Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Death

When Dimity was strong enough she’d returned to active duty, but she remained dazed, heartbroken, and inconsolable. The next time Dimity came down, a year later, it was as though a cloud had lifted from her soul. The reason became clear when she introduced them to her new friend: my mother. Seeing at once how close the two women were, the Pyms entrusted my mother with the photograph, knowing that she would give it to Dimity when the right time came.

They were worried that they might not live long enough to do it themselves. No matter how lighthearted Dimity seemed, the Pyms saw a darkness in her eyes that showed she was grieving still. Unlike the other villagers, they were not surprised by the fact that Dimity seldom came back to the cottage after coming into her fortune.

Shortly after we had pieced the story together, Emma left for home, carrying my heartfelt thanks and a selection of goodies for her family. Bill and I loaded the dishwasher, then sat in the solarium, watching the dusk settle. Reginald sat in the center of the table, his daisy chain lopsided and wilting.

“Your mother was a remarkable woman,” Bill commented. “It sounds as though she turned Dimity’s life around completely.”

“Not completely,” I said, “but enough to get her back on her feet again and moving forward. My mother was a great believer in moving forward, in looking on the bright side of things.” I plucked a red rose from a vase and leaned it between Reginald’s paws. “I suppose…”

“What do you suppose?” Bill asked.

“Give me a minute, will you? This isn’t easy for me to say.” I got up and opened the door. The sound of crickets wafted in on a soft breeze. “I’ve done some thinking about what you said up on the hill—some thinking and some reading, too.”

“You went back to the correspondence?”

“Yes, while you were soaking your… sore muscles in the Jacuzzi. Well, after all those things you said, I had to. I was up pretty late last night, reading through letter after letter, and I noticed something. My mother never says anything that isn’t cheerful. Even when she’s talking about things that must have bothered her tremendously—like taking ten years to have a baby, for instance—even when she’s talking about that, she’s cracking jokes, as though it didn’t really bother her. And that’s how I remember her—happy all the time.” I turned and held a hand up. “Don’t get me wrong. That’s not a bad way to be. I mean, look at what it did for Dimity.” My hand dropped and I looked back out into the garden. “But I’m not sure it was all that good for me. It’s not… human. As you said, she didn’t teach me how to be un happy.” I shook my head. “And that’s hard for me to handle. I didn’t think she had any weaknesses.”

“Do you mind finding out that she did?”

I sat down again, leaning toward Bill with my elbows on the table. “That’s the strangest part, Bill. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief, in fact. It’s not easy being the daughter of a saint.”

Bill smiled ruefully and nodded. “Being the son of one is no fun, either. That’s why I constantly remind myself of each and every one of Father’s faults. It’s a depressingly short list, but it helps. Did you know, for example, that he has a secret passion for root beer?”

“Is that a fault?”

“For a man raised on Montrachet? One might even call it a serious character defect. He’d be drummed out of his club if word got around. Please don’t let on that I told you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” We shared a smile, then I lowered my eyes to the wrought-iron tabletop. “You know, Bill, I might not have gone back to the correspondence if it hadn’t been for you. Thanks for giving me a shove.”

“You’re welcome.” The sound of the crickets rose and fell as the dusk turned into darkness. Bill took the rose from Reginald’s paws. “Excuse me, old man, but you don’t mind if I…” He handed the rose to me. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you how beautiful you look. The color suits you.”

I couldn’t be sure if he was referring to the cornflower blue of my new dress or the blush that had risen to my cheeks, so I changed the subject. “Ruth and Louise were very helpful, weren’t they?”

“Yes, indeed.” Bill sat back in his chair. “RM. Robert MacLaren.”

“More commonly known as Bobby—an airman who was killed in action late in the year 1940, just before my mother met Dimity. A call to the War Office would confirm all of that, I suppose.”

“But they wouldn’t be able to tell us about this.” My heart did a flutter step as he reached over to touch the locket. “The War Office doesn’t keep track of that sort of thing. Whatever is tormenting Dimity, it’s not just grief over losing Bobby. Something must have happened between them, something terrible.” Bill stood up. “What we need is someone who knew Bobby and Dimity.” He strode off down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” I asked, scrambling after him as fast as my brand-new pumps would allow.

“Upstairs to pack,” he called from the stairs.

I followed him up. “To pack? Why?”

“I’m going to London.” At the top of the stairs, he turned to face me. “Lori, think about it. Bobby was an airman.” He went ahead into his room.

“So?” I stood frowning on the stairs, then hit myself in the forehead, feeling like a complete fool. “Of course! The Flamborough!”

Bill stuck his head out of his door. “Bingo.”

“I thought of the Flamborough when we were talking with the Pyms, but then it slipped away.” I climbed the last few stairs, then stood in Bill’s doorway while he tossed a few things in a bag.

“I’m going to pay a visit to the redoubtable Miss Kingsley,” said Bill, pulling a shirt off a hanger in the wardrobe, “to find out if anyone still knows how to operate the Flamborough Telegraph. They might be able to put us in touch with some of Bobby’s friends or fellow airmen.” He folded the shirt and placed it in the bag, then opened a drawer in the dresser.

“Why do you keep saying ‘I’? You mean ‘we’, don’t you?”

Bill pulled a pair of socks out of the drawer and shook his head. “Not this time. You have to be here to field calls from Father.” The socks went into the bag.

“Oh. Right.” Bill’s plan made perfect sense. I could trust him to ask the right questions, to discover all there was to discover. There was no need for me to accompany him. So why did my heart sink when he zipped the bag shut?

He left the bag on the bed and came over to where I was standing. “I’ll call as soon as I find anything out,” he said.

“I know,” I mumbled, looking at my shoes.

“I’ll call even if I don’t find anything out.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll give you the number at the Flamborough, Miss Kingsley’s private line, so you can reach me night or day.”

“Okay.”

He bent slightly at the knees and peered at me through narrowed eyes. “So what’s the problem?”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Scowling furiously, I grabbed hold of his lapels and planted a kiss firmly on his lips. “There, all right? I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to be away from you. I’m packing my own bag and coming along and that’s final, end of discussion, no debate. Okay? Satisfied? Does that answer your question?”

He closed his eyes and stood very still for a moment. Then he released a long breath. “Yes, thank you.”

Looking somewhat dazed, he made his way back to the bed, bumped into the nightstand, knocked the lamp to the floor, picked it up, dropped it again, then left it where it was and came back to the doorway to pull me into his arms.

“I just want to be sure I understood you correctly,” he said. “You know how lawyers are….”