 
### September Story

### By Anna Scott Graham

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Anna Scott Graham

Cover design by Julie K. Rose

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

In memory of my grandparents Alta and Lee.

For Julie K. Rose, who helped make dreams come true.

For Mum, Lynn, Patrick, Sis, and my husband. For Joe, who didn't make it out of the Rover. Especially for Dad, who did.

**Table Of Contents**

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Prologue

She was ten and a half years old and the silence was louder than she had ever heard. She had no idea how long the car had rested on its side, nor how long her father had been still. There had been noise, terrible noise, but now only silence; never in her life had she known such tremendous quiet. Usually she created the din, her parents joking they needed no other children. In the stillness, the girl was alone, the hush slowing her down, taking time to a place where she couldn't identify how long the car had lain toppled over, how long she had leaned against the back left door, the seat belt holding her secure. How long her father's body offered no noise, no movement, not even a whisper. For how long?

She breathed easily. The scent of blood hung in the air, but it wasn't hers. She could wiggle her legs without pain, but the belt was stuck and her right arm ached along the elbow. The vehicle's roof jutted inward and Lolly dangled from jagged metal. The girl couldn't move, couldn't reach Lolly. Being trapped wasn't overly frightening, not even in the dark. It must be late, she assumed. Now it was getting dark.

They had gone for a day out. Her mother was busy, but would be home. Or maybe she was out looking. I know where we are, the girl thought; we're here, in the quiet.

She tried to recall exactly what had happened, but all that came was stillness. She tried thinking of different words; silence, quiet, hush. Dearth of sound. She had just learned dearth, her mum always offering new words. There was peace, but peace didn't seem right. It wasn't peaceful, not since her father stopped speaking.

They had rolled end over end in what felt like a carnival ride; then came an age of aftereffects. The settling of the Range Rover took as long as the accident, rocking back and forth; were they on an incline? Not steep, but the girl felt as though they were leaning downward. The ground was right beneath her, along the window that was broken. For a while she could see cracks and green grass. Now little light remained. If the belt had allowed, she could lay her head against the glass and go to sleep.

Like my dad, she wondered. Maybe he's just gone to sleep.

But she didn't think so. When he first stopped speaking, unusual gurglings followed, as though he was trying to catch his breath. She had cried then, calling for him; as scary as the crash was, this was worse. She would be eleven in a few months; she was young but smart. Her father had never sounded like that. She asked if he was okay. He finally said _yes_.

Thinking of his answer made her cry. He had said yes, but continued with that patchy, uneven breathing, as if going under water, storing all the air he could get. Then he told her things, some for her, some for her mother. Mostly he said it would be okay. Yet, those breaths were strange, weird. It was weird.

Like the silence, so very quiet.

After he stopped talking and after that odd gurgling sound, she noticed the hush. It was still light, the sun not setting until eight thirty. Night wouldn't fall until after ten. It must be late, but she had no watch to confirm. She could have read it, her left arm free, but she had forgotten it at her grandmother's in New York, not that she remembered leaving it there. Grandma wrote and told me she found it. Told me it was because I wanted to come back. If you leave things behind, it means you want to return.

The girl thought about her grandmother's warm smile, charcoal hair, cocoa brown skin soft and smooth. The girl wondered if her grandmother was old. She didn't look like most old women. She looked like any other woman.

She has my watch, the girl remembered. When I see her again, I'll know what time it is.

There were no rustling leaves, no chirping insects, no passing cars. Almost no light, yet the girl wasn't afraid. Even though her father didn't move, he was near. She didn't think he was dead. Later, when her voice had been stilled, she considered how she had been with him for that time. In the car, she wondered if he might try to speak again, but you couldn't talk if you couldn't breathe. That was obvious, like the quiet, so quiet. She only heard herself. There had been sound, for a while, and she returned to that; he'd been singing after asking if she was okay. He had wanted to know that she was okay and could she get out?

Both were stuck; her father was slumped over the passenger seat, the front of the car turned inward, the windscreen busted. While light remained, she had noticed the caved-in right side of the Rover. Her father was on the left, his side demolished, which had that made all the noise, much of the car crunched like a soda can. Grandma calls it soda and that's what the car is like, a soda can all scrunched-up, the sound of the accident like smashing aluminum along Grandma's back step. Her father's breathing had been like that too and tears trickled down her cheeks. The girl had been avoiding that notion, but with darkness encasing her, the silence hovered. Her father had been without words, then without breath. Like the car settling into the ground, her father had settled too.

She was tired, but remembered his words; if you're in a car accident, you need to stay awake. She wasn't sure why, but began asking if he was okay. He said nothing.

As her voice slid away, her head was full of his words; he wanted to get home to cook the sausages. Bangers, he called them, and she smiled. She loved his British vocabulary, phrases he used all the time, and here in England they seemed correct. In New York or California they sounded foreign, but where her father was born, those words and sentences flowed with ease. He was hungry and bet she was too, and then he said her name, her whole name, singing a song she'd known all her life. But not in English, only the chorus in French, just one line, and she had no idea what it meant. Those had always been his words to her, at bedtime or when she was sick. He hummed that tune, his words fading, like his breath. He sang, then hummed, but it was hard to hear him. Due to the quiet, she could make it out. Then a few words, the last words. She grasped them in her free left hand that could reach him, almost. He was two, maybe three inches from her; she could see how close. After his last word, she pulled back her hand.

Then a noise never before noted; he was taking in air, but not exhaling. Trying, trying, then silence. For how long, she wasn't sure. A good while, as it had been light and now was dark, growing cool. Those elements cloaked her, the car, covering them all.

The sausages were on ice. We'll be able to eat them when we get home. I'm not hungry, only a little cold, but I can't go to sleep, not until Mum comes.

Her tears began as her voice departed; she wished to speak, wanted to call for her father. As she opened her mouth, no sound escaped.

The silence was broken only by her tears.

Chapter 1

The director glared. Gazes turned away, but no one missed Jeremy Stewart's humiliation.

He returned to his mark, sighing heavily. He spoke as the director asked, but again lines emerged toneless, misrepresenting his character trapped in the middle of a family crisis. Jeremy hadn't wanted this role, didn't need all this damned melodrama. As the director shuffled toward him, Jeremy wanted to throw in the towel. Charles Wyler frowned, then Jeremy found a face sticking his feet to the floor, Hannah's eyes blazing.

Later in his trailer, Jeremy clutched his mobile. "Why in the hell is my life so wrapped up in Hannah Adams?"

A long reply emerged as Jeremy stalked about the small space. "Yeah well, to bloody hell with her!"

Philippa's tones soothed and he calmed, no other choice. If he didn't, his career was over. Jeremy ended the call, taking a drink of water. Then he inhaled and opened the door.

"You're on the set in half an hour," an assistant said.

"Right." Jeremy ran fingers through brown hair streaked with gray for the film. Digits felt sticky, but he couldn't wipe them on his trousers and headed for makeup.

Ten weeks of shooting remained, if he made it that long. Jeremy was the star, along with Hannah, both with much to lose if it fell through. Arriving at the makeup trailer, Jeremy let Amy rearrange his hair, fuss with him, the part he adored. For over fifteen years Jeremy had received this sort of attention and he smiled at her flattery, how they had to add the gray because he was only thirty-six and barely looked thirty. He laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and made his way back to the set.

A big star with three recently tanked films, he sighed. They would be at this location for another four days, then onto York proper for the next five weeks. He was relieved to be going home. Most people were surprised he actually lived in North Yorkshire, expecting him to reside in London. Not every English actor lives in the south, he would smile.

Approaching the door, he heard Charles and Hannah. Only two weeks in and already Wyler was whinging. Jeremy pretended to admire the gardens. An exceptional place, but out in the middle of nowhere and all he wanted was to be in his house, behind the walls, alone. Helperby was only twenty minutes from York if traffic along the A19 was light. Once they moved locations, there would be no living in trailers, no strange bed. He would drive to the set, ferry himself back home at night. If they didn't like his acting, they could find another...

He was interrupted by footsteps. Jeremy offered his trademark grin that grossed millions in romantic comedies on both shores. That countenance broke hearts, but Hannah's exasperation made Jeremy's smile slip away.

She led him to her trailer, saying nothing. Jeremy was tall, but her bulk was commanding, shoulder-length cornrow braids flying with forceful strides. Charles' words had been hard to hear, but Hannah was adamant; Jeremy would stay.

He had to stay, he was the whole reason she'd written the book! Lord, she muttered inwardly, where's that brick?

Like a scolded child, Jeremy followed. At forty-four, Hannah wasn't old enough to be his mother and she slowed, allowing him to walk alongside.

"So am I in the doghouse?" he asked.

"I don't know. Are you trying to screw this up?"

He looked down, then ahead. "No."

As they approached her trailer, she stopped. "Then why are you doing this?"

Having watched every day's work, she'd not witnessed the actor she had hoped. She had wanted to see the man from over fifteen years before, a thespian who broke her heart, Craig's too, with the Oscar nominated portrayal of a lost son. Hannah knew it was still within this now iconic leading man, still an actor dwelling somewhere inside Jeremy Stewart. She had seen it long ago, but for the past two weeks all she'd known was his usual, self-mocking fluff. She wanted to hit him with a brick.

As they walked, Jeremy tried excusing his missed lines and incorrect deliveries. Reaching the trailer, a young woman exited. With a nod to Hannah, she headed toward the set.

"That your assistant?" he asked. In her early twenties, she had been with Hannah since the start of filming.

"We're talking about you right now," Hannah huffed, stepping inside the trailer.

She closed the door and got herself a glass of water as Jeremy gazed around the room, pictures resting on all available spaces. Hannah hated traveling without her photographs.

"This your mother?" Jeremy asked, a frame in his hand. Hannah stood next to a short black woman, a girl in front of them. Hannah appeared the same, having worn cornrows for years. The only difference now was the few gray strands emerging from her temples.

Hannah nodded. The picture was a few years old, but neither Hannah nor Alta had changed much.

"Who's the girl?" Jeremy asked.

"My daughter." Hannah took the bench seat, the table between them. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Oh good lord, don't give me that!" But she couldn't help her smile. He was so engaging, disarming. Movie after movie had seen him as the perfect English gentleman, but that wasn't what she had written. "You know exactly what I mean. You gonna screw this up?"

Jeremy grinned. Hannah looked like her mum and while Hannah had a lighter skin tone, she was as imposing as Jeremy imagined her mother would be. Diminutive in the picture, but also determined, the way she gripped her granddaughter's thin shoulder. The girl looked maybe twelve, surrounded by overwhelming women. Jeremy laughed, feeling as though Hannah's hands were upon him. "By the looks of it, I'm heading for the chopping block."

Hannah's face wilted and he felt awful, aware of what she had done to get him this part. Not secure it, but urge for him, ask for him. _There Is Something Here_ wouldn't be considered a usual Jeremy Stewart role, but Hannah had fought for his screen test. A screen test, for Jeremy Stewart? But he had flown to LA and acted his ass off and now it was his. Or his to lose.

"Well as a matter of fact you are headed out and don't let the door hit you on the backside. You know how badly Charles wants you gone."

Jeremy nodded. The same age as Jeremy, Charles Wyler was an art house favorite and Jeremy had almost said _no_ on that alone. But for Hannah, and his career, Jeremy would swallow pompous Charles Wyler. "Yes, I know."

"Then why are you making it so easy for him to fire your skinny white ass?" Hannah employed her blackest accent. "If Momma was here, she'd slap you upside the head!"

He laughed. Having known Hannah for years, Hannah and her late husband, rarely had Jeremy heard her speak so African American. He returned to the photograph; three generations of women and here was the middle in cornrows and a sapphire blouse that matched her piercing blue eyes.

He said nothing, picking up the frame. Hannah was unchanged, those blue eyes a spark. Her mother had brown, her daughter too, but Hannah's were bright blue, and even in the photograph, her eyes peered right through him. She knew all about him and he felt weak with that depth of intimacy; he hardly felt that with anyone anymore.

"You know, he's just waiting for the latest rushes to come back. You really stunk yesterday and today was no better. Now..." She stood, stepping toward him. "You have this afternoon to pull your head out. I love you, I do." She took the picture, smiling at the occupants. "But I can't do any more. He's giving you today, that's it. Jeremy, I know this's hard, good god I know. But I wrote this for you and I, I believe in you." She set the photo on the table.

He looked at where she placed it, in the center. Then he went to her resolute gaze. "All right," he sighed.

"No. If you can't give it all you've got, you might as well quit right now."

She knew him, wasn't afraid to tell him. He grinned, then heard a knock.

"Come on in," Hannah said.

The young woman returned, her features like Hannah's; light brown skin, tall but slender, with curves Jeremy decided Hannah probably once had before time and grief altered her. The young woman's hair hung to her shoulders, brown and curly, and she possessed a charming smile Jeremy glimpsed only for a second.

Hannah introduced them and the woman, Jo, left with another nod. Then Hannah looked to Jeremy. "So, what're you gonna do?"

He'd taken notice of Jo earlier, but up close he was intrigued; would he act for her? Jeremy wore a teasing grin that audiences had been paying to see for years. "All right, all right."

Hannah nodded. As they exited the trailer, a breeze drifted, and Jeremy felt refreshed. Or was it Hannah's lovely assistant, not twenty feet away, talking with one of the cast. Her arms were wrapped around herself, protecting her space. Then he had to know. "Hannah, who is she?"

Hannah smiled, then sighed. "That, Mr. Stewart, is my daughter."

Jo Adams noted how the level had changed, a gear turned, as if the first two weeks of filming had been for children. Now it was clearly different. Jeremy Stewart could act.

She sat beside her mother, reading on and off, watching actors deliver lines with precision. Once Stewart found his rhythm, the entire cast had followed, forcing the director, a man Jo found oozy and false, to chase after his company. They were running rings around him.

She preferred York over their previous, rural location. In another month the production would move to Harrogate, where she and Hannah were staying. Jo didn't mind; her mother was the chauffeur.

Having read all her mother's manuscripts, Jo knew this story well, the first in ages that was serious, weighty. More than the books Hannah had written throughout Jo's teens, since the accident. Those novels were like Jeremy Stewart's usual movies; light, comedic, to pass the time. _There Is Something Here_ was special.

Elizabeth Watson was cast as Jeremy's wife and her subtle manner caught Jo's attention. Watson's character, Katy, was dying, yet trying to maintain a façade of dignity, even though the situation was quite improper. As her husband, Jeremy balanced a mistress, illegitimate child, and a secret his wife Katy was trying to keep from their daughter Tabby, who was played by seventeen-year-old Portia Jones, an English star since childhood. The whole cast was first-rate, attracted to adaptations of Hannah's books.

Jo looked at her mother, who crocheted with one eye on the set, another on her hook. A scarf for Alta, not that Jo's grandmother needed another, but it kept Hannah busy and Jo smiled. Since Hannah had chatted with Jeremy seven days previous, he was one thing less for her mum to ponder.

Jeremy's lines were unlike his usual banter, nothing light or airy about this film or the novel from which it originated. _There Is Something Here_ resounded with pain, loss, betrayal. As Jo closed her book, the actors finished, and she sighed. This manuscript had come from the depths of her mother's heart.

Charles yelled "CUT" and Jeremy strode from the set, exhausted. No further dirty looks from the director, only a slight nod of appreciation. The rest of the cast had been surprised when, just a week before, Jeremy arrived at the evening session with new-found intensity. He had slept well every night since then.

It wasn't only being at home, but the work. He hadn't been stretched in years, not since _Silent Wishes_. Only twenty years old during that picture, but he didn't remember it being so hard. Now it was like pulling teeth, making him ache, but it also relieved. Those muscles hadn't atrophied to nothing.

Hannah sat with her yarn, her daughter reading a book. As Jeremy walked toward them, Jo's face lifted. She was gorgeous, but beauty held at arm's length. Even when relaxed she was cloaked, which both intrigued and made him sad, so young to be shrouded.

She possessed Craig's open smile. As Jeremy approached, she couldn't hide it and he grinned mischievously. "Well, any better?" he asked Hannah.

She looked up. "I didn't bring my brick today if that's what you're asking."

Jo laughed. "I guess that means you're in the clear."

She set her book into a bag next to her chair. Dressed in a turtleneck and jeans, her feet sported Birkenstock clogs. She wore a simple beaded necklace and matching earrings, her face free of makeup, except for mascara, which brought out her eyes, Craig's enormous laughing eyes in his daughter's face.

"Well, thank god. The last thing I need is a brick up the head."

Hannah smiled. "Momma'd do it if she still traveled."

Jeremy laughed, wishing an empty chair was close. He would pull it up and study Hannah's daughter, Josephine Michelle. Learning her full name from Hannah the other day, Jeremy wanted to know more about her. Why, he wasn't sure. She wasn't even twenty-three, but seemed much older; was it her father's death when she was young?

Jo stood, said goodbye, then walked toward the door. A chair now waited, but the reason for it was gone. Returning to Hannah, he found her blue eyes glaring. "She's lovely," he grinned.

