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

flying squadrons. I think there are a few newspaper clippings in there,” she said, indicating one of the bags.

Anna arrived to clear the table, and we stood to leave. As we walked through the house again, I tried to focus on what Penelope was saying and stop gawking at the architectural elements and artwork we passed.

“Arabella mentioned you’re from Atlanta,” Penelope said. “Do you get home often?”

“I’m actually from Walton—about an hour away from Atlanta, but no one’s ever heard of it, so Atlanta works.” I smiled. “And I don’t get home often. My job keeps me pretty busy.”

“But it’s nice to have a hometown to go back to, I’m sure. Atlanta is lovely.”

I looked at her with surprise. “You’ve been there?”

Penelope shared a quick look with Arabella. “Yes. I spent quite a bit of time in Atlanta. But that was years ago.” She smiled tightly, making it clear that she wasn’t going to say any more on the subject.

We had reached the front door. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Maddie. I’ve heard so much about you over the years. It’s nice to put a face to all the stories.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I particularly loved the one about the goat herd in the dining hall. Quite ingenious, but don’t tell anyone I said so.” She winked. “And I owe you a belated thanks, too, for getting Colin to break out of his shell a bit back at university. I’m afraid that’s our fault—we are prone to hovering. So thank you.”

I wanted to tell her that Colin had enjoyed being in his shell, that he didn’t seem to appreciate my “childish pranks,” as he called them. Instead I said, “I think Arabella has been embellishing some stories.”

“Arabella?” she said, shaking her head. “It was Colin who shared your exploits. His father and I enjoyed the laughs, as they made us feel a part of his life at university. Although I’m quite sure we weren’t privy to all of them, thank goodness.”

She laughed again, and despite my confusion, I found myself smiling. “Thank you, Penelope. For lunch and for these.” I held up one of the bags. “Even if we don’t find Eva in any of it, there might be photographs and letters I can use for the article and exhibit.”

“Do keep me posted. I love a bit of mystery. I remember Sophia loved to share her stories of life during the war. But not Precious. What little I know, I gleaned from Sophia—and she never told her stories in Precious’s hearing, or Precious would ask her to stop. But I know Precious had quite the glamorous life as a model in London before the war and then again in Paris afterward.”

“She’s considered to be one of the first ‘supermodels,’” Arabella interjected, “before people knew what that was. She was in demand and traveled in social circles that were quite out of her league when she started modeling in the thirties. It’s amazing how times have changed, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” Penelope said. “Precious lived in Paris—at the Ritz, just like Coco Chanel—until the seventies, when she returned to London.”

“Arabella mentioned something about Precious being a hero in the French Resistance,” I said. “Did Sophia ever mention anything about that?”

Penelope shook her head. “Very little, I’m afraid. Sophia remained in England for the duration of the war. I do believe there might be a few letters from Precious in those bags—not many, of course, since it was wartime. But hopefully something will prove useful.”

She pulled open the heavy front door with both hands, and a memory from my childhood, sticky as a cobweb, plucked at me. It was of my own mother, laughing as she tugged on the stubborn front door of the house she’d grown up in, and once again I was reminded of home and the history of a family contained inside an old house.

Penelope’s voice drew me back into the present. “Thank you so much for coming—both of you. Please come back soon—and bring Colin. Maybe when my husband is home. James has a brilliant sense of humor that I think you might appreciate, Maddie.”

“I’d enjoy that. Thanks again.”

We said our good-byes, and Arabella and I climbed back into her BMW, putting the top up this time, as raindrops had begun to fall. We rode in silence while I mulled over our conversation with Penelope.

Finally, I turned to Arabella. “How did Penelope know about those pictures I took back at Oxford? That was nearly eight years ago. Did you give her the ones I took of you and Colin?”

“To be honest, I’d forgotten all about them. Colin must have mentioned them. Maybe he showed her that gorgeous one you snuck of him on the Bridge of Sighs.”

I was silent for a moment, thinking. I’d given away all my portraits to the subjects, although I was sure I had the negatives stored somewhere, most likely in my bedroom dresser back in Walton. “I can’t imagine why. He never seemed very interested in my photographs. Or anything else that had anything to do with me.”

“I remember him being very interested in you, and I remember the interest was reciprocated. But after one date—despite you telling me that you had a wonderful time—you and Colin never went out again. After that date, I recall you being very committed to going out with everyone except Colin. That’s a whole conversation you and I haven’t had, isn’t it?”

When I didn’t answer, Arabella sighed and returned her focus to driving. My phone buzzed again, and Aunt Cassie’s face appeared on the screen. I canceled the call, noticing that she’d already called eight times.

“You should answer that, Mads. And you should tell her that you’ll be there for your sister’s wedding. It’s the right thing to do.”

The phone buzzed again, but I didn’t move to answer it. Arabella continued. “I know you love your family. I just wish you’d share with me why you keep them at arm’s length.” She exhaled