England with Richard. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
My mother, if she’s still alive, would be eighty-seven by now. Does Claudia know where she is? If so, I hope she doesn’t tell me because I really don’t want to know. I never talk about my mother, not even with my own sons. Like all small boys, they used to be fascinated by monsters and gargoyles. They played scary games, and their unknown grandmother was always cast as a witch or a vampire. They weren’t far off the mark. I gulp at my tea.
“Careful, it’s hot.” Claudia looks at me, eyebrows raised, waiting.
Dammit, if anyone deserves an explanation, she does. “I tried to see her, once, about twenty years ago. Richard had a business meeting in London. I phoned my mother and asked if I could bring the boys out for a visit. I thought, stupidly, it might be easier for us to patch things up if the kids were there.”
“Surely Edith wanted to see her grandchildren.”
“You’d have thought so,” I say. “They’re the only ones she’s got.”
“What happened?”
“She called me a slut, said my sons were a couple of poor little bastards, and hung up.” Dear God, I can’t believe I’m carrying on like this, telling Claudia stuff I’ve kept hidden for so long, I’ve almost convinced myself it never happened.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Things got worse between us after Daddy died.”
“I know, but don’t beat yourself up over Edith’s lack of mothering skills. None of it was your fault. It was—” Claudia rearranges spoons and puts the lid back on the sugar bowl.
I lean forward. “What?”
“Nothing.” Claudia stands up. “I’ll take care of this.” She places a ten-pound note on the table and something in the set of her jaw tells me to back off.
* * *
It’s dark by the time we get back to Claudia’s cottage. The phone rings, Claudia answers, and hands the receiver to me. “It’s Sophie,” she says.
“Jill, Lizzie rang up. I’ve been trying to get you for ages.”
All my alarm sensors go off at once. “What’s wrong?”
“Cathy’s going to hit Connecticut.”
“Who?”
“The hurricane.”
“Cassie!” I glance at my watch. “What time did she call? Did she sound worried?”
“I’ve been gone all day. Working. Lizzie left a message.”
When I finally reach Lizzie, the connection’s so bad we both have to shout.
“Fergus and I are going to your place now to batten down the hatches,” she yells.
“Should I come back?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she says. “What would you do? Stand on the beach and pretend to be Moses?” There’s a burst of static, then Lizzie again. “Fergus has a truckload of plywood. We’ll put some on your windows and—”
The line goes dead.
Claudia hands me a glass of wine. “What’s wrong?”
I fill her in and she suggests we turn on the TV. “Maybe the news will have something.”
But it doesn’t.
“In less than twenty-four hours,” I tell Claudia, “my living-room furniture could be floating in three feet of water. Not,” I add, “that it would be any great loss.”
Claudia pats her lap and the tabby jumps up. “Tell me about your cottage.”
“A few small rooms with a fabulous view.” I shrug. “It was my reward for enduring fourteen years with Richard. He got a new wife and the mansion in Mount Kisko; I got the kids and a beach cottage with rotten floorboards and bad plumbing.”
“Would you like to get married again?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “I’d love to find the right guy, but most men my age want women twenty years younger.”
“Not all of them,” Claudia says. “Look at Prince Charles.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why did you really leave England?” Claudia offers more wine.
I hold out my glass. “Because I needed to get away.”
“But why America? You could’ve moved to Ireland instead, or Wales.”
“I thought I was in love with Richard.”
“You were in love with someone else,
“Just wondering.”
My mother, if she’s still alive, would be eighty-seven by now. Does Claudia know where she is? If so, I hope she doesn’t tell me because I really don’t want to know. I never talk about my mother, not even with my own sons. Like all small boys, they used to be fascinated by monsters and gargoyles. They played scary games, and their unknown grandmother was always cast as a witch or a vampire. They weren’t far off the mark. I gulp at my tea.
“Careful, it’s hot.” Claudia looks at me, eyebrows raised, waiting.
Dammit, if anyone deserves an explanation, she does. “I tried to see her, once, about twenty years ago. Richard had a business meeting in London. I phoned my mother and asked if I could bring the boys out for a visit. I thought, stupidly, it might be easier for us to patch things up if the kids were there.”
“Surely Edith wanted to see her grandchildren.”
“You’d have thought so,” I say. “They’re the only ones she’s got.”
“What happened?”
“She called me a slut, said my sons were a couple of poor little bastards, and hung up.” Dear God, I can’t believe I’m carrying on like this, telling Claudia stuff I’ve kept hidden for so long, I’ve almost convinced myself it never happened.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Things got worse between us after Daddy died.”
“I know, but don’t beat yourself up over Edith’s lack of mothering skills. None of it was your fault. It was—” Claudia rearranges spoons and puts the lid back on the sugar bowl.
I lean forward. “What?”
“Nothing.” Claudia stands up. “I’ll take care of this.” She places a ten-pound note on the table and something in the set of her jaw tells me to back off.
* * *
It’s dark by the time we get back to Claudia’s cottage. The phone rings, Claudia answers, and hands the receiver to me. “It’s Sophie,” she says.
“Jill, Lizzie rang up. I’ve been trying to get you for ages.”
All my alarm sensors go off at once. “What’s wrong?”
“Cathy’s going to hit Connecticut.”
“Who?”
“The hurricane.”
“Cassie!” I glance at my watch. “What time did she call? Did she sound worried?”
“I’ve been gone all day. Working. Lizzie left a message.”
When I finally reach Lizzie, the connection’s so bad we both have to shout.
“Fergus and I are going to your place now to batten down the hatches,” she yells.
“Should I come back?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she says. “What would you do? Stand on the beach and pretend to be Moses?” There’s a burst of static, then Lizzie again. “Fergus has a truckload of plywood. We’ll put some on your windows and—”
The line goes dead.
Claudia hands me a glass of wine. “What’s wrong?”
I fill her in and she suggests we turn on the TV. “Maybe the news will have something.”
But it doesn’t.
“In less than twenty-four hours,” I tell Claudia, “my living-room furniture could be floating in three feet of water. Not,” I add, “that it would be any great loss.”
Claudia pats her lap and the tabby jumps up. “Tell me about your cottage.”
“A few small rooms with a fabulous view.” I shrug. “It was my reward for enduring fourteen years with Richard. He got a new wife and the mansion in Mount Kisko; I got the kids and a beach cottage with rotten floorboards and bad plumbing.”
“Would you like to get married again?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “I’d love to find the right guy, but most men my age want women twenty years younger.”
“Not all of them,” Claudia says. “Look at Prince Charles.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why did you really leave England?” Claudia offers more wine.
I hold out my glass. “Because I needed to get away.”
“But why America? You could’ve moved to Ireland instead, or Wales.”
“I thought I was in love with Richard.”
“You were in love with someone else,
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