"I know. Do I need that brick?"

Jeremy laughed. "I doubt it. I'm sure she's too smart for me." Chuckling, he walked in the opposite direction to the makeup trailer.

Chapter 2

Most days Jo and Hannah sat together, observing the proceedings. Jeremy fascinated Jo, in that he was his usual, jovial self off set, but as soon as the cameras rolled, an edge and purpose emerged, impressions never noted in his previous films. Jo loved his movies for the same reasons everyone else did; Jeremy Stewart was the quintessential English gentleman. Glib and self-effacing with charm like Cary Grant, or Hugh Grant, Jeremy was a slender man, exuding an intelligent sex appeal that had made him a world-wide star. Except for his last three films, a Jeremy Stewart vehicle was assured over one hundred million dollars in box office receipts, thrilling audiences while eluding the villains with the loveliest women in tow. But this film was not like those at all. This was a different story.

Jeremy broke down, railed and wept. He allowed Portia Jones' tirades; then with small, focused sentences, he fashioned a man who had lived a lie for years. Jo saw a father and daughter at odds, yet so in love. Not incestuously, but as families loved; adoring another because they were a part of you, even if they weren't.

Portia quivered as Jeremy tore them asunder. But his pain went deeper than Jo had ever seen. Not even in her mother had she witnessed such agony, every word a knife being thrust further into him. Mesmerized, Jo only came to when Charles Wyler yelled "CUT"!

A short silence was followed by thunderous applause. Jo found her feet and even Hannah set down her yarn, but didn't clap. Jo stared at her mother; Hannah's gaze suggested she had seen this before.

"Mum," Jo whispered. "That was incredible!"

Hannah nodded. "Why I wanted him."

Jo fell into her chair. She would never look at Jeremy as she had in the past. He wasn't just a movie star; then Jo considered what that character, Jim Sullavan, meant to her mother. As Jeremy wearily approached them, she wished she could tell him.

"You put away that brick?" he asked, receiving more congratulations from those standing near Hannah.

"Mmmhmm," she muttered, her hook busy gathering stitches.

Jo couldn't look away from his face. Made up to look a decade older, his voice was that of countless light comedies, as though Jim Sullavan was dead. "You were wonderful," she murmured.

He smiled, looking at her for the first time. His eyes were brown and Jo felt as if she was staring into a mirror.

"Thank you," he said. "All in a day's work."

A chair was handy and he pulled it close, drawn to Hannah's daughter. They talked for a few minutes about how he prepared. Hannah glanced at her watch; it would be like her to want to leave now, he chuckled.

"Well since that's done, shall we go?" Hannah asked. "Traffic's only gonna get worse."

Jo sighed, then smiled. "You have the keys."

She didn't want to leave, which pleased him. "Who's driving?" he asked.

"Oh she is," Jo grinned.

Hannah collected her work as Jeremy nodded. "Well, you drive tomorrow, then you can set the schedule."

Hannah smiled. "That'll be a cold day in California."

Jo smiled as well, but Jeremy was confused. "You don't drive?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"I thought it was a law, all Californians had to drive and own two cars each." He laughed, then felt ill. "Oh god, I'm sorry!"

"No big deal." Jo took his hand and squeezed it. Grabbing her bag, she walked away.

"It's not that bad. Don't worry." Hannah kissed his cheek as Jeremy slumped into his chair.

Having started her period, for three days Jo didn't travel to York. If not for the star's refreshed acting skills, Charles Wyler might have thought he was dealing with the old Jeremy Stewart, who plodded and moped. Fortunately Jeremy had few scenes, giving him time to reflect upon his words to Jo, and Hannah's words to him.

The first day she dismissed his moaning. "She's not feeling well. Here." Hannah handed him her phone. "Call her. She's probably in bed reading."

"I can't do that!"

"It's not like she hates you or anything."

Jeremy had shrugged. "I was a pretty big clod yesterday." He sulked away as Hannah grinned.

On the second day, he was worried. "So, is she all right?"

"Yes, for goodness sakes." Hannah ended a skein of yarn, then pulled out her phone, calling her daughter. She handed it to the dumbstruck man who stepped back, shaking his head.

"Oh no, I couldn't," he mumbled.

Hannah smiled. "Lovey, he wants to know if you're dead. Say a few words all right?"

All Jeremy could manage was a garbled _hello_. Hannah laughed as he lumbered away.

On the third morning he was busy, but after his last scene wrapped, he found Hannah eating lunch. Jeremy joined her group and as others drifted away, he remained. "How is she?"

Hannah wiped her mouth, then sipped her tea. "Coming tomorrow with bells on. You happy?"

"Well, good. Yes, that's good." Leaning back, he sighed.

"She doesn't drive because of the accident. It's no big thing."

"Of course it's a big thing, and I mean, well..."

Hannah reached for his hand. "She was with him, with Craig, when he died."

Jeremy's eyes grew wide. "Jesus Christ Hannah!"

She nodded. "For the most part no one knows. I mean, you can look it up, but who cares? It's been twelve years."

"Was she hurt?"

Hannah shook her head. "No, thank god." She looked into the room. "But she was never the same."

Jeremy wanted to be sick for what he'd said, for the idea of a child where death had intruded. Recalling that sensation, he was glad to not have eaten. It would be on the floor.

Hannah continued. "She was fine, if you can believe it. Except that for a year she didn't talk. We went to New York, lived with my mother, and Jo never spoke a single word. Then one day Momma asked if she wanted strawberry jam. We got used to asking yes or no questions, easier to get a nod from her. And she says, 'No, I'd like grape.' Grape. She wanted grape jelly." Hannah gazed at Jeremy. "So innocuous I will never forget it, grape jelly."

"Did she, I mean, how was she?"

"Oh fine, after that. It was so funny because it was August and she wanted to go back to school, return to California. So we just flew home and I signed her up and there she was. Talking, but so quiet. She had been the chattiest thing but after Craig, so quiet."

Jeremy looked around the empty room, then took Hannah's hand. "I'm sorry."

"She came back. What more could I have asked for? She came back, she'll be here tomorrow, and," she smiled. "I think Mr. Stewart, it's about time Jo learned to drive."

Leaving the table, Hannah kissed his cheek. Jeremy sat for a few minutes, then went to the canteen, looking for lunch.

In the driver's seat of Jeremy's Mini Cooper, Jo gripped the wheel, looking over her right shoulder. No cars approached and she signaled, slipping her foot from the clutch, bringing the car onto the road. Switching gears, she gained speed along the quiet, deserted stretch, easing her racing heart. Her sixth time out and she hadn't stalled, popped the clutch, or slammed on the brakes. With Jeremy next to her, she made their way over small rises, then to a short straight where tall trees loomed. Then curves, some blind which made her nervous, made her wish she hadn't agreed to this, but Jeremy had been so convincing. And her mother so stubborn.

"It's about time," Hannah had said. All she had said, but it was her voice that Jo couldn't refuse. Her grandmother had it too, a tone employed by African American women, for Jo had never heard it from any other group, a sound echoing years of toil, sacrifice, heartache. She had never been able to explain it, but it lingered in Hannah's voice and blue eyes, which Jo couldn't disappoint.

She had agreed to Jeremy's request, was now able to reach a village; Helperby, the sign read. Once there, Jeremy had her pull into a spacious courtyard. "This okay?" she sighed.

He smiled. "Brilliant! You did very well. So well, we should celebrate."

She got out and stood next to the Mini, then laughed. "What, because I didn't kill us?"

"Exactly. There's a pub just down the road. Lunch at the Farmer's Inn?"

She smiled as he took her hand, leading her toward the street.

Paul had greeted them, calling Jeremy by name. They all did, Jo noticed, but not due to his profession. He was a regular and when Paul's wife Hailey emerged, wanting to know their choices, Jo was intrigued. Jeremy chatted with local farmers as Jo absorbed her surroundings, an authentic village pub, comfortable and homey. On their walk, Jo had noticed two others, also a small grocery store, butcher's shop, and a doctor's office. A branch from the nearby town of Boroughbridge, Jeremy had said, quite familiar with this small hamlet. Jo tucked into her steak and ale pie, watching him. No longer a persona, but one with this place, these people.

"You like it here," she said.

He smiled. "I do. Been coming a long time."

"How long?" she asked between bites.

"Oh, let's see." He paused. "Hailey, how long you and Paul been here?"

"Since 2003," she called.

"Ta love. But this's been a pub a good while longer than that." He smiled and finished his tea. "The Oak Tree across the street's been around for ages and the Half Moon, down by where we parked? Oh, I could tell you stories." He grinned, returning to his lunch.

Did he live here or somewhere near? He must, driving himself in every day. The production was moving to Harrogate for the rest of the shoot and Jo wondered if he would drive there as well. "So, are you from here? You seem to know the pubs pretty well."

They had talked little of themselves during the October lessons. She had agreed due to her mother and the strength of Jeremy's plea, that he was being stretched and might she want a workout? His voice hadn't teased; he knew of the accident either from her mum or had looked it up. But once they were in his car, it was only the learning process. He was patient, good humored, and willing to risk his two-year-old Mini. Now she was curious about more than gear shifts and blind spots, a huge unknown right in front of her.

He laughed, as did Paul and Hailey. "Oh he's a local all right. A good Yorkshire lad," Hailey said, taking Jo's empty plate.

"Really?" Jo smiled.

"Take her on a tour," Paul said. "Just steer clear of the Oak Tree."

Everyone chuckled as Jeremy led her out. Walking back the way they came, he pointed to houses, telling of people and their stories. Reaching the Half Moon Pub, he turned right. Soon they approached a wall, a house behind it. Jeremy went along the side and let them in a narrow door. The spacious rear garden contained a pond, large trees, benches, and abundant roses. Jo stood in awe, then smiled. "You live here!"

"I grew up in this village and, well, hard to get far from home."

He took her inside. The ground floor offered an airy kitchen, dining room, lounge, study and toilet. They didn't go upstairs, stepping through to the front garden. A circular driveway intersected the grass, well manicured and cut short. More roses climbed the walls and Jo felt safe, but wasn't sure from what. "It's lovely," she said, lost in the setting.

"Bought it a while ago and it's only been like this for maybe two, three years. Needed a lot of work." He walked her around the garden, then back inside the house. He had to be on the set that evening, but they still had a few minutes.

The dwelling wasn't ornate, but tranquil, nestled in a lovely village that spoke to all Jo's ideas of English country living. He lived behind walls, but not in a gated, isolated place. An average village in the middle of northern England and he had walked through it at peace. She was amazed by how normal he seemed, how unencumbered by his fame.

"It's really beautiful," she said as they returned to the street. But also stark, bereft of a personal touch of which her mother and grandmother's residences teemed. No photographs or knick knacks, but large, inviting couches had graced a fireplace which looked used. The coal bucket was half filled, ash needing to be swept, but certain touches were absent, those left by loved ones. The house was employed, but empty.

As they walked back to the courtyard, he pointed out the Half Moon Pub. In his eyes Jo saw space where no one else remained.

Chapter 3

"Mum, let me go!" Jo cried for the fifth time.

"No. The dinner's all set. All you have to do is show up." Hannah stuffed another blouse in her bag, glancing around their cluttered two-bedroom suite at the Crown Hotel. Hannah needed to reach New York, her sister Ellen making it clear their mother wasn't well. A stroke, and Hannah's haste was borne solely of a need to see Alta.

Jo sulked. She would have traveled, stayed in New York as long as necessary, but not to escape driving. After several weeks, she was capable, even on the motorway. Jeremy had slapped an _L_ sticker on the back of his Mini, signifying Jo's learner status. She was competent, but not fast.

"Mum, please!" Jo spied a gray pashmina shawl her mother had been hunting and Hannah took it, wearing an exasperated face.

"Jo, I love you, but this is my mother!" Hannah knew her daughter didn't wish to be her stand-in at the Thanksgiving meal at the end of the week. Jo was fine in small groups, but facing an entire room of people? Yet, a stroke chilled Hannah to her bones. Usually she tried to prevent Jo's discomfort, but this time Alta took precedence.

Jo felt awful for whining and for what was coming. She had planned to spend the evening in conversation with Portia Jones, the only one her age. In their brief chats, Jo had found the younger girl full of stories; only seventeen, Portia had more life experience than Jo imagined, but now those conversations would be a footnote. Taking Hannah's place, Jo would mingle with a room full of cast and crew.

Hannah's case was ready, a taxi due in twenty minutes. Catching an early flight from Leeds to London, she would fly straight to JFK. "Honey, everything's set. I'll talk to Charles and Jeremy. They'll be there."

Ellen's middle-of-the-night call had precluded Hannah from talking to anyone except the airline and she would contact Charles and Jeremy once in New York, if Jo didn't speak to Jeremy first. Hannah hadn't missed their banter that over the month had focused less about cars and more concerning England, the film business, and Jo's gap year, as Jeremy kept calling it. The trio spoke British English, which Hannah hadn't done in ages, terms Craig always used even after so many years out of his home country. Those words returned to Hannah with ease, Jo picking it up from all the time she had spent with Jeremy.

"Oh Mum, it's just so many people," Jo sighed.

"Honey, I know." Hannah stroked her daughter's cheek, the dinner as big a fright as Alta's health. Calling Jeremy would happen from Heathrow, Hannah not altogether excited about her daughter and Jeremy's friendship. It wasn't just their age difference, but for now he would need to know. Jo's anguish made Hannah look away.

All week Hannah remained in close contact with Jo, Jeremy too. With her daughter she relayed news: while Alta was making good progress, a minor stroke was still serious and Hannah had shared all details.

With Jeremy, Hannah was more circumspect. Alta would recover, but faced major lifestyle changes. A healthy diet and proper exercise that Hannah's seventy-year-old mother hadn't previously considered would now be enforced. Hannah was glad her sister Ellen would police those modifications. Then she asked him; how was Jo?

His answers weren't pleasant. Jo was nearly paralyzed, the dinner a night away. She hadn't visited the set and Hannah sighed, not missing Jeremy's concern.

He had ended that conversation on a small fib. The trip to New York was out of Hannah's hands, but did she realize the extent of Jo's dread? Nothing to be done, Jo said it herself; Hannah had to go. Yet Jo's weary tone and trembling frame spoke her heart, which Jeremy saw was trying to put great distance between her duties as Hannah's stand-in and her own emotions. Those feelings were obvious; Jo would prefer walking over hot coals than host the dinner.

Jeremy wouldn't burden Hannah with that. He assumed she knew, but her absence hadn't been planned. Hannah had arranged a traditional Thanksgiving meal for the cast and crew, only a matter of Jo speaking a few words, then mingling with the guests. Jeremy had spent enough time with Jo to see that once comfortable, she could be gregarious in an intimate setting. Over one hundred would attend the dinner and how Jo would cope, Jeremy had no idea.

Since that afternoon in Helperby, lunch was a ritual after a lesson. Sometimes dinner, as he wanted her comfortable driving at night. She had been a delight: intelligent and witty, but with a great silence underneath. Her childhood sat far away and he respected her privacy, learning instead of her university days and old boyfriends, of whom Jeremy was strangely jealous. Did they know more of her than he was getting? She spoke of her grandmother, who Jeremy sensed was a bigger part of Jo than she let on. Living with Alta after Craig's death provided Jo far more knowledge than most grandchildren possessed, but she never spoke of that time.

She had asked him a few questions, but he found himself far more curious, and probed gently; she wanted to be a librarian. Either that or a bookstore owner, she had chuckled. She would read anything, but wasn't at all inclined to write. That was her mum's job, she had laughed, looking at him with gentle brown eyes. When younger she had considered writing, but once aware of her mother's fame, Jo set that aside. Jeremy didn't ask how young, but felt it was ages ago, perhaps when her father had been alive.

In his trailer, Jeremy glanced over the evening's schedule when a knock took him from those thoughts. "Yes, come in."

"Uh, hi." Jo stepped in, wet from the rain. She held both arms around herself, not looking up. "Just wanted to confirm you're going to be there tomorrow."

"Of course." He stared at her, so cloistered. "In fact, I'll pick you up. Seven?"

She met his eyes. "Sure. Yeah." Then a smile. "Thanks."

"Of course. Any news of your grandmother?"

Jo relaxed, but kept the raincoat on. "Just that she's probably going home tomorrow. Or Friday. Thanks for asking."

Jeremy had heard that already, Hannah updating him after lunch. "Just thinking of all of you."

Jo looked down again. "That's very kind."

Jeremy wished to inquire how she was. Instead he touched her arm. Both looked at the other.

He wanted to know what sat behind her eyes. Wanted to know her childhood, the year that was silent, who she had been before; unreserved and chatty, from Hannah's words. Now she was hushed, frightened. Not of him, Jeremy sensed, propelling him closer. Did Hannah's absence remove some consequence from his actions? He smiled.

Jo hadn't moved, Jeremy only inches away. He didn't kiss her, instead stroking her upper arm. "It will be okay."

