to suggest it’s a tragedy he’s long since put behind him, as if he never wakes in the middle of the night, alone and scared and feeling six years old again; as if he doesn’t like to keep his bed populated to avoid this very occurrence. “I haven’t seen her in nearabout twenty years, I can’t even remember her.” He reaches for his glass and takes a gulp of merlot, swallowing down this careless lie. For although he can’t recall her face, and must rely on photographs, he remembers the smell of her, Lily of the Valley face cream and perfume, and how she felt when he clasped her close, burying his face in her breasts. It is a scent that returned to him when Greer stepped into his life and it nearly stopped his heart. It’s the reason he hired her, the reason he asked her out.
Blake puts down his glass and gazes thoughtfully at Greer, his veneer momentarily rattled. “You remind me of her some,” he admits—a half-truth. “So well fixed up all the time. I never seen someone so well dressed come to work in a bar.”
Greer would have been touched by the compliment—had she heard it. But all she can think is that he’s twenty-six. Thirteen years younger than her. Greer reaches for her own glass and drinks, tipping her head back, until it’s empty, then wipes her mouth. “I’m an actress,” she blurts out—as though he’d asked, as though this explains everything. She regrets it the second she says it and waits for the critique of her lifestyle she knows is coming. After all, why would a successful actress work in a bar?
But Blake surprises her. “That’s cool,” he says, once again reminding her how young he is. “I’m a writer. Hey,” he smiles, “maybe I can write something for you to star in.”
“Really? Well.” She puts on a southern accent, a joke to hide her delight. “My, my, that would be simply marvelous.”
Blake laughs. “So, what d’ya wanna eat? I’m figuring on bangers, mash and beer. I think that sounds pretty darn delicious.” He draws out every syllable of the last word, sucking all the juice from the letters, and Greer stares at his lips. She nods, now thinking only of what it might be like to kiss him.
—
“I don’t understand.” Alba sits in the solicitors’ office, a shoebox of letters on her lap. “Why would she leave these to me?”
“Elizabeth didn’t inform us of the reasons why,” Mr. Stone explains. “She only requested we retain them, and pass them to you upon her death.”
“But why me?” Alba asks. “They aren’t mine.” She lifts a letter out of the box. It’s addressed to her mother in a tiny black scrawl. The postmark is dated 1989. Nearly a decade before the divorce of Prince Charles and Lady Di. Three years before her birth. Suddenly she’s afraid to ask any more questions.
“As I say, she didn’t leave us any further instructions,” says Mr. Stone, “so perhaps, if you’ll permit me, I’ll continue with the will.”
Charlotte sighs. Edward shoots her a look. Alba frowns, her welling sense of dread now threatening to overflow. The black smoke of deceit circles the room, as if Mr. Stone had lit a fire under his desk and everything was burning.
Charlotte says, “I think it’s about time we—”
“Don’t, Lottie,” Edward warns. “Not yet.”
“Why not? You can’t keep it from her now, can you? I’m glad she’ll finally know.” Charlotte crosses her legs. “And then we can all drop this ridiculous charade.”
“Know what?” Alba’s lungs are filling with the smoke. The crisp leather chairs and cream carpets are shifting. She’s losing her grip on the box. “What?”
Surprisingly, Charlotte keeps her mouth shut. Edward glares at Charles, who shrugs and says nothing, while Mr. Stone continues reading the will as though nothing was wrong. But all Alba can think about are the letters sitting in her lap, weighing down their paper box until her legs are numb, her fingers white and drained of blood. When it’s time to leave, Alba can’t get up. She stares at Edward helplessly. While Charlotte and Charles wait impatiently in the foyer, Edward persuades Mr. Stone to let Alba stay in his office to read the letters, while they take him out for an expensive lunch.
“Do you know what these are?” Alba asks Edward as he is about to close the door. “Do you know what they say?”
“No,” Edward says softly, “not exactly.”
His words mix together in green and