I feel something in my stomach and I follow it.”
“Yes,” Peggy says, “well, the garden has invited you, which means . . . I’m afraid it’s time to tell you something you won’t want to hear.”
Carmen kicks her toes against the stone terrace.
“When you bury things instead of confronting them, they will haunt you until you do,” Peggy says. “And I’m sorry to say that if you don’t dig it up by Friday night, you will have to leave.”
Chapter Thirteen
In the seven weeks since he last saw her, Albert has searched for his daughter everywhere. But she’s apparently broken all her rituals and, as far as he knows, disappeared from the face of the earth. He can’t understand why she’d leave in the middle of her MPhil. Of course no one at King’s would tell him anything, and every other lead he had followed failed. Albert’s at a loss. He can’t afford a private detective, not unless he takes out a loan, so he roams the streets worrying about what might have gone wrong.
At times, when he’s staring at an (as yet) unopened bottle of vodka, Albert actually contemplates going to Ashby Hall or calling Liz. It’d be a gross breach of promise, but should it matter anymore now, given that Charles is long gone? Although Albert has thought about her so often, he thinks he might turn into a pillar of salt the moment he sees Liz again. Perhaps a letter would be best. He could write and ask about Alba, surely she owes him that, doesn’t she?
Finally, Albert decides on a letter. Of course he knows her address by heart, but there is a tiny possibility she might have moved. So he turns on his computer to search for Elizabeth Ashby’s whereabouts, just in case. And that is how he discovers that the love of his life is dead.
—
“You can’t give up,” Stella says, “you have to keep trying.” The kitchen ceiling sinks down then springs back up, twice, as if nodding in agreement.
“How?” Alba asks, fingering the pen in her pocket. She holds it now like a talisman, a good-luck charm. “I only know his name and where he used to live.”
“Well, don’t bother with the police, ’cause they’ll do nothing,” Stella says. “But you can pay a private detective because he will, I guarantee it.”
“I don’t know,” Alba says, “it seems a bit . . . seedy.”
“Don’t be silly.” Stella laughs. “They track down missing persons, too, not just philandering spouses. Anyway, what’s the harm in trying?”
The disappointment, Alba thinks, the absolute crushing disappointment of having hope dashed, obliterated, blown to smithereens. There is something to be said for avoiding all that. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” Alba says, “but can we change the subject, just for a bit?”
All right, Stella thinks, enough pussyfooting around. It is time to be direct. “Well, if you want a little distraction, why don’t you try fiction?”
“Yes.” Alba frowns. “That’s exactly what I do for—”
“No,” Stella says. “Not reading it, writing it.”
Alba is struck dumb. The ghost has just looked straight into her heart to see the secret desire she’s never admitted to anyone. Alba stares at the frayed sleeves of her T-shirt and fiddles with a loose thread.
“But I’ve got nothing to say, and no imagination.” Alba speaks softly, without looking up. “That’s why I’ve always written about facts, not fiction.”
“Except that you don’t write now, either fact or fiction,” Stella says. “Do you?”
—
Albert Mackay had clung to sobriety for twelve years, eleven months and six days. Until he learned that the love of his life, the mother of his child, was dead. That night he drank half a bottle of vodka. It was cheap and tasted like paint-stripper. But it was enough to take the edge off his agony, to numb his suicidal urge, to slide him into a coma of no longer caring about anything anymore.
But it didn’t last. And the ache in Albert’s heart hasn’t ceased. He can’t eat, he can’t sleep for more than a few moments, he can’t focus on anything. Instead he remembers. And, clearer than any other memory is the time he first saw his daughter. She was a week old and looked nothing like him, except for the little blue eyes. Those eyes were a perfect reflection of his. They blinked up at him as he held her. Since then, he always wondered how he could care so suddenly and so deeply for such a small, oblivious being. How could he