She nodded, again catching his eyes. He wanted to kiss her, but refrained, not willing to step into that pond even if Hannah was away. Yet, something inside him couldn't resist; leaning toward Jo, he set a peck on her forehead. Her curly hair was damp, smelling like gel and rain. As Jeremy stood back, Jo's warm smile pierced his heart. She squeezed his hand and left the trailer.

Jo gathered her coat, finally free to exhale. All evening a deep breath had been held and now, as Jeremy ushered her into the cold night, a large cloud hung in the air.

He walked her to his car, but not the Mini. That night they had his Mercedes and he opened her door, then seated himself. She watched his movements as she had all evening, Jeremy never far from her.

She had been grateful, for other than a few pleasant minutes with Portia and Elizabeth Watson, Jo had been surrounded by people longing to hear her speak. But words were troublesome, had been since she was ten. Since then, Jo had plenty to say, but no voice to employ.

Not in crowds, nor with those unknown. For all her time on the set, Jo had remained within her books or in the company of her mother, Jeremy, or Portia, her circle tight and secure. The chats she shared with them were inclusive and that night she'd had to extend that same wide scope to other actors, stagehands, and makeup artists, gaffers, and wardrobe staff. After two hours and a few bites swallowed, she was finished.

Portia had been helpful when not busy, but the director, Charles Wyler; Jo couldn't stand him! Evasive and unpleasant, he had left her alone twice, and that was the last she saw of him. He seemed drunk, and Jeremy saved her in those moments, and others, rescuing her from silences she couldn't breach. Words piled in her head, unmoving.

Jo heard the rain, but the Mercedes was well insulated, and as Jeremy reached her hotel, she froze. She didn't want to be alone, the past few nights with Hannah's absence difficult but manageable. Jo had lived her entire senior year of college without a roommate, Marco long gone. His presence had sustained for over two years in Santa Barbara, but she had enjoyed being unaccompanied after their split, moving to a small apartment full of books, plants, and her own photographs. Not as many as her mother or grandmother, but more than Jeremy owned. That still struck her, from that one visit over a month ago. He had never taken her back to his house, but she remembered how stark it looked. Inviting, but barren.

The hotel was the same and Jo didn't want to go in, not by herself. Nor did she wish to sleep there. Being alone in England was different than in California; it reminded her of her father. Jeremy had stopped the car, but not removed his seat belt, and Jo wondered would he think her forward if she asked...

"Do you want me to walk you up?" he said.

As he went to remove his seatbelt, Jo shook her head. "Would you think me horrible if I asked you something?"

"No," he smiled.

Jo looked at the building. "Could I stay at your house tonight?"

She explained why on the drive, but Jeremy hadn't heard much of her justification. In the car she spoke plainly and arriving home, he wished he had paid more attention.

The bane of that rainy November evening was being in constant attention, Jo as Hannah's substitute. She had turned twenty-three last month, Hannah inviting Jeremy and Portia to dinner in Harrogate. As the last to leave Betty's Café, Jeremy, Portia, and Hannah had signed autographs for the staff that remained. Jo's smile seemed thankful to not be in demand, but now she had been stretched to the limit.

He parked the car and once inside the house, he turned on the heaters, a slight noise of radiators filling with water. After a few minutes, the chill disappeared. With a cup of tea in hand, Jo relaxed on the couch and Jeremy joined her.

"It's a lovely room. Did you decorate it?"

"Oh my talents lie elsewhere." Sipping his tea, he watched her take in the surroundings as if looking for something, yet not finding what she wanted.

She smiled. "It's inviting. So different from what I'm used to."

Hannah's trailer and hotel room were besieged with snapshots and knick knacks collected since the women's arrival, their lives on display at the Crown. But Jeremy knew that wasn't why Jo hadn't wanted to go back there.

She hadn't wanted to be alone. She hadn't said it, or he had missed the actual words. But Jeremy was aware, as sure as the way she sunk into the sofa, not wishing to move. Wanting to be with someone, anyone, but not by herself.

"I'm gone so much, no time to collect bits and bobs," he said.

"Uh-huh," Jo muttered, still looking around.

Jeremy finished his tea, then stood. "I'm going to make sure the guest bed has sheets."

Jo smiled. "Oh thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he chuckled, heading upstairs. With no idea if the housekeeper ever changed those linens, he made a mental note to ask. Not that anyone stayed over often. Griffin or Philippa rarely made it this far north.

Coming down, he noted Jo had moved to the bookshelf. More novels waited in the study, but these were his favorites, gifts from friends. His ex-wife Philippa offered new reads every Christmas, the film tomes from Griffin. Jeremy's only two friends were book lovers, and he smiled; Jo was his friend too, another avid reader.

"I'll have to ask my cleaning lady if she changes the sheets occasionally, but it looks all right for tonight."

"I really do appreciate it." Jo smiled. "These titles, a gamut of interests."

Jeremy joined her. "They're from a good friend and my ex. He's a documentary filmmaker and she's a mum."

"Only a mum?" Jo asked.

"Oh, she'd not be pleased I said like that." He laughed, breathing in a bouquet previously unnoticed. In the quiet he took in the woman next to him, her ease. He hadn't seen her at peace since Hannah left, but here Jo exuded serenity, and he couldn't help but touch her.

She glanced to his hand on her arm, then looked at him with deep brown eyes. Taking her hand, a small shock set him more off balance.

Who was Jo Adams? She didn't seem twenty-three, or Hannah's daughter. From where had she come, from his past, a memory, somewhere so removed. Jeremy wanted to kiss her, to see if she was real. He wanted to see if she felt as he did, had felt from the first day Hannah introduced them. For those few minutes, she was unknown, without any ties. Then she was Hannah and Craig's daughter, a girl in an accident. But a woman stood in front of him.

"Can I ask you something?" he whispered.

"Sure," her voice matching his.

"Can I kiss you?"

Jo gazed to the floor, then back at him. "Well, I suppose you can."

Jeremy smiled; more important was her permission. "May I?"

She nodded and Jeremy held her head in his grasp. Her receptive mouth was as warm as her eyes, unleashing a thrill he hadn't felt in a long time.

He hadn't planned any more than a kiss and only at that moment had it seemed appropriate. But more followed, and going up the stairs, Jeremy stopped on the landing, taking his mouth from hers. "This is the guest room," he said, opening the door.

She nodded, but didn't move.

"My room's down the hall," he offered.

Her voice was certain. "Take me there."

Chapter 4

Jeremy was alert and Jo scooted into him. Their names had been spoken, few other words to follow, but for the first time ever, Jo had them all on the tip of her tongue.

His arms wrapped around her as if a shield, but the accident taunted Jo. She never thought about it anymore, no one to prod her.

The last conscious memory was stirred by Marco Gonzalez. The further he had pushed, the more Jo had retreated. His absence set those thoughts back to a safe place. For a time she had missed him physically, but never his inquisitive mind.

Jo inhaled Jeremy's scent, unlike either Marco or Jack Reimy, a high school fling liberating Jo's virginity and some alarm. She had feared intimacy wouldn't occur, never revealing any bit of herself, but Jack had seen through her, and they shared a short romance when she was a senior. Similar in build to Jeremy and Marco, Jack had only asked if she was on the pill. Marco had wanted to know everything.

She breathed again, inhaling sex and what she concluded was a man. Marco wasn't. He was curious, but not an adult. If so, he would have left her alone in her head where it all sat, dying to be spoken. Other than calling her name, Jeremy had asked if they needed any protection. Her answer: _No, I'm on the pill_ , had been her only full sentence.

Then their names, uttered over and over, affirming the other's presence.

Jo's head spun hearing Jeremy's voice, asking if she was all right. She could only nod.

He brushed hair from her face, kissing her cheek. Then he stood, off to his bathroom. He returned, stepping to the dresser along the far wall. Pulling out a t-shirt, he gave it to her as he got back into bed. "For you to sleep in, if you want."

"Thank you." She slipped it over her head, soft cotton that against her skin felt like him.

She turned his way, thought more of his scent, keeping away words that were so close. Marco would have killed to know her thoughts; the end of their relationship was Jo's inability to tell him about the accident, her past, that year in New York. He felt she owed him, thought she should relay every detail.

"You don't have to say anything," Jeremy whispered, kissing her forehead. "Not a single thing."

She nodded, her heart bursting.

A few tears fell, and she decided Jeremy smelled like his house, warm and inviting, but unadorned. No decorations, trinkets or extra touches, his body lean but defined. Mostly hairless, but a small patch lay in the middle of his chest, the same shade as on his head, not the streaked grey he sported in the film. Naturally he was a medium brown and she ran her fingers along his torso.

He smelled like something uncomplicated, but not simple. It was pleasant, unlike Marco who had wanted to be so deep. An English major like herself, he was brooding, problematic, having wished to add Jo's baggage to his own, as if that would make him a better student, a more thoughtful individual. It only made him shallow as he petulantly dismissed her silence. If she wouldn't tell him, she must not trust him.

"Jeremy, can I tell you something?" Jo whispered.

He looked at her, his smile noting great pleasure. "Of course."

"I want to tell you about my grandmother.

"I had never lived with anyone but my parents. But it's different when you're living with someone else, in their house. It's all their possessions, and I'd never known that feeling. I was only ten."

"I know. Are you sure you want to tell me this?"

Jo lurched forward. "Oh yes," she shook. "God yes!"

Jeremy sat up, taking her in his arms. "Why?"

She gazed out, the room illuminated by a light in the hallway. A wardrobe sat to the right, a bedside table and a clock; one a.m. To the left was the master bathroom, a small table in the corner and ahead the dresser, uncluttered, like the rest of the house. She longed to clear out her heart so it might look like this room, like Jeremy's home. Or at least a little less like her mother's.

"Because I can," she said.

He nodded, pulling the duvet over them.

"I had my own room, and it was full of books. Grandma had ones from Mum and Aunt Ellen, plus a lot more, but I didn't know why. I mean, why did she have all these books? Later I figured she bought them once she knew Mum and I were coming. She must've bought every kid's book she could find and they were for all ages. I don't think she asked anyone for titles because they were so random. Little kid books and preteen novels and oh god, just anything you'd think. And because I wasn't talking, all I did was read."

"There's a lot of love in your voice."

Jo sniffed. "Yeah, I mean, if she hadn't been there for Mum and me, I really don't know what would've happened."

He kissed her head, running fingers through her curls. "Did she try to talk to you about it?"

"Not really. I wrote everything that couldn't be conveyed in more than a nod; all I remember is writing for the first few days, until my arm got sore. Grandma would ask me a question, sometimes not even look at me, which was good. I think if she'd been staring, I probably wouldn't have spilled anything. But she just nodded toward me, caught up in her own book or letters. She wrote letters all the time, still does. I've been getting them since we've been here," Jo chuckled.

"Did your mother ask you anything?"

Jo shook her head. "She let Grandma do it all. Mum was pretty broken when we got to New York. I remember for a week she was flat out in bed. Grandma told me Mum would be fine, she was just really tired. And I knew, I mean..." Jo began to cry.

"It's all right," Jeremy said, holding her close.

Jo used the t-shirt to wipe her eyes. "I knew what she'd lost.

"In spring, we walked all over the neighborhood. Grandma lives in this three-level brownstone, an enormous house that Mum bought for her. Mum and I stayed on the top level; there're two bedrooms and this huge walkway that separates them, with a big bureau and these shelves where Grandma has pictures literally stacked on top of each other. She sleeps on the next floor down, I guess you'd call it the first floor, and on the ground is the garage and another room, but it's full of stuff. The middle level's the living room, kitchen and Grandma's room, where I read. I'd bring down a stack of books because..." Jo wavered. "It was easier than making her climb the stairs. She'd be cooking all these soups and stews and rice dishes. She loves rice. When I was sick, she'd make it and while it was still hot, she'd put vanilla ice cream on it. Oh, that was like heaven." Jo laughed. "Mum thought it was just awful. But Grandma told me she'd done the same for Mum and Aunt Ellen, but I had to keep it a secret.

"We walked all over, then came back home, and if there were too many soda cans piled up, I'd take them down to the garage and smash them, my only moment to make any noise. Either I was in the house, where they could see me, or I was out back smashing cans." Jo's voice went flat. "The only noise I made.

"Jeremy," she said, "I was never out of their sight, always within earshot, theirs or mine."

Jo used his bathroom. Returning, she sat next to him. "Mum didn't worry about school. Grandma'd been a teacher and she took me to museums, gardens, plays, concerts. Mum went to California, checked on the house, but didn't write much, not until summer.

"I don't know why I spoke again. One day Grandma asked if I wanted jam and I said no, jelly. She loves strawberry jam and it was either jam or grape jelly. And that day I just said I wanted jelly."

"What did she do?"

Jo took his hands, many words left to tell him. Instead she smiled. "She just said _uh-huh_ and gave me a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich." Leaning over, she kissed his face. Removing the blanket, she ran her cheek along his chest, down to his stomach, where she continued kissing him.

"Oh Jo," Jeremy murmured.

"May I make love to you?"

In between her words, she traveled down his lower torso as he scooted into bed, nodding his head. As Jo moved over him, she saw it was almost four o'clock.

She remained beside him until his snoring was solid. Wearing the t-shirt, she gathered her clothes and dressed in the guest room. Another clock noted it was five and she went downstairs, looking for her purse. It waited on the sofa and she took it and her empty teacup into the kitchen.

Along his wall was the number of a taxi. She dialed, providing her location. Right before Jo departed, she wrote a note, leaving it on the counter next to her mug. She slipped through the back garden, exiting via the side gate. Making her way along the wall, Jo went left, waiting at the Half Moon Pub where after a few minutes, a taxi appeared.

Jo got in. "The Crown Hotel in Harrogate please."

An hour later, Jeremy woke alone. He used the toilet, then noticed Jo's clothes were missing. She wasn't in the guest room and he went downstairs, hearing nothing. Her purse was gone and in the kitchen, he found her cup. The note sat underneath.

_Jeremy,_ _thank you for last night, the dinner and what came afterwards. Jo_

Picking up the mug, he traced her lipstick along the rim.

Chapter 5

Jeremy waited for an hour outside Valley Gardens Park, but Jo never showed. Only two minutes from her hotel, it took all his self-control to not go to her room. They had been meeting at the park since the production's move to Harrogate, then would venture off in his Mini. With time running out on his pay and display sticker and no sign of Jo, Jeremy got in the car and drove home.

He hadn't fallen back to sleep after her departure. They had planned an early lesson as he had to be on the set at two that afternoon. They would have eaten lunch, Jeremy arriving at makeup with plenty of time to spare. Now there was more time than he thought possible.

He possessed her mobile number but refrained from ringing. A dozen scenarios ran through his mind; had he scared her? Had she found him unappealing? Had memories overwhelmed, causing her to flee? Driving toward Helperby, he felt vulnerable, a strange notion when connected to women.

Jeremy Stewart hadn't been single this long since his teens. His last relationship ended in 2004, when he swore off women permanently. Recalling Philippa's hearty laugh when declaring his vow, it had lasted all of a few months, but since Fiona Grace, no one had meant anything past a casual fling. Dates to premiers and film festivals, fleeting romances on the set; nothing had caused him any worry.

But Jeremy worried over Jo, four years since anyone had gotten under his skin. Fiona's noisy desire for a ring had done them in and Jeremy had found living unattached enjoyable. He had been content in his quiet, unadorned house. Until Jo, Jeremy assumed that was his lot.

He had traveled all over, but the flat, agricultural Vale of York was home. He had grown up in Helperby, attended the local primary school, then was ferried the short distance to York for high school, a mutual decision between parents and son as Henry and Louise Stewart hadn't wanted their only child far away. A solitary youngster, Jeremy had found acting an outlet. By age fifteen, an apparent talent was emerging. Then tragedy.

That day Jeremy had waited an hour for his mother; Louise picked him up every day. The story he told to a select few was he began walking at half three, reaching home two hours later. He had only ever told his ex-wife the horror waiting upon his arrival.

Jeremy didn't hear from Jo Friday or Saturday. On Sunday, she arrived on the set with news that her mother was returning Monday morning. As Jo slipped into Portia's trailer, Jeremy waved. Tempted to knock, he thought better of it, sending her a text.

Later that night, he received an email from Hannah. She would arrive in London early, but not reach Leeds until two in the afternoon. Alta was a bit better and Hannah thanked him for his help with the dinner. She didn't mention Jo and Jeremy didn't reply.

But with that bit of information, Jeremy picked up his phone. After the first ring, he hung up. What was there to say? Jo had obviously changed her mind, but he couldn't clear her from his. He had dreamed of her, wishing to hear her voice. They were supposed to meet for a lesson on Tuesday. Could he wait that long?

Again hitting her name on the mobile, he let it ring four times. Just before he hit the red button, she answered. "Hello?"

"Jo? It's Jeremy."

There was silence, then she sighed. "Oh hi."

"Just wanted to see how you were."

She cleared her throat. "Oh, I've had a small cold."

"Mmmhmm. Are you feeling better? I mean, are we still on for Tuesday?"

