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

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.” She looked closely at me. “I expect you’re needing some coffee.” She indicated the pot on the counter by the sink. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thank you. I thought I was imagining the smell.” I pulled out a mug from the glass-fronted cabinet.

“I love my tea,” Penelope said, “but I need coffee first thing in the morning. It’s a habit I picked up on our first trip to Atlanta.”

I brought my cup over to the table and sat down. “Were those trips to Atlanta for Colin’s brother?”

She nodded. “He told you, then? He doesn’t usually tell people.”

“I saw the picture of Jeremy in a stroller at the Atlanta airport and asked him about it. All he told me was that it was his twin brother and that he died of leukemia when they were nine.”

Penelope took a sip from her cup, flicking through the photographs on the table with an unvarnished nail. “Jeremy was diagnosed when he and Colin were four. Ever since, Colin has had survivor’s guilt, which I think is especially hard since they were identical twins.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine anything more difficult than losing a child.”

Her clear blue gaze settled on me. “I imagine it would be a lot like losing one’s mother when one is still a child.” She smiled sympathetically. “Colin told me. I hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head. “No. It’s all right. I just never liked telling classmates. I didn’t want to be known as the girl whose mother died.”

Penelope sat back in her chair, her hands wrapped around her mug. “Colin was the same way.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I’d handled it differently. For Colin, I mean. We were older parents, and I knew we wouldn’t have any more children, so I became a bit overprotective. I believe that’s why he’s so cautious now. It’s not that he’s afraid of getting hurt himself. He worries about us if something happens to him.” She looked down into her mug. “I think that’s why he admires you so much, Maddie. The way you don’t hold back. How you aren’t afraid of how other people might perceive you. Even your silly pranks. They always made him laugh—especially the time you put a Teletubbies theme on his laptop before a PowerPoint presentation. He thought that quite brilliant, although he pretended otherwise.”

“I can’t take credit for my sense of humor—blame my aunt Cassie. My whole family, really—I’ll let you listen to my ringtones sometime. But Colin’s worry over what might happen if he should be hurt is just . . .” I started to say “ridiculous” but stopped. “I wondered why he was always so cautious. It’s not like his chances of survival can change just by worrying about them. My aunt Cassie says that worrying is a lot like sitting in a rocking chair. It keeps you busy, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“Brilliant observation.”

The voice came from the doorway, and we both turned to see Colin, who looked annoyed. I wasn’t sure how much he’d heard, but I assumed it had been most of it. He filled a kettle, then put it on the AGA, his movements jerky.

“It is, rather,” Penelope said, turning back to the table. “It’s something we should all adhere to, I think. Worrying about things that may or may not happen reminds me of riding a horse with the reins always pulled in tight. A person might admire the scenery along the way, but they won’t experience the joy of a full gallop.”

She was looking at me as she said this, her eyes kind, but her expression that of a person trying to explain something complicated to someone who speaks a different language. Colin waited for the kettle to boil, then sat down at the table across from me with his cup of tea, his eyes meeting mine as he took a sip.

I couldn’t help but remember our kiss, and the way I’d pushed him away, and how all night long I’d wished I hadn’t. Flustered, I studied the items on the table. “What are these?”

“Arabella brought these in here last night. The clippings and photos from the hatbox you’ve already seen, I believe. The album and box came from the attic—I missed them in the last go-round when I was collecting things for you and Arabella to go through. It’s Sophia’s scrapbook from her debutante season in nineteen thirty-nine and other related materials in the box. I discovered a leather valise up there, too. It’s too bulky for me to bring down, but I believe it belonged to Sophia. It must have been put there prior to her death—I don’t remember seeing it in her rooms when we redecorated afterward. You’re welcome to bring it down if you think it might be helpful.”

I nodded absently, studying the photographs from the hatbox, their carefully cut edges, once again wondering why. “Any guess as to why these have all been cut?”

Penelope shook her head. “I was hoping you’d have some theories about that.”

“Sadly, no. Have you by any chance found the missing halves? Those might give us a better idea of why they were cut.”

“No, I haven’t,” Penelope said. “And I have no theories as to why Sophia would save these. We’ve already got so many photographs of Precious. Have you asked Precious? She might know something.”

“Not yet—I will. You said you found Sophia and David’s wedding album. Can I see that before I get into these?”

“Of course. It’s in the library—on the window seat. Colin—would you take Maddie? I don’t think she’s had enough coffee yet to find it herself.” She smiled, the glint in her eyes reminding me of Colin.

Colin stood. “If only to protect these walls from being knocked down by Maddie taking wrong turns and bumping into them. The house will thank me.”

“Very funny,” I said as I stood to follow him.

No fire burned in the grate, and despite the warmth of the day outside, a distinctive chill hovered