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

She turned toward the bay window, looking out at the leaden sky. “Most people would love the chance to start all over again. They never consider the price, though. Of all you lose.” Her head dipped, her chin tucked into the boa. “You can’t reinvent yourself by dragging along anything from your old life. You have to get rid of it all—even the good parts. And you can’t look back. Not ever. Living with regret is like having a permanent stone inside your shoe.” She managed a half smile. “I think you’re walking around with your own stone.”

Her words stung. “Does it make you sad?” I asked again.

“Aren’t all emotions relative? My sadness might be unrelatable to yours.” Precious sat back, her slender fingers stroking the feathers of her boa, her eyes soft as she regarded me. “You tell me, Maddie. Does it?”

My eyes prickled. It had been years since I’d been confronted with my choices and forced to examine them.

“Sweetheart.” Her voice was soft, her accent reminding me again of home and making my throat thicken. “One of the things I’ve learned in my ninety-nine years is that sometimes you get the answers you need by doing a little simple observation. People will just think you’re shy and underestimate you.” She leaned forward a little, her feather boa dangling. “And that will make you the smartest person in the room.”

I looked down at my notes, in part to search for my next question, but also to hide my face from her scrutiny. I swallowed, then tried again. “I’d like to talk about your time in France during the war. I’m fascinated, because at the time France was occupied by the Germans, yet you left your life here and ended up modeling and living at the Ritz. I’m going to dig through the archives and try to find photographs of you from then, but I’d really like to know the details about that period in your life—about Paris’s German-run fashion industry, about the clothes. About life in a city full of Nazis.” I smiled, realizing I’d asked too many questions at once. “For starters, could you tell me why you went?”

She studied me for a long moment, and it was almost as if we were in a challenge to see who would speak first. “Oh, Maddie,” she said, sighing. “For the same reason you left Georgia, I expect.”

I sat up straight. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you know? To escape our ghosts.”

We regarded each other in the dimming light, barely aware of the rain beginning to lash at the windows.

“Is everything all right?” Colin stood on the threshold, his gaze moving around the room as if he sensed the thick tension like a heat wave.

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly.

“What did dear Penelope want?” Precious asked sweetly. “I hope she’s not canceling our tea at Claridge’s this Tuesday. I was so looking forward to it.”

“No, actually. We found a photo of a man with Grandmother’s papers. My parents believe they know who it is, but they said you would most likely be sure. May I show you?”

“Of course.” Precious lifted her glasses to her nose and folded her hands delicately on her lap as Colin sat down next to her and showed her the screen of his phone. Her glasses reflected the light from the phone, obliterating her eyes. “Well, now,” she said, her accent thicker, her voice controlled. “You are the spitting image of him, aren’t you?”

Colin shot a glance in my direction. “Bella and Madison seem to think so, but I’m not convinced. Father isn’t sure, but Mother seems to think it’s one of Grandmother Sophia’s brothers. Did you know them?”

She looked away from the screen and took off her glasses. “I knew one of them. The younger one. They were twins, you know. But not identical. William was older, by only a few minutes.”

“So this is William?”

“No. That’s Graham.” A soft smile lit her face. “He and Eva were lovers.”

Fat pelts of rain hit the bay window, the sky outside ashen, matching the pallor of Precious’s face.

“Do you know what happened to him, Nana? There’s nothing we can find in the family records. My father says that when he was growing up, his uncle Graham was never mentioned—only William, since he was the hero who died in the war. Graham’s uniform in the photograph says he was with the RAF, so I’m sure I can find something in the official record, but I was hoping you could give us a start.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear her.

“Do you know what happened to him?”

She shook her head. “I lost touch with him at about the same time I lost touch with Eva.” She looked past me toward the window. Softly, she said, “I always liked to think that they ended up together.”

“Maybe they did,” Colin said, his voice nearly lost in the violent thrash of rain against glass.

“Where do you think they might have gone?” I asked.

She gave a delicate shrug. “When I think of them, I imagine them living in a house high on a cliff, overlooking the sea. Eva always talked about the house she and Graham wanted to build.” Her eyes met mine, and I saw that the darkness had returned, dulling their blueness. “Or maybe they simply went to a place where people go who want to stay lost.”

I lifted my camera, eager to capture her face at that moment so I could study it later. A good photographer could find images that did the speaking for the subject, illuminating the emotions he or she kept under guard. And there was so much Precious Dubose had to say. It was as if she had two stories to tell: the one she wanted you to hear, and the truth.

I lowered my camera. “What about you, Precious? You were young and beautiful; you must have had lots of admirers. Was there