"Tuesday," she mumbled. "Right. Tuesday. Of course."

"I heard from your mother tonight. She's on her way home."

"Uh, yeah. She gets into Leeds/Bradford sometime after noon."

"Jo, about the other night, I'm sorry. It seems to have, well, messed things up between us."

After another long silence he heard muffled tears. "Jeremy," but she said nothing more.

"Will I see you on Tuesday?"

"Sure," her throat scratchy. "Tuesday."

He inhaled. "Well, right then, Tuesday. At ten?"

A deep sigh was followed by sniffles. "Right, ten."

"Okay. I hope you feel better. Good night."

"Right, thanks. Bye."

He noted the click, then a dull tone. It was over. The call, and them too.

On Monday, Jeremy was on the set early, busy all morning. He paid attention to the time and after he felt Hannah was in country, he rang her mobile. She didn't pick up and he kept trying, leaving a message after the third attempt.

With no scenes until after dinner, he took a taxi to The Crown Hotel. His presence in town was known, but nobody expected Jeremy Stewart to appear in his late forties. Still in makeup, he slipped by unnoticed. He reached Hannah's door and knocked; Jo answered.

"Hello," he said.

"Oh god, Jeremy. Oh uh, come in."

The small living space was strewn with clothes, a suitcase half full on the sofa, another on the carpet. Not all of it was Hannah's, Jo's Birkenstocks next to the case on the floor. This time the daughter was preparing to travel.

"Your mum get in all right?" He ran a hand through his hair, gray stuck to his fingers.

"Oh uh, yeah. She just laid down actually."

He nodded toward the cases. "She get her unpacking done?"

"Not all of it."

"You leaving next?"

Springing it like that made her cry. "Yes."

Jeremy tried to take her hand. She turned her face and he tipped it back to him, marking her chin with gray fingers. "Were you going to tell me?"

Jo stared at him. "No."

"I see." He stepped to the other side of the room. Catching himself in the mirror, he felt as old as he looked. Then he saw Hannah in her doorway.

"Well hello. Didn't expect such a welcome."

Jeremy smiled. "You know me. Great with timing."

Jo had moved to a corner, arms tight around her body. Hannah joined her as Jo gazed at Jeremy. "My grandmother still needs some help, you know?"

"I'm sure she does. How is Alta?"

Hannah sighed. "All right, but Jo felt she and Ellen could use some company."

"Well, that's probably a good idea. I was just here to see if Jo and I were on for our lesson tomorrow. But I suppose we can make it another time." Jeremy offered Hannah a hug, but didn't include Jo.

"I'm going back to bed. Whatever's with you two, oh lord!" Hannah sighed again. "Jeremy, I'll see you tomorrow."

"With bells on."

"Uh-huh." She went to her room and closed the door.

As soon as they were alone, Jeremy moved to Jo. She tried to turn from him, but only for seconds. Then he held her, whispering her name.

"I-I'm sorry," she said. "I can't stay."

He didn't understand entirely. She had spoken of her past, not the accident proper, but some pieces had escaped. Did she fear more might follow? "Jo, love," but he said no more. He wanted to call her _sweetheart_ or _honey_ , any term to explain how he felt, any expression that might ease her heartache. "Jo, I wish you wouldn't go."

She looked up. "I can't be with you because you make me want to talk."

Jeremy nodded as she cried more, allowing him to hold her.

"No one has ever made me wanna talk," she added. "No one."

He gripped her as she broke down against him.

They stood for another minute, then Jo moved the suitcase to the floor. She sat down and Jeremy joined her, taking her hands as she caught her breath. Her light brown skin contrasted with his and he laughed. Jo gazed at him.

"Not much sun this summer even if I did get out in it," he smiled.

Color wasn't an issue to Jo. Her parents were biracial, Aunt Ellen's husband African American. "I guess. I never see it," she sighed.

"Your father didn't, I mean, I never felt it was any big deal with him."

Craig Adams' mother was from an established family in London, his father a black Canadian visiting Britain for the summer. The couple married to ensure their son's legitimacy, but Craig was raised by his mother in England. "Dad never spoke about his family much. But I was so young at the time."

She wiped her face, then looked at Jeremy. "This is why I have to go. I can't do this. I mean, I want to. I wanna tell you everything. I've never wanted to talk about it in my whole life." She stood, arms around herself again. "But I can't and I'm sorry."

Jeremy needed to leave; Amy would have to retouch his makeup as he'd gotten much of it on Jo's face. He took her arms, but she held fast, finally relenting in jerks.

"Jo, I'm going to be honest with you. I think..." He paused, for it was a lie, no thinking involved. "I think I'm falling in love with you."

Her face went pale, her eyes larger than he imagined. She nodded slightly. "I think I'm falling in love with you too."

Jeremy smiled. "I know your mobile is a UK number, but is it, I mean, can I ring you in New York?"

She shook her head.

"How about email?"

Jo took his hands, but kept her eyes down. "You can get Grandma's address from Mum. Write to me there."

Jeremy shook. He had an idea how deep her pain went, but no verbal contact, nor any immediate correspondence? There were limits; this was her offer.

"All right. Of course." He kissed her face before she could turn, leaving more of his foundation along her jaw line. Then he brushed his lips against hers. The memory of Thursday night ran through him and with one last stroke along her cheek, he stepped from the room.

Jo followed, thinking she could hear his footsteps. When he didn't return, she shut the door, flinging herself into the sofa.

Chapter 6

Monday 1 December 2008

Dear Jo,

It's been only hours since I saw you and I just now arrived home. If I told you how much I despise Wyler, I know you'd understand. But it's not only that; Liz and I were at wits end with Portia tonight. This film has taken more from me than I ever imagined and I suppose I can place the blame squarely on your mother. But if not for Hannah, I wouldn't have met you.

And therein lies the rub. I had no idea I was going to meet you, although I'd heard of you over the years, this daughter of Hannah and Craig. I had to laugh when I finally did meet you, but still was unaware of who you were. Only until after we exited the trailer did your mother clue me in. Hannah certainly has a way with keeping people in suspense.

He stopped there, not only Hannah holding him on tenterhooks.

So, after a horrific night, I'm home. It's cold out. No sun all summer and this winter will be more of the same. You're leaving at a good time, although New York currently isn't any warmer than Yorkshire. But you'll have snow and that will be nice, I suppose.

As for me, I have your grandmother's address, and will ship this off so you can know all here is the same. Wyler's an ass and it's still frigid. You'll be leaving in the morning and I miss you.

Love, Jeremy

He was of two minds writing that salutation, deciding at the end to keep it. She hadn't told him that was forbidden.

When Jo arrived in New York, she caught a taxi to her grandmother's house. As she paid the cabbie, her Aunt Ellen opened the door.

"Get inside girl," Ellen Horn called. "It's freezing!"

Slowly Jo took the steps. She hadn't managed any sleep on the plane. Jeremy remained in her head, his gentle kiss, his caring words. _I think I'm falling in love with you_ looped in her mind the entire journey and not music, nor the films, had drowned it out.

She embraced her aunt in the foyer, following her into the kitchen, which smelled like bacon. The house looked as usual, overrun with brick-a-brack and photographs, furniture crammed in so tightly if one piece was removed, Jo felt the entire place would crumble. Other than bacon, it smelled of Jo's grandmother. Alta was sleeping but present in the aroma of Jo's childhood.

"How is she?" Jo took off her coat and shoes. The house was warm and as soon as she unpacked, she would slip on her clogs.

Ellen poured her some water. "She's all right, just cranky. Can't eat what she likes and is supposed to start seeing a trainer to get her on some exercise regime."

Jo nearly choked. "And how long's that gonna last?"

Ellen's smile recalled Hannah's. "Oh about as long as she's willing to participate. New Year's maybe?"

Jo nodded. Her grandmother was only seventy, but had been in poor health for years, troubles relating to her heart, arthritis, and now a stroke. Jo sighed. "What's to eat?"

"Black eyed peas. Someone was excited you were coming."

Jo approached the stove, inhaling some peace. "Is there rice?"

Ellen nodded, then stood. "In the fridge. It's done, if you're hungry."

Jo trailed Ellen to the bedroom, off the kitchen. Alta McIntyre sat forward with an enormous smile as Jo came through. "Come here girl, come here," Alta said, patting the side of the bed.

"Oh Grandma!"

Ellen departed as Jo embraced her grandmother. "How are you?" Jo asked, brushing sparse white hairs from Alta's temple.

"I'm fine. You smell that?"

Jo nodded. "Smells good."

"She wasn't gonna add the bacon. Can you imagine?" Alta clucked.

"Grandma, you're not supposed to have too much salt."

Alta sat up, reaching for a tissue. She blew her nose, then whispered. "There isn't a day goes by that I'm not gonna eat something good. If that means I'm off sooner rather than later, so be it." Her smile was naughty.

Jo hugged her again. Alta would continue life her way, regardless of doctors or her daughters. "Okay, bacon with the beans. It's so good to see you." Dishes rattled in the kitchen and Jo's stomach rumbled.

"Don't they feed you on those planes anymore?"

"Not like home cooking."

"Well, I'll be up in a few. You get something to eat and save me a portion." Alta smiled. "Oh and Jo, who's Jeremy Stewart?"

Jo shuddered. "Why?"

"Well," she said, heading to her bathroom, "there's something in your room from a Jeremy Stewart. No one tells me anything." Alta closed the bathroom door and Jo went up the stairs, leaving her suitcases in the living room.

"You want some beans?" Ellen called.

"Yeah," Jo hollered from the landing. Across the way, Ellen slept in the guest room, but Jo's space was solely hers. She opened the door, saw the sheets pulled back, leaving the pillows to air. The walls were still lavender with a light blue border that was painted during the year Jo lived in New York. She smiled, looking for something on the bed. What could he have sent? Did he already have her address?

Her heart pounded as soon as she inhaled. Atop the dresser stood a vase filled with red roses. Ferns and baby's breath were scattered throughout, along with daises and lilies, a huge display. After the shock, Jo smiled; Aunt Ellen had lugged it all the way up!

Fingering the petals, Jo couldn't help but count; a dozen roses, five lilies. The lilies battled as bacon rose, aromas slamming Jo on both sides. She saw the card and with tears welling, set about reading it.

Dear Jo, just to tell you I'm never far away. Love, Jeremy

"Now, do you have his address?" Alta asked, each with a bowl of beans and rice.

Jo could still discern the lilies. "Uh, I don't actually."

"Well, how're you gonna write him a thank you note if you don't have his address?"

Jo smiled. Ellen had said nothing, but Alta had plied her granddaughter with questions. She hadn't been pleased to hear he was _that_ Jeremy Stewart; Alta wasn't keen on Jo dating an actor. Yet Alta didn't recall Marco ever sending such a big bouquet.

"I'll get it from Mum."

"Well do that today, because with air mail, it's gonna take time getting there." Alta finished her bowl, setting it aside. "Thanks honey," she said to Ellen.

"Sure Momma."

"Unless you're gonna email him," Alta then continued. "You have his email right?"

Considering Jeremy's goodbye, Jo blinked tears. "No, I uh, I don't."

Ellen took their bowls to the kitchen as Alta reached for Jo's hands, a grandmother's fingers spotted by time. "Honey, if he sent all those flowers, what on earth are you doing here?"

Jo gazed up, her face wet. "Grandma," she struggled. "I can't..." Surrounded by those with whom she felt safe, Jo erupted in tears.

Wednesday, 3 December 2008

Dear Jo,

Well, I'm doing my bit to keep our struggling postal service in the black. It's early and you're already in New York, but by the time you get this, you'll have found I've already sent something. Someone once told me lilies were their favourite flowers, but they disliked how the stamens left a mark. I thought I'd send you some, see if you agreed.

I'm in my trailer right now, and keep thinking I'll find you sitting next to Hannah. It's quite disconcerting. Or maybe you're with Portia. She was late today; I think we need to wrap this up. So many lives focused on one project, and then we're all scattered. I may never see most of these people ever again. If I NEVER see Wyler, that would be too soon.

But I'd like to see you someday.

Love, Jeremy

Jo slept well that night, waking to the smell of lilies. The roses were fragrant, but the lilies overwhelmed and Jo wondered how he knew she loved them.

She went down to the scent of coffee. Ellen waved good morning, but Jo remained quiet, her habit within this house as though walls needed her unspoken words to support Alta's heaving bookcases and picture frames. Jo made some tea and joined her aunt.

"Did you sleep well?" Ellen asked.

Jo nodded, sipping her tea. "Is she up yet?"

"No. I think she'll be fine, but I'm glad you're here."

Jo smiled. "You leaving today?"

"Tomorrow. Eric's had the week off and won't need me back until then. But if you need anything..."

"Mum'll be here next week. I think there's only a few days left and she didn't need to stay for the end."

"Well, I'm glad you're here." Ellen gazed to Alta's closed door. "She misses you and I'm ready for a break." A gentle smile turned to a chuckle. "She's ready for an easier face too."

Jo grinned.

They were quiet, then Ellen reached for her niece's hand. "You okay honey?"

"Yeah, fine." She stood, hugging her aunt with one arm. "I'm gonna get a shower before she wakes up."

"Good idea." As Ellen watched Jo leave, the scent of lilies wafted. Ellen smiled, curious if this actor Hannah had been so keen for her book knew lilies were Jo's favorite.

In the shower, Jo could smell the roses battling for recognition. She washed off the previous day's travel, too tired last night to do so. She hadn't wished to sleep with Yorkshire on her, but after crying in her grandmother's arms, Jo had barely made it to bed.

Alta and Ellen had listened, but said nothing. Jo had wanted their guidance, any scrap of what to do. Ellen shook her head, kissed Jo's, and set out Alta's medications. Jo's grandmother only whispered her name as she had years ago: _I love you Josephine Michelle. It'll be fine, my Josephine Michelle._ Jo coveted that voice; it too would be gone someday.

She recalled the day Hannah painted the blue border. Jo had been reading on the landing as her mother and grandmother sang and talked and painted. Stevie Wonder filled the house as Jo silently watched their efforts. She had smiled when Alta had asked if she liked it. Smiled, nodded, then Jo returned to her books.

Silence was all she wanted now. The top floor bathroom was off the other bedroom and Jo came through, wrapped in a towel. There was no music, only the faint, comforting hum from the street, encasing Jo like the towel, smooth against her skin. Easy, healing, and she didn't want to talk, didn't wish to speak. Wanted to once again push memories as far back as they would retreat. This time the images weren't of her father's broken body, but of another man.

Jo wore a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans, the house toasty. If she went out, she would add a sweater, her wardrobe no different than in Yorkshire. It would snow soon; she could sense it. Cold would descend, then white flakes covering everything. Jo loved snow for it too was silent. When she was young, it seemed to arrive during the night. When she awoke all was changed, bright and new, fresh and beautiful. Snow never found her in California, but it did in New York.

Ellen had gone out, leaving a note. Jo poked in the cupboards, tempted to have rice and beans for breakfast. She located some cereal and as she ate, Alta walked in.

Jo joined her. "Oh Grandma, good morning. I didn't even hear you."

They went to the table and Alta looked around. "Is she here?"

"No, she went for milk."

Alta grinned. "Just wanted to have some coffee. They want to take that away from me too."

Jo poured her half a cup. "I used the last of the milk. You'll have to drink it black."

"Oh, that's all right. I have been for a while." Alta took the mug and sipped it. "Oh, now that is good." She smiled. "All right, before she gets back, you need to tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me Jo," Alta said. "If you tell me, then soon you can tell him."

Ellen returned to the women in peals of laughter, morning talk shows blaring. Alta hadn't hidden her cup, left defiantly in the middle of the table. Ellen put away the milk and bread, then gave her mother a weary glance, joining them on the sofa. The open room was separated by the dining table, the couch and chair nestled between bookcases and a hutch stuffed with old dishes. Two large windows faced the street where a fine mist was beginning to fall. It had been chilly and Ellen had wondered if the first snow would arrive that week.

"So, I'm gone for less than an hour and besides coffee, what else have you had?"

Alta wiped tears, laughter subsiding a little. "Oh a fifth of whiskey, half a carton of Newport's and chocolates. A whole damned box of them."

Ellen shook her head. "Am I home yet?"

"Honey, this is always gonna be your home." Alta got on her feet. "I'm gonna get a bath. Jo, you come help me."

Jo was right behind her and Ellen tapped Jo's butt. "Some help you are."

"Are you kidding? She's a horrible influence!"

Jo ran the water, adding Alta's bath oil. It smelled of Jo's childhood, as Alta had given Jo her bath most nights using the same oil. Honeysuckle, but not cloying, and Jo loved how it made her skin so soft, made her smell like her grandmother. Not an old lady; Jo didn't see Alta that way, even now. Sparse hair revealed her age, wispy strands from when Jo was a teenager, a reaction to medication Alta had been prescribed. Jo stopped the water, staring at hand rails at the side of the tub. Those were new, as was a rubber mat along the bottom. Jo accepted those additions. Her grandmother didn't look old, but issues remained.

