In England the news circus had moved on, but still Henry delayed his return. Tom and Jane had invited him to become a partner in the bookshop. They were hoping to have another child and were already looking for a house. The flat over the shop was too small and the business could take over the space and expand. They needed help and would he think about it, please?
He had been noncommittal, knowing that his hesitation was hurtful. Why had he bought the Norfolk house if he did not want to be part of their lives?
Even when Hal begged him to return, he was evasive.
“Soon Hal, it won’t be long.”
It was caution that kept him in Florida. His hair had grown back and he had put on weight; he looked more like his old self, but he had lost his nerve. Here he was anonymous; in Norfolk, he feared he would be notorious.
The weather had turned humid and each night before going to bed, Henry walked from the house into the ocean, stopping only when the water reached his chest. It was here, at this depth, that they had scattered Nessa’s ashes, just as she had wished. And it was here, one night, with perhaps some vestige of her still by his side, that Henry Cage had closed his eyes and prayed for guidance.
Unexpectedly, it came the next day from Mrs. Abraham.
Dear Mr. Cage
,
I hope you don’t mind me writing. I wanted to thank you properly for the money and I’m not sure I ever did, and it’s been on my mind. Tom said it would be all right to write. He showed me a photo of Hal during the move—there’s a lot of Mr. Cage in him, I said, and there is—well, I think so. I expect you can’t wait to get back and see him. Best regards, Peggy (Mrs. Abraham
)
What was it she had said to him that day in the kitchen?
“But what about you, Mr. Cage? Didn’t
you
want to be with her for every single minute she had left?”
That had been the gist of it and she had been right to chide him. He had not been with Nessa for her last minutes. He had not even been there for her last hours, days, or weeks. He had been on the wrong side of the Atlantic—just like now.
When he rang, it was Jane who answered the phone.
“If the offer is still on, I would love to be part of the bookshop … and everything else.”
“Oh Henry, wait there, don’t go away …”
He heard her calling upstairs, he looked at his watch, it must be Hal’s bath time—her voice was triumphant.
“Hal, Tom, he’s coming, he’s coming!”
She was back on the line. “He’s just wrapping a towel around Hal—you wouldn’t believe the joy.”
When Tom took over the phone, Henry could hear an excited Hal in the background. He was laughing and clapping his hands—welcoming Henry (at long last) onto the dance floor.
My thanks to Alan Stoker for helping me understand the nature and treatment of cancer. Jerome Goodman’s compassionate article in
The New Yorker
(25 October 2002) was instructive about the last days of a terminal illness. John Fraser guided me through the legal niceties of “self-defense” and much more. On a lighter note, Peter Pettinger’s wonderful book
How My Heart Sings
taught me much about Bill Evans, as did Peter Keepnews’s liner notes for
Milestones
. Mike Dempsey inspired the jacket design and Frank Lieberman tracked down the Orson Welles tape. I thank them both. John de Falbe and Justin Cartwright were the first to see the completed manuscript of this book and their encouragement (and advice) was uplifting at a critical time. My thanks go to Nan Talese for bringing this book to America and to everyone else at Talese/Doubleday who helped make it a thing of beauty. Finally, my thanks and love to Eve and my family.
David Abbott worked for forty years in the advertising industry as a copywriter and creative director. He was a founding partner of Abbott Mead Vickers, the United Kingdom’s largest advertising agency. This is his first novel, and he is at work on his second.