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

where I’d knocked him, an old-fashioned toy cannon sitting next to him. I actually apologized to the toy as I stood it up. The little soldier’s red paint was chipped, and his musket wobbled, as if he’d been well played with.

The printer continued to whir. I glanced down at the frame in my hand. A younger version of Penelope was pictured standing with a man, presumably her husband, James, and a little boy about three or four sitting in a stroller. He wore socks with sandals—acceptable only in the very young, in my opinion—and a plaid newsboy hat, and clutched a purple Barney dinosaur doll. The arm wrapped around the toy was almost painfully thin and pale, like the bare legs showing between his navy blue shorts and his knee socks. A dark brown suitcase was partially visible behind the stroller.

The three faces were smiling, but they weren’t the kinds of smiles one would see on a family vacationing at Disney World. They looked more like survivors who’d witnessed a tornado ripping the roof off of their house and were happy just to be alive. I stared at the photo, trying to figure out what seemed so familiar to me about it.

Then I noticed the blurred Welcome to Atlanta sign in the background. I remembered Penelope saying that they had spent time in Atlanta, and this photo must have been taken at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. It wasn’t a great picture of any of the subjects, and I wondered why it alone was the photo Colin kept on his desk. I set it next to the Rubik’s Cube and then decided the tin soldier and his cannon belonged with the picture, too, and moved them to the other side.

Satisfied, I picked up the package, trying to find my way through the tape. I glanced around for scissors, and saw a slim, lidded rectangular box being used as a paperweight. Not wanting to appear nosy, I nudged up the hinged lid with my pinkie, excited to see the glint of brass from the handle of a pair of scissors. I pulled them out without completely opening the lid.

With enthusiasm I stabbed at the paper wrap and tape, spending a good five minutes just trying to make a hole that I could dig my finger into and tear off the rest of the wrapping. Another five minutes later, I found myself surrounded by strips of paper grocery bag and a box from Lucinda’s Lingerie. Hoping it wasn’t something from the store, I lifted the lid.

Layers of scented lilac-colored tissue lined the box. I had to carefully dig through them to make sure I didn’t miss anything. A Lego fireman fell to the floor, most likely a stowaway hidden by my cousin Sam Junior, and a broken red crayon dropped into my lap before I reached the bottom of the box.

A bundle of magnolia leaves covered the bottom, shiny and green and unmistakably real, their scent carrying with it the memory of long golden summers. I imagined Aunt Cassie neatly snipping them from the old tree in her front yard. She and my mother had grown up under its sheltering arms, chased lightning bugs around it, and shared secrets beneath it.

Confused as to why she’d sent the leaves, I went through the tissue again, shaking it until a small piece of notepaper drifted into my lap. I recognized Aunt Cassie’s handwriting and felt a hard tug in my chest as I read the note.

Home is the place that lives in one’s heart, waiting with open arms to be rediscovered.

A noise erupted from deep inside me, a sound that was part laugh and part sob, my shoulders shaking with unnamed emotion.

“Madison? Are you all right?” Colin stood in the doorway, a look of concern on his face.

I quickly put the lid on the box, not wanting to explain. Not even sure I could. “I’m fine,” I said, standing. “And it looks like the printer’s done, too. Thanks for letting me use it.”

“You’re welcome.” He was staring at the scissors, his face unreadable. “Are those mine?”

“Yes. I borrowed them to open the package. It was harder than breaching the beaches on D-Day.” Noting again his expression, I said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

When he didn’t say anything but looked at me oddly, I added, “Sorry. I guess I should have asked. But I saw this box on the letter tray. . . .” I lifted the lid with my finger, and this time it flipped all the way open, revealing a framed photograph, the subject faceup.

“Oh.” I met his gaze, understanding now why he was looking at me like I’d just kicked his dog.

The black-and-white photo was one I’d taken when we were at school, during my portrait phase. The young woman—a girl, really—was staring into the camera lens with the intensity of someone trying very hard not to smile. Her face was more interesting than beautiful, the hair not light or dark, her freckled nose a little too long, but just like her mother’s. The most arresting part of the photo was the look in her eyes. It was so open and honest; at the same time, it seemed to belong to someone completely and utterly lost. I remembered that girl. I still saw her every once in a while when I looked into a mirror.

Colin cleared his throat. “You left it behind in your dorm room. Arabella gave it to me.”

It took me two tries to find my voice. “I meant to throw it away. Self-portraits were never my forte.”

“Really? I thought it quite good.”

He held my gaze, and I couldn’t look away. “Is that why you kept it?”

“No.”

We continued to stare at each other silently, both of us relieved when Arabella appeared beside Colin in the doorway. “Are you two done in here?”

“Are we?” Colin asked, his voice casual.

“Yes, I’m done printing,” I said, hearing the relief in my voice. “Why?”

“I have something I thought you’d want to see.” Arabella walked to the desk, holding her phone.