Alta emerged in her robe. "Let me get in and then you sit with me. I'll pull the curtain and we'll talk. You remember?"

Jo nodded, tears ready to spill. Alta had run Jo's baths, but a granddaughter had been ten, needing some privacy. Jo had pulled the shower curtain, then would set out her robe, then her hand. Alta held both, telling her stories, and when Jo let go, that was Alta's cue. She would leave Jo to finish, then braid her curly hair and tuck her into bed, a ritual that now saw some of the positions turned.

Jo made the bed. Hearing the shower curtain close, she returned. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, she inhaled a scent of days past.

"It's nice, isn't it? Honeysuckle, you remember?"

"Yeah, I do." Jo breathed again. "It's like home."

"Honey, is this man someone you want to remember?"

Jo inhaled, but held it. Then she exhaled. "Grandma, when we came here, what was I like?"

Alta sighed. "Like a little crushed petal, looking for a bloom."

Jo's tears had been hovering and they fell in this one room. Alta's hand emerged from the other side of the curtain and Jo gripped the warm, wet skin.

"So fragile, but in this curious way, like noise was your enemy. Now I don't know if you knew it, but I saw how you shirked from loud horns on the street or the buses rumbling down, that sort of thing. But I remember thinking this girl who used to make more noise than I thought possible for one child to produce, now she's shut up like a clam. They always say happy as a clam, but never quiet as one. But you were. You were."

With her free hand, Jo ripped a few sheets of toilet paper, wiping her eyes. The steam and oil opened her up and she wept while listening to her grandmother's words of someone Jo didn't remember.

"I just thought, well, she's quiet all right. Only when you smashed my soda cans, that was the only noise you made. And boy, you smashed them with both feet, like you knew that was how to let out all you were feeling, all you were thinking. Now I imagine you don't know what to do."

Jo let go of Alta's hand. As if the warmth of the room expelled croup, Jo wept hard.

"Now I don't know anything about this man except a couple of his movies I've seen on television. He seems nice, nice and suave." Alta laughed. "But I read Hannah's book and if he can find the humanity in that character then maybe he could take a crushed little petal and not bruise it. Now, maybe I'm wrong." She splashed herself, humming a few notes. "Sometimes I am." She hummed again as Jo's breathing slowed. "But I also like having you here, so I'm not gonna say one way or the other. If I talk too much, I start getting uppity, and I don't like falling off of high horses." She laughed. "Too old for that now anyways."

"Uh-huh," Jo inhaled, filling her lungs with oily air.

"Did you write that thank you note yet?" Alta asked.

"No."

"All right, well, you get that done. It might start snowing later, I can feel it. Get it written and sent off before it gets too cold."

Jo left, but Alta sat in the tub, inhaling the honeysuckle. She smiled as that fragrant oil reminded her of Lee.

Chapter 7

_Wednesday, December 3_ rd _2008_

Dear Jeremy,

I wanted to thank you, more than these paltry words could say, for the bouquet waiting upon my arrival. My grandmother wanted to know who you were, and as I inhaled that scent, I had to laugh. My poor Aunt Ellen had to carry it up the stairs.

I hope it's not so bad there, weather-wise. Give Mum a hug from me if you get this before she leaves.

Again, they are beautiful. Lilies are one of my favorites.

Sincerely, Jo

Jeremy's last day consisted of three scenes, all with Elizabeth Watson. His hair wasn't gray, also not all his own. The work took place early in the lives of the characters and he wore mullet-length extensions, which he thought looked ridiculous. He had little say, however, at the appearance of his character. By the end, all he wanted was to leave.

Jo's absence had stretched the days to the point that Jeremy was convinced someone must be changing time, each hour feeling like three or four. Then he smiled as Charles Wyler yelled "CUT! It's a wrap". Maybe it was the director.

Jeremy shook hands, kissed cheeks, and gave hugs. With his co-star Liz, it was a longer embrace, one of shared exhaustion and overwhelming sighs, aware it was more than another movie. How much more remained to be seen, but as they said goodbye, Jeremy blinked a few tears. Those day's lines, words said to someone with whom you were falling in love, brought him back to Jo. Had that spurred his performance? He wasn't sure.

Jeremy said nothing to Wyler, didn't even look his way. He went to Hannah, surrounded by well wishers. She took time with every person, some smiles a little forced, most not. She was honest in her words and Jeremy longed for that freedom.

She caught his eye and he nodded, then walked away. They were meeting for dinner that evening and would talk then.

It was late when they entered Betty's Café and few patrons remained. Hannah spoke to the hostess as Jeremy sat at a table along the far wall next to a working fireplace, the heat welcome, the weather damp and chilly. He hadn't been there since Jo's birthday supper weeks before the Thanksgiving dinner, before he had slept with her, but not before he'd fallen in love with her. He had kept that to himself until a few days ago. Had she only been gone for days? He had written her several letters and it felt like weeks since he'd seen her. Sending another that morning, he had stopped at the Harrogate post office right as they opened. A few people noticed him and he signed the outgoing mail of one young woman, thrilled that her sister would find Jeremy Stewart's autograph on her birthday card. With his usual charming nature intact, he had been happy to mingle, having kept to himself on the film. As Hannah reached the table, he was ready to be gregarious.

As soon as she sat, a young woman approached, emboldened by laughter from her table.

"May I help you? Jeremy's voice was seductive.

"Oh it is you!" she giggled.

He smiled, took her hand, and kissed it. Then on a piece of paper she offered, he wrote a short note. The woman, in her early twenties, swayed, then swooned, one of her companions retrieving her. Giggles ensued and Hannah looked at them, then back to Jeremy.

"Is that how you do it?"

Allowing Hannah the bench, his view was of the fireplace and walls. But in the mirror that covered the back of the room, he watched the group exit with sly grins and chuckles. "Props up the image. I've had a few bombs. Need to keep myself on the radar."

Hannah smiled. "I'm sure you do."

They ordered and Hannah told him they were welcome to stay as long as they liked. Betty's closed at nine, but they wouldn't be rushed off.

"You'll be autographing a few notepads before we leave," he said, sipping his wine.

Hannah chuckled. "I bet a pound you sign more."

They ate, talked of the film, the weather, but not of Jo until Hannah mentioned her. "Jo got the flowers. What in the world did you send her?"

As Jeremy choked, Hannah smiled. Jeremy shook his head. "You're awful."

"Well, just thought you'd like to know."

Hannah's laughter reminded Jeremy of the group that had just left, women realizing more than they admitted. He was weakened by their collective power, yet curious as to the meaning. "Well, I'm glad she liked them," he offered.

Hannah nodded, then leaned forward. "How'd you know she liked lilies?"

Jeremy smiled. Hailey had put them out at the Farmer's Inn and Jo had remarked how she loved the smell. "She mentioned it one day we were having lunch together."

"Well, you have a good memory," Hannah clucked.

"For certain things. How is she?"

Hannah's face went up, then down. "Good, I mean, from the little I hear. Busy with Momma and getting settled. My sister leaves tomorrow, or maybe today."

"And when do you go?"

"Sunday. Not gonna be any warmer there than here."

"Will you be in New York for the holidays?"

She nodded. "Momma's gonna need looking after for a while."

"And Jo?"

"What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing now."

"Jeremy..."

"I'm not the sort to kiss and tell. And besides, she left." He smiled, but hurt slipped through his tone. Then he turned around and noticed the staff watching them. "Hannah, what do you want to know?"

"How you feel. Do you care about her?"

Jeremy sighed. "I love her. But," he paused, "she's gone."

Hannah placed her hands on the table. "You know why she left."

He finished his wine. "But knowing that and her absence are, well, different things."

Hannah caught a waiter's eye. He approached and Hannah ordered a glass of wine.

"Jeremy," Hannah began, "I think, oh hell. Why'd you do this?"

He smiled. "Just to pester you."

Hannah rolled her eyes as the wine arrived. She took a drink. "Are you serious, I mean, about Jo?"

Jeremy's heart pounded with the mention of her name. He leaned toward Hannah and gripped her hand. "Oh yes I am."

Hannah took another sip. She closed her eyes, then opened them. "Well..." She shook her head. "Then should I expect more lilies when I get there?"

He nodded, laughing. "Yes you should."

"Did you know I don't really like lilies?"

He smiled. "I had no idea. What shall I send you?"

Hannah finished her wine in one long gulp. "A brick, with your name on it."

Jeremy burst out laughing. "Consider it done."

_Friday, December 5_ th _2008_

Dear Jeremy,

After waiting all week, finally snow has landed. Aunt Ellen left yesterday, just beating it, but Grandma can be a little cantankerous and Aunt Ellen had been here since the stroke. Now I'm awake, watching the snow, and it feels like Christmas.

Grandma's taking a nap. It's very quiet and I like it that way. People scurry about on the street, packages under their arms, readying for the holiday. They're dressed in hats, long coats and scarves, hands in pockets, avoiding the cold and wind. Then the snow falls, enormous flakes in front of my eyes.

I didn't expect to write to you, but it's a little boring right now, and I don't watch television, except with my grandmother. We spend the evenings watching the Knicks, basketball is her favorite sport. She still remembers Patrick Ewing, and longs for those days. But perhaps you have no idea who he is. She never really cared for their coach, Pat Riley, but always claimed if Patrick Ewing knocked on her door, she would drop everything for him. Then she would laugh.

So we watch basketball. I know nothing of the players, but Grandma does. It's so good to be with her; I see how she's changed and it scares me. She's always been a part of my life, but people come and go, nothing one can do.

I hope you received my note. The flowers are still beautiful, but the scent of lilies will greet Mum like a bad cold. They're my favorites. How did you know?

Oh, I hear Grandma. More later...

Jeremy arrived at Philippa's as the rain turned from spit to storm. Leaping from the car, he missed the puddles, running to the door. As the taxi sped off, Jeremy knocked. The door opened and he was greeted by a grinning six-year-old.

"Uncle Jeremy's here," Bethany McCullough yelled, taking the umbrella as Jeremy shook off the rain. He set down his suitcase, slipped off his shoes, and followed the skipping girl to the kitchen. The house smelled of curry and Jeremy heard his ex-wife reprimanding her other child.

Nine-year-old James sat at the table, papers surrounding him. Pots and pans covered the counters; chicken dopiaza was one of the family's favorites.

"Watch out James. She's a stickler," Jeremy said, kissing Philippa's cheek.

"Hello," she smiled. "How was the flight?"

Jeremy joined James, looking at the boy's homework. "Busy." Their perennial Christmas guest, Jeremy had arrived early, the holiday two weeks away. He owned a flat on the other side of the city, but that night would sleep in Philippa's guest room, then depart for his own place within the following days, a routine as much for himself as the children.

"Griff coming round?" she asked.

"Not tonight, unless you want to feed another," he smiled.

"This is quite enough, thank you. Let me get these two done with school, then we'll talk."

"How much longer do you have?" Jeremy asked James.

"Two more days." The boy smiled, large brown eyes shining, similar to his father. Jeremy had always seen Rodger in this child, but Bethany was Philippa's spitting image. With no other relatives, Jeremy had taken the role of uncle from their birth. James and Bethany had assumed he was their mother's brother; only last Christmas did the truth emerge. "Are you in London now for good?"

Jeremy laughed. "Well, as good as Christmas gets. I'm busy with Griff in January, but until then, I'm all yours."

He tickled James as Bethany came for her share. As Philippa cooked, Jeremy listened to sagas, ending up on the sofa watching telly.

At the commercial break he joined Philippa in the kitchen. "That smells awfully good. When do we eat?"

"In twenty minutes. That all right?"

He nodded, getting a glass of water. "How are you?"

"Ready for the holidays. And you?"

He set the cup on the counter. "Glad to be done with that movie."

She came close, taking his hand. "And how is she?"

Jeremy glanced toward the TV, the children engrossed with the show. Lowering the flame under the dopiaza, he led Philippa into the front lounge. He had told her about Jo during the shoot, but said little after her departure. "She's not a frequent writer, I'll give her that."

"You still haven't heard anything?"

He sighed. "I got a thank you note for the flowers, but nothing else. I guess she meant what she said."

"It'll come round," Philippa whispered, kissing his cheek.

Jeremy looked into her eyes, hazel and close together. He'd known her through good and bad. The bad had been long ago and the good had stayed.

As the door rattled, he squeezed her, then moved to the foyer. "Rodger," Jeremy said. "Good to see you."

Philippa remained in the lounge until young voices called. Then she returned to the kitchen.

Dinner was a chatty affair; Jeremy reveled in the children, sitting between them. After they departed, he and Rodger spoke of the film, news in the City. As they conversed, Philippa cleared the table, rousing the kids into their baths. Rodger relieved his wife as Jeremy finished the dishes, then he read each child a story, saying goodnight. Afterward he helped Philippa tidy the family room. She laughed at his domesticity, but didn't complain. "Oh, I do like it when you come round. It's like I've got two husbands."

Jeremy smiled. "You do. One current, one former."

She grinned. "And you're both good for something."

He laughed as she put away the leftovers. Philippa looked the same, brown hair highlighted to nearly blond, her body that of a woman in her mid-thirties having produced children. Seventeen years before, when she'd been his wife, Jeremy had liked her as a brunette. She had been coloring it since James was born, otherwise she was unchanged, only an extra twenty pounds the difference.

She caught his eyes. "What?"

"Oh, just that you look lovely."

"Bullocks," she smirked. "I need to lose at least two stone."

"Not at all. One, maybe."

She smiled, then grew still. "You all right?"

"Of course."

Philippa stroked his face. "You love her, don't you?"

"Nah," he chuckled. "Pen pals, if that." He started to walk away. "Just nipping to the loo."

He washed his hands, three pictures gracing a shelf to the right, each with Philippa and a child. The shots of James and Bethany were from the family's trip to Spain over the summer, Philippa emailing those same photographs to Jeremy in August. The other was much older, an infant laughing in Philippa's arms, and Jeremy stared at it.

He found Philippa on the sofa, watching _Eastenders_. He joined her. "They all in bed?"

"Yeah and Daddy's in the shower." She returned to the show.

"That's a new shelf in there."

"Uh-huh," she muttered.

He said nothing more, gazing about the room, photos of the children and their parents, of Jeremy and other friends. As the credits rolled, Philippa turned to him, offering a squeeze.

"Did you like the one of Emma?" she asked.

He nodded. "When was it taken?"

"Oh I think she was three, four months old." Philippa smiled. "Right after she stopped spitting up constantly."

He chuckled, but it was reserved. "That sounds about right."

"I guess I just wanted to put up one of each of them. And you know, the loo's a quiet place. Most people don't even see them in there. I hear it's where Emma Thompson keeps her Oscar."

"Mmmhmm."

"Did you tell her?" Philippa's tone was tender.

"No." As she gripped his hand, he stared toward one photo within the bookcase. "It never came up. And besides, she's far away now." He stood and stretched. "God, I'm beat. I think I'm going to bed."

Philippa stood and hugged him.

Jeremy needed those arms, not having felt anyone close since Hannah's departure. "Right, so I'll see you in the morning."

"Will you be up to see them off?"

"Do I have a choice?" he grinned, heading for the stairs.

"No," she called.

Philippa placed the last cups in the dishwasher and started it. Rodger came down and kissed her. "He's off to bed too?"

She nodded. "He saw the pictures in the loo."

"Did he say anything?"

"No," she sighed. "I knew he wouldn't."

... _Well, I only now returned to this note. In the meantime you've sent me, oh I don't know how many! I feel quite awful, so this will end tonight, or you'll think me incapable of correspondence. I do apologize, because it's been ages since I sat to write. Mum's here, and the snow has been falling almost daily. Neither of those is a good excuse for my lack of engaging with you, especially considering how much you've written. But I have your London address, and will send this there._

It sounds like time with your ex is good for you; a boy and a girl, she must be quite fulfilled. If you are going to Africa in January, let me know where to send mail, Helperby or London. However unless I send this, you'll not get it, no matter where you are.

I do want to thank you for all the letters. They brighten my day, more than I could ever express. I have nothing as exciting to say, as I'm sure you'd be bored to tears with daily basketball reports, snowfall amounts, and the disagreements of three generations of women. Fairly tame compared to your exploits, and honestly, I find it hard to write to you in that there is so much swirling. My fingers wish to say much more than I would like. Maybe once I can find a happy medium, I'll be more prolific. Be assured it has nothing to do with you, only me.

So I'll end this or you will never receive it. Maybe I'll start another immediately and mail it tomorrow. Christmas is in two days, so if I begin as soon as this one is done, you might get it by Groundhog Day. But I do promise to try to be more prolific.

Have a lovely holiday and a happy New Year.

Yours, Jo

Chapter 8

In January, Jeremy headed to Darfur with Griffin Kotsay as Jo remained in New York. Hannah traveled cross country, keeping one eye on her family, the other on work in California, sneaking an extra peek to Sudan where like her daughter, Hannah couldn't help but worry over a team shooting another kind of film.

