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

“It’s been chilly at night, and the cold will permeate these walls and linger until we get a longer spell of warm days and nights,” Penelope said as she situated Precious in one of the two facing sofas near the fire.

I looked up at the vaulted, beamed ceiling and the large front-facing window. The small glass panes reached almost from floor to ceiling. The heavy velvet curtains were opened to let in the light, but I wondered if, even closed, they could really help stave off the chill hovering beyond the circle of warmth from the fireplace.

“This must be a bitch to heat,” I said. Then, realizing I’d spoken out loud, I looked in horror at Penelope. “I am so sorry—I didn’t mean to say . . . It’s just that my aunt Cassie used to say that about my grandfather’s house, before she decided she was going to stay and live in it, and the coziness of this room reminded me of it.”

Penelope looked amused. “Does she still say that?”

“I haven’t lived there for a while, but she probably does, if only to prove her point.”

“Well, she’s absolutely correct, and I wouldn’t be truthful if I told you I’d never thought those exact words. I could feed a third-world country for a year with what it costs to heat this house for a month in winter. It’s one of the reasons why we opened up the dairy to the public, for school group tours and the like. It keeps us warm, at least.”

Anna, the young woman who’d waited on us out in the garden when we’d come for lunch, appeared with a tea tray. Turning to Penelope, I said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get started battering the chicken. I just need you to point the way.”

“I’d be happy to take you,” Colin said, entering the room with his father. “Every once in a while, we find skeletons of visitors in random passageways. They lost their way and were never found.” I knew he was joking, but his face was so serious I had to look twice.

“And I can show you how to use the AGA,” Anna offered. “She’s a bit temperamental.”

We excused ourselves and headed toward the kitchen, passing through a door almost hidden in the paneling of the great hall, then down passages that were more maze than hallway. Eventually, we burst into a large, brightly lit room that was surprisingly modern despite the deep fireplace with centuries-old soot staining its bricks. Shiny white subway tiles adorned the walls behind the counters and AGA; all the appliances were stainless steel. It could have been cold and industrial, but a cozy bench with embroidered pillows and a scarred wooden table with six chairs in front of the fireplace warmed the room. A large bowl full of water sat on the floor by the back door, of which a doggy panel took up most of the bottom half.

Anna spent a good ten minutes showing me how to operate the AGA. Once she was satisfied I knew what to do, she said, “Can you find your way around the kitchen by yourself? I’ve got some tidying up to do, but I’ll be happy to stay until you get the lay of the land.”

“I haven’t got any plans, so I’ll stick around for a bit,” Colin offered.

“That’s really not necessary . . . ,” I began, but he’d already started to unload the grocery bags onto the counter, organizing the food by type.

Satisfied, Anna smiled and said good-bye, then left. I turned to see Colin holding up a bucket of Cool Whip. “I’m almost afraid to ask what this is.”

I yanked it from his hands and placed it on the white stone counter. “Be careful with that—it’s not easily found in London. But oh, the uses of Cool Whip are legendary. Most involve food in the kitchen.”

“Most?”

I faced him and felt blood rush to my cheeks, suddenly remembering the picture of me on his desk, and how since I’d seen it I hadn’t been able to relegate Colin to the shadowy corner of my memory where he’d existed since I’d left Oxford.

I grabbed a grocery bag and began to empty its contents so I’d have something else to look at. “Yes, well, it’s basically processed whipped cream but sweeter. I’ve read somewhere that it has uses outside the kitchen.”

“Um-hm,” he said, carefully folding up one bag before turning to another. “I’m assuming you’ll need the Wi-Fi password so you can contact your aunt Lucinda to help you with the dinner preparation?”

I nearly dropped a can of crushed pineapple. “What do you mean?”

He leaned against the counter and casually folded his arms across his chest. “You hate to cook. You had to go online to find out how to boil eggs when we were at Oxford. And you used to Skype with your great-aunt quite a lot as I recall. But please, forgive me if I’m being presumptuous.”

Without another word, I pulled my laptop from my backpack and opened up the settings. “Go ahead,” I said primly.

He managed to give me the password without a single smirk. “Do you need me to stay? Not that you’ve ever asked, but I do know my way around a kitchen.”

The accusation stung, but I busied myself by focusing on opening up the Skype app. “No, but thank you. I’ll let you know if I need any help.”

I felt him watching me and forced myself to lift my gaze to meet his.

“Are you ever going to ask me why your photograph was on my desk?” Colin said softly.

I was too stunned by his bluntness to think of an answer.

“I kept it because it was the only thing you left behind. Not even a good-bye. I thought—stupidly, it turns out—that you might come back for it.”

I nodded, the only response I could muster.

And then I remembered the other photo, the one of him in a stroller with his parents at the Atlanta airport. I wanted to let him know that