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

about the room. I took a moment to admire the tall bookcases and the highly polished paneling in the prisms of light streaming from the multipaned window.

Colin sat down on the window seat and opened the album on his lap, leaving me no choice but to sit beside him. He opened it to the first photograph, the one I’d already seen of Sophia and David with the full wedding party. Except this one showed Precious staring into the camera instead of looking away, a bright smile on her face. I leaned closer.

“I know this is an old photo, but look at her smile. The way her eyes match the joy in the rest of her face. She looks . . . different.” I had struggled to find another word before settling on that one.

Colin leaned forward, too, his thigh pressing into mine. I told myself that the flash of heat that shot up my leg was simply gratitude to him for sharing his body warmth in the chilly room. “I see what you mean. In all the years I’ve known Nana, I’ve never seen her smile that way with her whole face.” He squinted, leaning even closer. “Of course, she’s lived through a war since then, which could account for it.”

“Very true.” I pointed at the even edge, which neatly sliced the woman standing next to Precious in half. A woman with blond hair the same brightness as Precious’s was partially visible, their shoulders at an even height, showing that they were of the same statuesque build, both slightly taller than the groom in their high heels.

I tapped Precious’s face, wondering what it was besides the smile that was bothering me.

“What is it?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. It’ll come to me—usually it does when I’m not thinking about it. But there’s something about the jaw. . . .” I stopped, turned the page. “Don’t worry—I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

We looked at the next page, a photo of the bride and groom with two older couples, most likely the parents. One of the men leaned heavily on a cane, his face pained as if it had taken all of his energy to get out of bed.

Colin pointed to his face. “That is my great-grandfather. He was very ill and died within a year of the wedding, according to Sophia. She showed this album to me when I was a little boy—not that I really paid attention at the time. There are a few more formally posed photographs of the happy couple and family groups at the church, but the rest are unposed shots from the reception at the house. Looks like most of the photos in Grandmother’s debutante scrapbook, I think. Formally dressed people having a good time. Hard to believe they were on the brink of war.”

He turned the pages slowly. He was right—the smiling, beautiful people in the pictures looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As if Poland wasn’t on the verge of being invaded, and Hitler hadn’t already set his sights on Great Britain.

“But isn’t that the British way? To ignore the obvious so as not to appear rude?” I said, reaching over to turn a page.

“I wouldn’t say it’s solely a British trait,” he said very close to my ear, so close that I fought hard not to turn my head.

“Where are the missing photos, do you think?” I asked, noting the blank spots between photos, as if several had been randomly removed.

“I just assumed that’s how the album was created.” Colin lifted the book and shook it. “Nothing.”

I nodded slowly, then leaned forward, studying the faces. “I’d hoped to find more photos of Eva, but there aren’t any. I wonder why.”

My phone beeped on the ledge behind us, making us both turn.

I read the screen. His name is Colin, right? It was Aunt Cassie again. I reached for my phone, but Colin was quicker.

“How should I reply?” he asked.

“Don’t reply at all. That’s the only way to get her to stop.”

Turning his back to me, he began to text, avoiding my reaching hands. I heard the swish sound of a text being sent and then he handed the phone back to me, a satisfied grin on his face.

I looked down at my screen with one eye closed. Yes. He tried to kiss me last night. I wanted him to, but I pushed him away because I enjoy being impossible to understand.

My phone immediately began to ring, and I sent a quick text back. Call you later. Looking up at Colin, I said, “She’ll never believe I wrote that.”

He crossed his arms. “Really? Who else texts in full sentences?”

I wanted to ask him how he knew that I did but didn’t bother. I stood and began walking toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to argue with me?” he asked, following close behind.

“No.” I headed down what seemed to be a familiar hallway.

“Because you know I’m right.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I’d reached a door that I thought should take me back to the kitchen.

“Madison, stop.”

I tugged on the doorknob. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. But that’s a coat closet. The kitchen is two doors to your right.”

I dropped my hand and walked toward the kitchen with as much dignity as I could muster.

—

Arabella had joined her aunt at the table and was going through the black box. “Good morning,” I said, as I slid into the seat next to her. “Anything interesting?”

“Just odds and ends, really. Train tickets, invitations—that sort of thing. Leftovers that didn’t fit in Sophia’s scrapbook, I think. Nothing from Eva showing a return address.”

“What about Graham?” Colin asked. “Surely he would have written to his sister.”

Arabella shook her head. “Nothing so far. That doesn’t mean he didn’t write, though. If it was during the war, the letters he sent might have been so heavily censored that Sophia didn’t deem them worthy of keeping. There are a few from William before he was killed. Nothing