Friday, 2 January 2009

Dear Jo,

It's strange here, because no one knows me; I'm an Englishman with little else to distinguish myself. Griff is constantly battling the elements and the governments, of which there seems to be many, in that no one is in control of all these people's lives, who share a misery and holiness that I can't understand. It reduces me to the barest of what I believe makes me a human being...

_Saturday, January 3_ rd _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I know you won't get this for weeks and since that's the case, I have found a voice with which to write you. Ironic, or is it since you are gone, I am safe. But alone.

Isn't that what I wanted? I suppose. My mother and grandmother are arguing right now over basketball. It's ridiculous, as I imagine your current exploits are far more dangerous. And while I feel better with an even bigger distance, my heart wonders where you are, are you all right?

It's crazy, but maybe so am I...

Sunday, 4 January 2009

Dear Jo,

I have no idea when you'll get these, but I feel compelled to describe what I see. Then I read over my words and throw them away, because it's truly bloody awful that human beings can be so cruel, so unimaginably hostile to one another due to race, religion, ethnic tribal feuds. How do you explain that to traumatized women and dying children? And why is it women and children are usually who suffer most?

I think it's because men can't take it. I watch and am sickened, proving to Griffin my utter lack of worthiness. He told me it would be this way, but I blundered ahead, confident that I could take it. But Jo, oh god, I can't.

Instead, men carry guns or clubs or bombs, beating and maiming all they can. The weakest, most defenseless victims are women and children. That is what I witness.

Yet another letter I've written, but may not send. Not only are we men killers, but cowards too...

_Tuesday, January 6_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

Grandma is with Mum right now and I'm having a coffee at a place down the street. It's run by a Korean man and his Jamaican wife. They have the most adorable baby girl who will speak her father's tongue as well as English, and her mother's dialect too. She has curly brown hair and the most gorgeous brown eyes.

I've been coming here for a few weeks, but only now am I writing you daily. I have no idea how many letters you'll receive when you get home, enough to make up for ones I didn't write last month. I haven't heard much from you, but Mum told me of your email, and I do appreciate knowing you're alive. Although if something did happen to you, it would make the news.

It's still snowing. I trod along in a big coat and boots, peeling off the jacket once I sit down. With coffee in hand, sometimes a slice of cocoa bread, I watch those who pass by, thinking of what I have seen, what I know. What I would tell you, if I could...

... _The baby, a delight, squeals when her father appears. She looks about four or five months old, still just a tiny thing, and I find myself returning to see her, and eat the cocoa bread. The coffee is fine, dozens of places I can go, but there's something peaceful about this one, and it's close to home, to my grandmother. She and Mum are at the doctor right now, trying to sort out Grandma's meds. A tricky situation and I'm glad to get away for a bit._

I think of you, maybe I don't tell you that. I think of how I fled, which wasn't very kind. When it came up last night during basketball, I think Grandma wanted to take me out of the game; I committed all six fouls right when Mum told her. Do you know anything about basketball? A player can continue until they reach their sixth foul, then they're benched. My impolite departure fouled me, and I sat on my grandmother's sofa, feeling like Patrick Ewing. She loved him, oh goodness, but would get so angry when he fouled out. And that was how she was with me.

I know she offers leeway that I otherwise don't deserve. But last night I shriveled under the withering gaze that it seems only African American women can proffer. I have never seen it from any other ethnic group, this look of directed agony for what has occurred. I've only noted it on her face a few times, usually aimed at Pat Riley, as she just couldn't stand him! For as much as she loved Patrick Ewing, she loathed Riley. That look terrified me when I was young, hoping she would never send it my way. Last night, it came...

Saturday, 17 January 2009

Dear Jo,

I'm going to tell you a story, and I hope this letter gets to you. It may not, most of them don't.

I lost my parents when I was fifteen, about whom I've said only a small bit. Here, I see people die every day. How Griff does this, I have no idea; he made two films about Kosovo, and while I narrated them, my feet were firmly set in tidy English soil. Here, I walk through dirt red with death, then dream of the green Yorkshire countryside. I dream of it, but even there loss occurred. This isn't a very cheery story, and I do apologise.

My parents' deaths hit me hard. A mate in school, George Shaffer, had the same thing happen to him the year before; I watched him place that stiff upper lip squarely on his face. He never broke, never cracked. Two years later he killed himself, and while I knew more by then, I wondered if his lack of emotion was why.

At the time, I knew little about world suffering, just aware it existed in China, India, Africa, where I am now. In Yorkshire I was boarding, getting three meals a day and receiving a fair amount of attention from heartsick young women, all eager to assuage my loss. I suppose being an actor was inevitable as one can hide behind characters. Friends told me I was better off, as it seemed many girls wanted to shag an orphan.

I wasn't a star back then, only trying to reconcile my mother and father killed in a head-on collision with a lorry. Smack right along the road to Easingwold, and hopefully they never knew it. Today I found a three-year-old girl whose mother died last week. She is malnourished, offering no indication of wanting to live. I held her, which Griff advised me against, and for a few minutes I imagined it was my mum in my arms, but I had never known her frail or sick. She was robust, Louise Stewart, and I was the apple of her eye. This little girl might have meant that much to someone, but she and I were now the same; orphans.

I've been keeping a journal and returned to camp with the intention of writing more, but not to you. All I seem to say are these monstrously depressing bits that end up torn to shreds. That's what I do with your letters I don't send. Rip them up, as I'm bored and it passes a few seconds. But this girl, god Jo, she was so still. An aid worker told me she won't live long. I looked up, incredulous, but as my parents died because their bodies were broken, this little girl will die too. No one is there for her heart and I can't save her, or the thousands of people in this camp.

And for as much as I want, I can't save you either.

Love, Jeremy

_Monday, January 19_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I received your note, and I couldn't even open it, some piece of gold. The little girl, her name is Belle, was cooing, vying for my attention. She's bewitching and I've decided that one day I would like to be a mother. But even Belle couldn't coax me from your letter. My name in your handwriting, something about it that, oh, just a minute.

I didn't want to get tears on this. Jeremy, there's much I need to tell you but it sits, as the snow does, unmoving, more snow in New York this winter than in twenty years, or so Grandma tells me. She's forgiven my abominable behavior. Sometimes it's very difficult having a wise old black lady for one's grandmother. I love her to pieces, but my life today is far different than what she knew. Obama will be inaugurated tomorrow, making me quite aware as a woman of color how altered things are for me compared to Grandma. But her years do not allow for some transference of time that drags me back to ancient (and not so ancient) sufferings. I am bound by what she lived, but also I am here, in 2009, in a café run by a Korean man and a Jamaican woman. An African American will be made president in less than twenty-four hours. Times are different.

I'm going to open your letter now. Belle wants a smile...

... _You too are surrounded by old wise black women, not only me._

But maybe they aren't so old, at least in years. In time, they are far past my grandmother. She and I talked of that last night, no basketball to watch. Mum was crocheting and added her thoughts. I shared some of your note, but not all. Grandma wanted to hear the lot, but Mum said not everything was for her ears.

Grandma spoke about her husband, Mum and Aunt Ellen's father. His name was Lee McIntyre and he left Grandma when Mum was five, Aunt Ellen two. A white man from Nebraska, he died in a car accident outside of Lincoln in 1974 when Mum was ten. Grandma and Lee weren't divorced, so technically she was a widow, but she hadn't seen him in a year.

We talked about men of different backgrounds, my father coming into it. Dad's mother was white, his father black. And Canadian, Grandma added, as though that transcended everything. Mum laughed, thinking it had little to do with Dad's life. I said nothing, listening to their stories. Lee and Grandma were lovers, marrying when Grandma became pregnant with Mum. They lived in New York and Grandma admitted she had never wanted to meet his family in Nebraska, assuming they would want nothing to do with her. She found out later this was half true.

She told me, for I suppose Mum knew all this, that Lee was a tall man with large blue eyes who had loved her deeply. For a time. After Aunt Ellen, he began to change. Mixed race couples in the late 1960s weren't exactly the norm, and Grandma implied that it was he, not she, who got cold feet. He left in 1969, the day after the moon landing. The astronauts landed and the next morning, Lee was gone.

Grandma lost a few tears, and for the first time I felt her heartache. I knew he left her, knew my mother and aunt grew up with sporadic contact with their father, then he was dead. But until that moment, I had never considered my grandmother's anguish. I cried too and then Mum sat with us, spilling some. But only Grandma was crying for Lee.

I'm telling you this because I want you to know I think of you more than I put in these letters, which I write daily. I mail them in batches or I'd be at the post office every day. I'm still sending them to London. I suppose I will, until I hear otherwise.

I watched the moon landing this morning on You Tube, then thought about my grandmother, seeing this amazing sight, and the very next day she was alone. Life is precious; I shouldn't waste it...

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Dear Jo,

I'm sensing my time here is reaching the end. I can't blame Griff; I tagged along to have a real idea of what was happening so when I narrate this film, my voice rings true. Now I'm starting to wonder if I'll have a voice. Griff's girlfriend Shura is arriving in a few days, and since space in our camp is limited, I'm starting to feel a door hitting my backside.

But that's fine. Griff's an honest man; I've known him since 1999. We met at Cannes, he with an offer I couldn't refuse. Narrating his documentaries has kept me sane, one foot in the real world when so much of me lives somewhere else. If he knows I'm done here, I'll take him at his word. This letter you will get, but god knows when. Just send any after this to Helperby. I'm going to need ages with Paul and Hailey to put this trip aside.

I'm looking forward to seeing if you've sent anything. Honestly, I've tried not to think about it. I was surprised by the lack of communication last month, but I know things aren't easy for you. One of those things is me, not that I'm rather full of myself. Hannah emails me, well, has emailed me a few times, but I chalked it up to you. She was checking on your behalf, or at least that's what I told myself. But to be full of myself, which occasionally I am, maybe she was checking for her own peace of mind. You don't have to tell her I said that.

Jo, of all the letters I haven't sent to you, this one I will because I want to tell you I love you. I know this not from what I've seen here or felt. Now, what else is there, you might ask? There is this: I know some of these people will survive. I can't say how many, not knowing the minds of the government nor the hearts of anyone but myself. Maybe your new president can force a few hands. I have no idea really, but accepting my own heart and having been here, so far from you, only thinking of you, much has become clear.

When I get back, I'll be waiting for you. When you're ready, I will listen.

Love, Jeremy

_Thursday, January 29_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

You won't believe this! I came down for my coffee and it's closed! Belle, her mother and father, they're gone!!

No one knows to where. I've asked the neighboring shops, no one can say. Or will say. I ended up at an Italian place across the street and down another block. No cocoa bread, no reggae music, no Belle. As I walked back, I noticed many couples of mixed races and nationalities, and kept looking for Belle's bright stroller. It's green, yellow, and black, the colors of the Jamaican flag, but nowhere did I see her or her parents. And now I'll never know what happened to them!

That must be how you feel, thinking of leaving there, whenever that is. I don't know for how long you will be away, although away is a relative term. For you don't know how long I'm going to stay here, away from you. Neither do I.

My grandmother told me she didn't expect to see Lee again, but when he died, she was heartbroken. It was long over between them, she was content to raise her girls, work, live her life, but his death hadn't been expected. She was a teacher, came out of retirement to teach me when I was ten. Ten and eleven, I turned eleven living in New York. Will Belle turn eleven here? Will she even turn one? I've been scouring the internet and newspapers, trying to find any scrap of information. Were they killed? I'd been with Grandma for three days, as Mum was in California. Three days, and now they're gone! Why doesn't anyone know anything? Why didn't they say something to us, their customers? There was no note, no warning.

Oh god, like what I did to you! Oh Jeremy, I am so thick...

... _Still no word of my lovely Korean/Jamaican coffeehouse. I've been to several others and am trying to get comfortable at this one. It's run by a Spaniard and the churros are yummy. The coffee too, better than at my previous spot, but there's no baby, no reggae, and it feels bereft. Or maybe it's just me._

Grandma offered another story last night. Maybe's she's been waiting to tell me about her life that has to do with men and love and loss. She told me of when Mum was born, Grandma sharing her hospital room with a Puerto Rican woman and her extended family. Grandma had only a few visitors, most of her relatives weren't pleased with Lee, but Grandma's mother came and one of her aunts. They were the only ones, Grandma implied.

One night, my grandmother was having a hard time getting Mum to settle. She was trying to nurse her, but Mum was being difficult, my grandmother's words. While Grandma spoke, Mum was working at the table, saying nothing, but Grandma wasn't hard to hear. So, in the hospital Grandma was reaching the end of her rope, when the woman in the other bed came over and with experienced hands helped get Mum nursing properly. Grandma could only thank the woman as Lee arrived with flowers. Grandma never saw the woman again and five years later Lee was gone...

... _Mum just got an email from you; you're home! I'm so pleased you're safe in London. She asked if I wanted to add anything, but I declined. You have letters aplenty; I'll let them do the talking for me._

My heart feels so light now that you're back in the UK. I knew you wouldn't be killed, but until she spoke those words, I had no idea how much I'd worried. And sitting here at the table, Mum busy with work and Grandma napping, I write with a shaky hand. Maybe you've noticed. I'm trying not to cry. I think I may have to go upstairs.

Well, that's where I am. I shut the door and turned on some reggae. I've been listening to a lot of it since Belle and her parents left, several different groups from the 1960s and '70s. Belle's mum sold CD's at the counter and I bought three the last day I was there. Fortuitous, or was I sensing something? I'm not very foresightful, is that even a word? Maybe not. But you get what I mean.

Or do you? I ramble on and on, telling you I think of you. Have I told you I miss you? But you've never been a part of my New York life. Or my California existence. Only in England have I known you. So can I say I miss you when you've never been here?

And if I do, what does that mean?

I never missed Marco, not after it was really over. We split up when I was a junior, and I spent that summer, 2006, with Grandma. He came for me, here to New York. I missed him then, but a few months later all he could talk about was getting married and I didn't want to; I wasn't even twenty-one. At twenty-three, I look back and think I was so much younger. That probably makes you laugh, as though I'm so wise. But I'm not. I'm afraid, of words, emotions. Not of you, but of what you bring to the surface.

Do I miss you? I can't say...

Monday, 2 February 2009

Dear Jo,

Well, when it rains, it pours. It took me an hour to put your letters in some kind of order. Then when I found three or four with the same postmark, I realised I would have to open them to make a true chronological distinction. More arrive and I'm still trying to get through the first bunch.

How many did I actually send you? I can't remember now, maybe three? Three or four, but if there were more, I'd be shocked. I tore up all the ones I didn't send. Did I tell you that? That I wrote to you every day, but most didn't make it. Obviously, if I only sent you four. And now it's the beginning of February and I must admit I'm glad to have returned to more letters than I can read.

Your adventures with the baby sound lovely. Looking forward to reading more about her.

I wrote you something in Darfur that I did send. If it arrives and you are taken aback, I apologise. Sometimes I found myself writing things that normally I wouldn't say. But I meant it, then and now. And I will mean it for the rest of my life.

Love, Jeremy

_Friday, February 13_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I don't know what to say.

I'm sitting in my Spanish coffee shop. Aunt Ellen is visiting and I got two letters today from you from Darfur. I'm writing here because here I might not cry. If I do, it's all right as I sit in the back where it's quiet. But if I tried to write you at home I'd just start bawling again, and with Aunt Ellen around, it's different.

I'm so sorry about your parents. I'm sorry things in Sudan were so horrible. I read that note first, and couldn't stop crying. Then I went to the second, which brought me here. About that one, I don't know what to say. But I've already said that, so I should come up with something original. I have a funny mental picture of a pile of mail sitting atop your dining table. I'm picturing you in Helperby because I have no idea what your London house looks like. So you're sitting in the lounge, looking out at the snowdrops, which must be poking through by now. It's February, and Mum tells me by then snowdrops are everywhere.

Inside you're at the table with a mound of post. That's how you'd say it, post. A noun and a verb; to post and some post. A lot of post, because I wrote you every day. Why did I write that often? It wasn't out of guilt for all the letters you'd sent in December. It wasn't because I had nothing else to do. Grandma is starting to hop around, our way of saying she's back on her feet. She's joined me for Spanish coffee three days running, but with Aunt Ellen here, no coffee for her. I'm out, running away. That's what I've been doing, running from accidents.

Grandma and I go shopping on warmer days and even the colder ones she bundles in her coat and one of the scarves Mum's made her, and we slowly trek along the street, chatting with all the people she knows. We get more bath oil, have I told you about that? She uses this honeysuckle oil and I finally heard the story behind it, Lee buying it for her years ago. It's the scent of my childhood, healing in ways I can't describe. Grandma and I use a lot of it, so we stock up, enough to keep us clean for the next ten years, and then we go for a coffee. She's not fond of churros, doesn't like cinnamon. But she gets cookies, usually two or three, and takes home what she doesn't eat. I'll bring her one today and some for Mum and Aunt Ellen too.

