tears, and the earth didn’t open up and swallow me. Nor did Rob give any indication that he was haunted in the same way I was by the memory of what he’d said to me when I’d given him back his ring. It was very clear that he’d moved on and assumed that I had, too.

Seeing him hadn’t brought me peace or closure or anger. Instead I felt an impatience with myself, a need to escape my past. Which, despite what Aunt Cassie said, would always be just one day away, dogging the heels of my present.

I stayed in Walton through the remainder of spring and the hot days of summer, and watched as the leaves turned and fell as autumn approached. I was no closer to making any sort of decision about my life than when I’d arrived on my daddy’s doorstep with all my belongings in one backpack and one suitcase.

I made paper flowers and stuffed gift bags with Knoxie, met with the bakery and the Dixie Diner about the wedding reception, and discussed music with the organist Brunelle Thompkins at First United Methodist, but I couldn’t make the first decision as to what I was going to do next either with my life or with Precious’s story.

On the Saturday morning of the wedding day, Suzanne drove me to Bitsy’s House of Beauty, where we met with Aunt Cassie and the rest of the bridal party for the day of beauty required for any Southern wedding. My fifteen-year-old niece, Suzy, was the