Jeremy, I wish I had a better heart to give to you, one not broken. Maybe it will be better, in time. Or maybe it won't, I don't know. My heart misses you, you and Belle. I dream of her, what happened to her? It's coming on the middle of February, and had it only been for a few weeks I was going there? It felt like much longer. Like how long I feel I've known you.

But you don't really know me. All I note is Spanish coffee, snow, the grandfather I never met, and basketball. I don't know if I will ever tell you anything about me. I'd love to, a part of me only wants you here, at this table, eating a churro. Do you like cinnamon? If you don't, I'd get you a cookie. You can have a cookie and I'll eat the churro and then you could take me to wherever you're staying. I would lie next to you and all would be right.

Until it was time for words. Then I would run away again. That I know.

I may not write you for a few days. Aunt Ellen will be here through the weekend and I'm crying to beat the band. Do they say that in Britain? Or in Sudan, Spain, Korea or Jamaica?

If you are able to read any of this, I'll be surprised.

It might be a long wait.

Jo

Chapter 9

By the end of February correspondence was exchanged on a regular basis; Jeremy was at the Easingwold post office almost daily. If he happened to be in York, he would mail Jo's letters from there, but Easingwold was closer, and he had no trouble zipping past the field where his parents' demolished car had landed. The sides of the road were drenched in daffodils, Jeremy's only distraction.
Jo found herself inundated not only with letters, but those flowers that blanketed the British countryside. Daffodils arrived in bunches and Hannah even wrote Jeremy an email, thanking him for the change. If Jo didn't receive a letter, a delivery of flowers arrived, and Alta had grown so used to them, she insisted Hannah leave a note for Jo's young man, that when Jo left, Alta wouldn't mind if the bouquets continued.

Alta referred to Jeremy as _Jo's young man_ all the time. For, she said, if he sends flowers and letters, there must be something there. Jo wouldn't verbally confirm her grandmother's words, offering only a shy smile. Then she would disappear upstairs or to the coffee shop, one of Jeremy's notes in hand.

On days that Alta accompanied her, Jo read aloud, Jeremy's letters full of village tidbits and daily observations. Alta was confounded by the innocuous nature of the correspondence. "Is this the sort of thing you write to him?"

"Uh-huh," Jo nodded.

"Well, no wonder he's there and you're here!"

Jeremy moved from north to south at the end of March, Griff having returned, wanting feedback on what he'd shot. As spring came to New York, Jo sent mail to London and began making plans for her own travel. Alta noticed a preoccupation with Berkeley rentals on Jo's laptop. "So, what exactly are you looking for?" she asked, as they sat with breakfast.

Jo wiped rice and ice cream from her mouth. "I'd like a two-bedroom place. That way I can have a study if the living room's non-existent."

"Will that be hard to find?"

"Oh, not really. I need to get out there pretty soon, probably next month." Jo grew quiet. Wanting to find a place and settle early, she would flee New York before sticky, sultry air arrived. The term began in late August, which meant leaving her grandmother, which Jo kept at bay. As she tried not to consider Jeremy, Jo concentrated on returning to California instead of departing New York.

Alta's hand rested upon Jo's. "Honey, I'll be fine."

Jo looked up, nodding. Her grandmother was much improved, Aunt Ellen an hour away by plane. Hannah had talked of staying, but Jo's heartbeat fluttered as it had when the taxi took her from the Crown Hotel to the Leeds Airport in early December, thumping as when Jo and Hannah left New York in August, 1997, flying back to San Jose. Jo inhaled, allowing that muscle to steady. "Grandma, I love you so much."

"Sweetheart, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

Glancing up, Jo found brown, wide set eyes she had known all her life. Alta had been with Hannah and Craig when Jo was born, and as if a tiny infant could store that away, Jo recognized a face never far from her. The memory of her father's gaze was only a faint blur.

The crux of Jo's life was this: those who fed and strengthened, nourished and protected, were fleeting. She wasn't so thick to be unaware of her issues, but there was nothing she could do to change it, nothing possible to move past that fear.

"Jo, you ever think about when you lived here, after your dad died?" Alta's voice was gentle.

"More than you can imagine."

Alta's gaze moved to the wall. Among the photographs was one of Hannah, Craig, and Jo right before the accident. They had stopped in New York, spending Father's Day weekend, then had flown to Manchester. Craig's smile was broad, passed to his daughter. On Craig it shone, but Alta rarely saw it to that extent on Jo. "Honey, you can think about it till the cows come home. But until you let those words out of your head and heart, they'll be there."

A dam pressed against Jo's chest. She hadn't read everything to her grandmother from Jeremy's last letter, omitting the paragraph where he explained with the daffodils so expansive and tulips poking through the ground, he wanted to walk her along the path that led to the River Swale. In great detail he described the meadow, the view of the church and cemetery, then a ribbon of bright yellow flowers that bordered both sides of the still muddy cut through small green fields. He wanted to take her there and then to lunch. Then to his house, which ended the letter. That sheet sat separate, concealed in a box of mementoes containing other precious pages.

Her tears spilled not for him, but for her grandmother's loving kindness. Jo stood, gave Alta a hug, then passing by the photo, ran a finger along her younger self.

Alta said nothing as Jo grabbed her bag and jacket from the couch, heading for a walk.

Jeremy wasn't fond of London. His flat in Anerley was only a place to crash for a few weeks. If he had to stay less, he went to Philippa's. If it was longer, he booked a hotel.

Griff's studio was near Philippa's house in St. John's Wood. Jeremy called it a studio, but it was also where Griffin lived for as long as Jeremy had known him. Now Shura Masters dwelled there too and a feminine touch prevailed; the lino in the kitchen wasn't tacky. Jeremy still wore shoes, but they no longer stuck to the floor.

Due to the distance between the flats, Jeremy had been sleeping in the couple's spare room. For the first time it was tidy; Jeremy had only bought his flat as staying with Griff had previously been impossible. Shura had not only cleared out the room, but set up a double bed, made with fresh linens, even washed the windows. Jeremy had mentioned to Griff how nice it was, asking how long it would continue.

"What, you wanna move in?" Griff muttered.

"Maybe," Jeremy grinned.

"Well if you do, it's ten quid a day, breakfast and tea. Get your own dinner."

They laughed as Jeremy finished his toast. "Sounds better than Anerley."

"Why'd you move to that godforsaken place?"

"No room here," Jeremy smiled.

Over mugs of tea they discussed the project. Griff had written a partial script and Jeremy only needed to give a quick read-through, the film taking Griffin all summer to piece together. "You busy in October?" he asked.

"Possibly. The London premiere is sometime in September. Not sure if they want to open it wide then or wait until later." Jeremy had heard from Hannah that the film was coming together _nicely_. If it was _very nicely_ , the producers would push the release as late as possible, keeping the Academy Awards in mind.

"Well, we'll just see." Griff brushed his hair back. He was taller than Jeremy, with a shock of dark brown hair that stood out from his head in a whirl.

"Other than PR, I really have nothing else coming up. So let me know." Jeremy took his plate to the sink, recently scrubbed. "She's really quite orderly," he laughed.

"God yeah. I mean, it's good, don't get me wrong. I love her, but it's clean around here."

Shura was Griff's longest lasting relationship in the ten years Jeremy had known him. The physical opposite of Griff, Shura was petite, blonde, quiet. And clean, Jeremy chuckled to himself. "Is this serious?"

"Oh maybe. Hell, it's about time, right?"

Jeremy laughed. "We're not getting any younger."

Griff ran a hand through his hair, getting it caught in the back. As he fought the tangle, he moved from the table. "You hear from her lately?"

"Every day. I'm still not used to it." Jeremy had expected Jo to withdraw after his return from Darfur, but she remained prolific, and he'd found himself aching for the daily post.

"Why don't you go see her?"

Only Philippa knew about Jo's father. The relationship Jeremy and Griff shared was more professional in nature, yet, Darfur had altered that. "If I get too close, she'll be gone."

"Well, she's already in New York. How much further can she go?"

Jeremy sighed. "California."

In the middle of April, Jo spotted Belle and her mother. Racing along the block onto the next, she found it was a different stroller, a baby unfamiliar. Having returned from a week in Berkeley, Jo had chosen an apartment, and upon her homecoming, letters were posted from Alta's neighborhood, but Jo was dismayed, none waiting for her.

"Are you sure?" Jeremy had mentioned he was in London with Griffin, but hadn't been specific as to how long. Correspondence still remained on an informal level and Jo wanted to tell him about seeing the Belle lookalike.

"Nothing's come honey." Alta's tone was unbothered.

"Jo, he has a life. And a career."

Jo sighed.

Hannah knew he was in Los Angeles for post-production work, but she wouldn't reveal his whereabouts. She thought it strange he would allow Jo to dictate such an inflexible method of communication. Jo's hold upon her life was tight. For how much longer Jeremy could weather it, Hannah wasn't sure. She joined her daughter at the table. "So when are you moving?"

"June." Jo pulled back her hair, curls well past her shoulders.

"Are you going to give him that address?"

Jo stared at her mother. "Yeah, why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you made me give him this one. Just wondering."

Alta's face held a similar look of patient weariness. "Should I leave before June?" Jo huffed.

Alta joined them. "Honey, you're getting all worked up because he hasn't sent you anything. If he's working then he's working. How many letters did you send him when you first got here and had your hands full with me?"

Rarely were Jo's insecurities so openly addressed. She stepped to the window, exhausted from jet lag. She had wanted to curl up with Jeremy's words; safe, lovely, funny. The ones that floated in the room, spoken in tongues with too much knowledge, pierced her.

Hannah stayed at the table and Alta took a chair. Jo turned to them, noting how they sipped their tea, looking at her with eyes that rendered her helpless. Eyes Jeremy had given her at the Crown Hotel, eyes letting her go. "What am I supposed to do?" she blurted.

Hannah strode across the room, kissing Jo's cheek. "We can't tell you. It's your call."

"Mum..." As arms encased her, Jo's tears fell.

Her mother caught them with a soft whisper. "It's all right lovey. It's all right."

_Tuesday, April 21_ st _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

It's been three weeks since I've heard from you. Well, two really, but it feels like three, it feels like three years. Mum and Grandma tell me you're busy with work, reminding me that in January I got four letters total. But I've been used to more and this must be how you felt in December when I said nothing but thank you for the flowers. And again I say thank you; a bouquet of lilies arrived this morning. Mum's got a brick with your name waiting.

The lilies are beautiful but at the risk of sounding ungrateful, they aren't a letter. Why does that mean more? I think it's because a letter is your hand across a page, your fingers along the envelope. Your time to take it somewhere and send it to me. The flowers are lovely, but a letter is more.

Did I tell you I thought I saw Belle? Right after I came back from Berkeley, on my way to post letters to you, I spotted a stroller pushed by a woman who from behind looked like Belle's mum. I ran to catch them, but it was someone else. The baby was a boy and my heart sank. Coupled with PMS and finding nothing from you, I felt pretty dismal for a few days.

Maybe this is my punishment. Grandma doesn't say it, but Mum alludes to me getting out of myself. And she looks guilty, as if she had tried to get me to talk sooner about the past, I'd not be so fucked up now. Forgive my language, but that's how I feel, but not by you or Mum or Dad or anyone else. I've screwed myself and am now left with the mess.

I've never taken my life for granted. I don't mean as Hannah Adams' daughter, but that I am alive. Not knowing what happened to Belle haunts me, more than I thought it would. Such a lovely little thing, happy and chirpy, always squawking and laughing. I fully expected to see her until I left, and then upon my return I would witness how she'd grown, changed. Sometimes I accept one day I'll come to New York and my grandmother will be gone. I know it will happen and occasionally I can even wrap my head around that. But Belle is so young, was so young. I don't even know. Is she still alive? Is she just somewhere else?

I know I could be dead. If I had been sitting on the other side of the car, I would be.

That's a funny thing to contemplate. I don't do it often because I am alive and I try to appreciate that. But right now all I feel is crappy and tired. I started my period today, that doesn't help. If that's too much info, I'm sorry. We talk about that stuff all the time; all women, so no one cares, but I don't know if it was different before. Right now I'm achy and want to go home, but Mum and Grandma are this wall, and I feel it's about to topple in on me, squash me good. Maybe that's what I need, some physical pain so this phantom ache won't be so bad. My heart, arms, inner body all hurt and I just wish some doctor could open me up and take the words that don't cross my lips; it's like I got my voice back, but only so much I can say.

I wish you were here. I wish you could tap me on the shoulder, take this from me. And the funniest part is you would. You can, you'd love to! But here I sit in this New York Spanish coffee shop, where you are not. I put loads of distance between us, all because I'm faulty.

Blah, blah, blah... Maybe this should be a letter I don't send.

But I will, because ultimately it's all I have to give you. Pretty crappy, and again, I'm sorry. I don't have you or Belle or a sense of what in the hell is going on with me. I was going to take this year to figure that out. Now it's the middle of April and I still don't know what the fuck is going on.

Maybe I never will...

Jo

Jo posted the letter on her way home, walking a circuitous route, allowing the mailman plenty of time. When she entered the house, Alta shook her head, and Jo nodded, going straight to her room. She only emerged when the scent of dinner was impossible to ignore. Hannah had made a roast and Jo devoured her portion. Using her period as an excuse, she headed back upstairs and Alta and Hannah never heard another peep from her all night.

Alta washed the dishes as Hannah had cooked, but this domestic situation was reaching an end. Jo's tenure was almost finished, Hannah staying until mid-June. Having begun a new manuscript, she wanted to be in San Jose, hard to concentrate with Jo so wobbly. Hannah's heavy sigh from the couch carried through the open room.

"What?" Alta asked.

"Maybe I should've put her in therapy."

"She wasn't talking. What good would that have done?"

Hannah stood, not wishing to yell. "No, I mean, when I took her back to San Jose."

"Hannah, what would they have done? It might've shut her up all over again."

"I know." Hannah had taken her daughter to a few counseling sessions, but Jo chafed, only wishing to attend school, allow routine to heal a wound that still festered.

"Honey, what's done is done. She's twenty-three and if she wants to see someone, she can do that."

Hannah nodded. "Momma, I know he loves her."

"You think he'll wait?"

"I think so." Hannah began to speak, but stopped herself.

"What?"

Hannah shook her head. "Nothing. He'll wait. He knows her better than she thinks."

More sat in her daughter's eyes, but Alta left it. "Well, maybe that's all she needs."

"Maybe," Hannah said.

The next day Jo suffered terrible cramps. She planted herself on the couch with a book, but reading took too much concentration. Alta and Hannah had stepped out for groceries and when they returned, Jo was watching _As the World Turns_.

Hannah hadn't seen Jo so despondent in ages. "Honey, you okay?"

"Just feeling blue." Jo didn't hide her tears.

Hannah sat next to her and Jo went to her mother's arms. How many nights had it been this way after they returned to San Jose, both adjusting to the house without Craig's presence? Mother and daughter had fallen asleep on the large couch more often than not in the beginning, the empty house so odd.

With more vanilla ice cream waiting in the freezer, Alta started some rice. She hummed as she cooked, watching her child and Jo.

"Mum, I don't know what to do. You know I don't wanna be like this."

Hannah stroked her daughter's hair, not this long since Craig's death. "He's been in LA, stuff for the film."

Jo looked up, her eyes shining. "Really? Are you sure?"

Hannah nodded. "We've been emailing; promotional photos, blah blah blah." Hannah smiled as Jo's mood lifted. "He said he's got about a dozen letters for you, but didn't want to post them from there. I have no idea why, but I think he's realized maybe you're waiting for something."

"Oh Mum!" Jo burrowed into her mother.

Hannah gripped her. "Honey, maybe you can tell him, you know, in words. Like you wrote for us."

As Jo nodded, Hannah did too.

That afternoon Jo went for a coffee. Alta had offered to accompany her, but Jo wanted to be alone, feel the air that was no longer frigid, absorb the neighborhood that would soon be a memory. The next six weeks would fly and she needed to tell Jeremy her new address. No need for C/O on the envelopes; he could send them to her directly.

On her way she passed dozens of strollers pushed by women of all ages, colors, and faiths, walking with babies of similarly varied appearances. Boys and girls, some in hats, some bald. Some crying, some placid, others in the state of bliss Jo shared. Then she saw Belle.

Was it really? Moving toward the baby, Jo noted a young Asian girl grasping the stroller, pushing as slowly as Jo herself stepped. As Jo approached, a white woman emerged from a shop, smiling at the girl while caressing the baby's cheek.

"Come on sweeties." The older child looked thrilled, turning the stroller that bore no colors of the Jamaican flag anywhere. Jo's heart sank; it couldn't be Belle. It couldn't be!

All her strength evaporated. As another cramp hit, Jo slunk into the café, ordered her coffee, slipping to the back. She was sure that had been Belle; then Jo decided to stop looking. The family was gone. To where, Jo had no idea, but they were no longer a part of her world. So many missing, then Jo wiped her face.

Sipping the coffee, she pulled out a sheet of paper. Her bag hung from the chair across and Jo watched another woman maneuvering a stroller. The baby gurgled and Jo switched seats. Putting in her headphones and starting her music, reggae filled her head and tears ran from her eyes as she began a letter.

_Wednesday, April 22_ nd _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I think I'm losing my mind. Today I saw a baby that I know was Belle. I knew it was her, but it wasn't, and I'm feeling so bad, so tired, so...

Jo set down the pen, her tears relentless. Setting her head on the table, she didn't notice the tapping of her shoulder until it became persistent. Not wanting to attract attention, she didn't move.

It didn't stop and she turned. "What?"

She dabbed her eyes to see who it was. In front of her, with a smile and daffodils, stood Jeremy.

Chapter 10

In the café, Jeremy held her as they sat for an hour, enraptured in the mere presence of the other. Jo cried due to pain, release, and amazement, never dreaming business would bring him to New York. Jeremy smiled, wiping her tears.

Walking back to her grandmother's house, Jo noted all her favorite places, including the closed coffee shop. Jeremy walked quickly, wanting to her get home. She was unstable on her feet and his heart was torn, so pleased to be with her, another ache demanding his attention. He kissed her face, setting that aside. "I missed you so much," he whispered.

She gripped him. "Oh Jeremy!"

He had smiled when she told him of seeing a baby that wasn't Belle, cramps hitting. He had planned on asking her to his hotel, but now it was moot, probably for the best. "Come on, let's get you home." He hurried their pace as Jo led the way. Reaching Alta's door, the aroma of black eyed peas greeted them.

"You're back already," a voice piped from the kitchen.

Alta stood at the stove, smiling. She had already met Jeremy, providing Jo's location. Jo kissed her grandmother as Jeremy sat at the table in awe of the house. He had hurried to learn Jo's location; now photographs, books, and furniture overwhelmed.

"You have anything to eat at that place?" Alta asked.

"I had a churro," he smiled.

Alta made a face. "Well, next time get a cookie. Or two. You could use a little something."

Jo giggled, taking some Advil. "Let me show you the rest of the house," she said, leading him upstairs.

Pictures lined the walls, the subjects from varying eras. Hannah and Ellen as children, Alta with her own family, a solitary caucasian man from years back; Jeremy guessed that was Lee.

As they reached the top, Jo went left. Her room struck him as that of a girl, the lavender walls fairy-like in color, the blue border a lid preserving Jo's childhood. Then he spotted a large bouquet of daffodils on her dresser, not having missed the other bunches all over the lounge.

Jo sat on her bed as he looked around. Photographs adorned these walls too; Jo and her mother, one of Hannah and Craig right after they had married. Jeremy had forgotten how young they'd been. He had met them in the early '90s, but time had eroded his memories.

"Such a handsome couple," he said, half to himself.

"Yeah, they were. I always wondered," but Jo stopped.

"What?"

She said nothing. Opening her closet, she moved him to the doorway. "These are the first ones, the roses. Lilies don't dry well," she chuckled.

An inverted bouquet hung from the rod. "You kept them," he smiled.

"Of course." Then she looked away, going to the window.

Awkwardness sat between them brought on by distance and time. Letters exchanged were meaningful, but each other's presence was far more than Jeremy had imagined, Jo too. He wouldn't ask her to his hotel; even more of this silence and that wasn't why he was there.

Jeremy heard Hannah's voice. "Shall we go down?"

Jo nodded and led him to the landing, where she reached for his face. "I'm glad you're here," her voice barely audible.

He clasped her hand, running his other through her curls. "Your hair is longer," he smiled, kissing her. "I'm glad I'm here too."

Laughter rang, more than Hannah had heard in ages, Alta and Jeremy bent on determining who owned the better tale. He had earned points consuming two heaping bowls of rice and beans, but hadn't touched the greens. Alta forgave him with the three pieces of cornbread he devoured. Hannah smiled; for his slender frame, he did eat and by the end looked immovable.

Jo had cleared their dishes, then sat next to him. Their relationship, whatever it was, was unmistakable, and Hannah felt a joy buffered by an undercurrent of information. She hated being aware of too many details. Of her daughter, Hannah knew everything; Jo had never looked at Marco with the bliss she afforded Jeremy. True, Jo had been younger. Hannah could use that to excuse what sat before her; two people with one soul.

Nothing overt; it wasn't as though she sat on his lap. Their hands were entwined as Hannah's had been with Craig's at this very table with a young Jo screeching like an animal. Now Hannah's daughter sat silent, her head leaning on the shoulder of a man far more significant than Jo could confess. Hannah's heart grew tight and she moved to the sink for some water. Once Jo admitted how much Jeremy meant, then possibly her words would emerge.

Hannah watched Jeremy, now with his right arm around Jo, stroking her hair. His left hand held hers as though lovers for ages, married for years. Hannah glanced at pictures, trying not to stare. Proximity was integral to them; did they realize it, Hannah wondered. Did they recognize how they had become one person?

Hannah had known Jeremy since he was twenty years old, through his rise as a young actor to where he stood now, a star. He was an icon and an actor, both. There in her mother's house, he was her daughter's companion, Jo's lover. If they had met when he was married to Philippa, when Jo was only a child, would this be the case now? Jeremy had never seen Jo, not until last fall. Never seen her, but knew of her life, and now her pain. Did he know how deep it went? Gentle with her and enamored, but did he realize her agony?

Hannah finished her water and returned to the table, handing Alta a tissue to wipe laughing tears. Jeremy had made Alta cry, the contest over. Finding pleasure in his eyes, Hannah sighed. He knew Jo's pain, but was still hiding his own.

Alta apologized for not having any dessert, but Jeremy claimed he couldn't put another thing in his mouth. "A walk is what I need. Jo, how about a stroll?"

She nodded and they collected their jackets, the night cool. As Hannah waved from the door, they went right, toward shops Jo knew well.

The street was quiet, but it was late and they didn't hurry. Jeremy was prepared to say goodbye in this place. She was tired and he had meetings in the morning before his departure tomorrow night. If she had been feeling better, he would have requested her company, but this was for the best. If she joined him, he might not let her leave.

They didn't talk due to her preference for silence. She hadn't uttered more than ten words at dinner and Jeremy was amazed by the women's intimacy and allowances. Hannah and Alta had addressed only him. That had eased his heart; Jo was hushed around everyone.

She stopped when they reached the boarded-up storefront, where she ran fingers over the door. It still puzzled her, the way it had happened so abruptly.

"I sat in the right corner, the tills on the left side. There was more seating in the back, behind the wall." She smiled. "But of course now it's dark and you can't see it. Only room for about four tables in the front; Belle's swing was in the left corner next to the cash register."

As Jo explained, Jeremy focused on a siren from a passing police car. That too stopped Jo, but she hadn't noticed Jeremy's back to her. "We get that at least once a week," she said.

"It's so close," he murmured. Then he looked at her. "You mind if we move on?"

"Not at all."

They walked another block and he squeezed her hand. Then he stopped and kissed her. "I'm sorry about Belle."

"I'm sorry I keep bringing it up."

They crossed the street, heading back to Alta's. "A long time ago a good friend of mine lost a baby at that age."

Jo froze in the middle of the street, Jeremy pulling her across. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"

He shook his head. "I just didn't want you to think I'm an insensitive bastard." He moved her to the side of the building. "I understand," he whispered.

Jo began to cry. From the moment he had joined her at the café, her senses were on overload. He would be gone tomorrow, little to no time for anything to be shared. Again, thoughts swarmed the tip of her tongue, the remaining minutes not covering a drop. Jo felt more than tears falling, her heart wrenched too.

Jeremy tucked her away. "It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"Where is she?" It was all Jo could think. Where had Belle gone? Where was the baby of Jeremy's friend?

Then the question Jo never asked: _Where am I?_

Jeremy and Jo sat on Alta's steps. She had peeked through the blinds, but Jeremy made no move to usher Jo inside. He didn't want to leave this place, the entire world now condensed into one house filled with more purpose than Jeremy thought possible. One old woman possessed all of her family, the most beautiful piece he held in his arms, one fractured, and he knew not how to set her right.

"What time do you leave?" Jo trembled.

He grasped her, those words cutting. "The flight's at six p.m."

She nodded. "Thank you."

He kissed the side of her head. "For what?"

She took a deep breath. "I left you, I ran away. I shouldn't have done that."

"I understand."

She looked into the night. Cars drove past, but few people loitered. "It's just getting so old: _Oh poor Jo._ But I'm not the only one."

Jeremy cleared his throat. "No one can dictate how you deal with things."

"But I'm not a kid anymore."

Her words provoked his cough. "People do the best they can."

"Jeremy, your friend, how did she cope?"

"Better than anyone expected."

"And the father?" On occasion Belle's dad entered her head, but Jo didn't see many Asian men pushing strollers.

"It was a long time ago and you know, people move on."

She pulled from him. "Oh, uh-huh."

Jeremy took her face in his hands. "It was hard for them both, but they were adults and while it was very sad, they got over it." Again he wanted to call her _sweetheart_ , claim her for his own. Remove her doubts, that heartache, eliminate all that had occurred for both.

She shivered. "I should let you go."

"Jo." He whispered her name, a small space resting between them.

She stood, wiping the last wetness from her face. "It was good to see you," her tone crisp.

"Sweetheart, please."

Her face registered pain Jeremy hadn't witnessed in years, a deep coursing river, more than she was capable of expressing.

"Thanks for," she paused, words emerging in great distress, "coming to see me."

"Jo," Jeremy called, but she was at the door. As he reached it, she had slipped inside.

In the foyer, Jeremy rang for a taxi, listening to Alta soothe Jo in the living room.

Hannah sighed. "You two. What a pair."

He put the phone in his back pocket. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

"Well, love isn't easy."

Jeremy nodded. Had it been that obvious? He supposed it must, thinking back to dinner; Jo so close to him, but once again far away. "I don't mean to hurt her."

"Neither one of you mean to do it, but you're both in a bad way."

Alta stepped around the corner. "She's all right. Just hormones and cramps."

Jeremy flashed a smile as Hannah rolled her eyes.

"Now, you need to come back here, let me put some meat on those bones." Alta pinched his cheek. "What about breakfast?"

"Momma," Hannah drawled.

"I'd love to, but work dictates an early start."

Alta nodded. "All right, but next time, stop in. And keep those flowers coming. Jo might be leaving in June, but I'll be here."

Jeremy looked surprised. "She's going in June?"

"Uh-huh," Alta said as Jo slipped upstairs.

A horn honked as Hannah watched Jeremy absorb all Alta's words; by the time he reached the door, Alta had told Jeremy all but Jo's actual address. Hannah gave him a hug, then he scurried into the cab.

Hannah went up, but Jo was asleep. Hannah returned to her mother sipping a cup of tea at the table. A mug waited on the counter and Hannah smiled, joining her. "I don't use sugar anymore."

"Oh, I forgot."

"Momma, why'd you tell him all that?"

"Because now he knows."

"Did she say anything?"

Alta sighed. "Just crying. A lot for her to untangle."

Hannah blew on her tea, nodding; a lot for them both.

_Thursday, April 23_ rd _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I'm sorry we seem to end up apart, sorry that your friend lost a baby, sorry that my dad's dead. I'm not sorry to have seen you, except that it ended badly. But maybe that's indicative of something. And maybe I should start using my head.

Maybe you and I are just too different, or too much the same. Maybe there's more required than physical attraction, more than what a heart thinks it needs. What mine wants is perhaps more than what's good for me.

Maybe it's age. Thirteen years separate us, and that's not a small number. Or maybe it's just unlucky, and we should pay attention to that. I should pay attention; it's about time for me to move on, and while I was going to give you my address, maybe I would serve us both better to not, just let this be the end. It kills me to write this. I'm at Grandma's, they're at the doctor. Alone, I can breathe. Maybe later I'll get a bath with the honeysuckle oil, because after I send this, I'm going to need some soothing, and it won't be a memory of you.

I hope everything works out with the film, with the documentary, with your career. But this is just too much for me. I don't even know what THIS is, and maybe that's the whole problem; a correspondence, a very close friendship, a relationship? Do you want the truth? Okay. I... I was going to write I love you, then I stopped. But I do. And that is the scariest thing I have known since I was ten years old because I loved someone, and then they were gone.

Your friend who lost her baby; you said she got over it better than anyone expected. If you would, ask how she did that. I would give anything to know how to leave all my baggage behind.

Jo

Saturday, 2 May 2009

My dear Jo,

I won't lie to you. Reading your last two letters nearly broke my heart. I came home to the one from right before I saw you, and your words were so tender. You are not faulty; you are the most beautiful creature I have ever known. You are trying to protect yourself, and believe me, I know it more than you think. I'm looking at that letter right now; can I tell you what I see?

I see someone who was very young when one she loved with all her heart left her. But not only left her, but died right in front of her. I say this not to cause you further pain, but to impart what a huge weight you have lived with since that day. Not to excuse your actions, but to point out the great goodness that is your very survival.

You said you don't take that life for granted. I see that in the manner by which you live. You don't need to be with your grandmother, but you stay due to the love you share, because you know it is fleeting and you are not afraid to show affection to your family. Me? I'm different, I accept that. In more ways than one.

Jo, if you feel this is too much, and need to alter things, I understand. I really do. I will leave this up to you. I said before that when you are ready to talk, I will be here. That still holds. I love you. I always will.

My friend tells me to pass along that each day pain lessens. I'm not going to pretend that I understand, but that's what she said.

Jo, my heart belongs to you.

Love, Jeremy

_Monday, May 18_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

I'm heading to California next week. I think, for us both, this would be a good time to take a sabbatical. I will take your friend's advice, but it's going on thirteen years for me. If it hasn't faded by now, maybe there is little hope for recovery.

Please know how much these letters have meant, but my heart can't carry much more. I wish it could. I really do.

Take care of yourself, and good luck with the film.

Sincerely, Jo

Jeremy received Jo's note on Saturday, the twenty-third of May, but didn't read it until two days later, on Bank Holiday Monday. He sat in his house, children's laughter wafting from the open front windows. As the scent of roast potatoes filled the house, Philippa asked Jeremy if he wanted peas or corn. In the middle of the letter, he hadn't responded.

"Jeremy, green or yellow veg?" She saw his blanched face and stepped toward him. "Love?"

He looked away, wiped his eyes, then smiled to her. "Peas. Green orbs of joy."

Philippa knelt down. "What is it?"

"Oh, she wants some room, is heading to Berkeley, well, she might be there already." He inhaled as James blew through the front door, Bethany on his heels, both racing to the kitchen.

Philippa closed the kitchen door, then sat next to Jeremy, taking his hand. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he smiled. "Lunch nearly done?"

Standing, he stuffed the letter in his pocket. Joining him, Philippa reached for his face. "Jeremy, you need to tell her."

He glanced away. "She says to tell you thanks for the advice."

Philippa's eyes were wet. "Oh love, you can't keep this up!"

He smiled, the children's cheery tones mingling with their father's. "It'll be all right." Kissing Philippa's cheek, Jeremy left tears on her face as he walked upstairs. "Be back in a minute."

His heavy steps thumped within her. She sighed and returned to the kitchen.

In his room, Jeremy set Jo's letter on the dresser, then blew his nose. He splashed his face with water, Jo's words in his head, along with Philippa's. He shook himself and dried his hands.

Hearing Philippa call for lunch, he went to leave, but returned, opening the top drawer to put Jo's note with the rest. In the back right corner sat a tall stack of envelopes, but this one was only the paper. A goodbye exposed, and placing it on the pile, he changed his mind. Lifting the thick collection, Jeremy tucked Jo's note on the bottom.

He couldn't escape the photograph that sat directly underneath. With lowered defenses, he gazed on that long-concealed picture; himself, Philippa, and their child.

Jeremy glanced for seconds, then put the letters back, that picture and Jo's words buried deep. Closing the drawer, he headed for lunch.

Chapter 11

By July, Jo had settled into an apartment not far from campus. The two-bedroom, one-bath upstairs unit sat back from the road under large trees, filled with Jo's furniture, decorations, photos, and books. Yet it felt empty; Jeremy's presence had been omitted.

Letters arrived from New York, but none from Yorkshire, and it had taken all of June for Jo to get used to it. Alta's correspondence was short, but like her granddaughter, prolific. Once the women started writing, it was hard to stop them.

Hannah sent her daughter emails, which Alta received, Jeremy too. Trailers for _There Is Something Here_ were shown in thirty and sixty second spots, Jeremy's face associated with a different mood. In Los Angeles and London the buzz stirred; could this be the film that cracked him an Oscar?

Hannah and Jeremy conversed every few days, weekly if both were busy. Hannah tried to maintain her composure, but her excitement was palpable. Hannah had previously been nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay in 2002 for _Last Semi-Detached_ , what she and Jo had termed her transitional novel. Transitioning from crap, in Hannah's words, manuscripts following the accident not reaching her former quality. _Last Semi-Detached_ had been a big step, not written with Jeremy in mind, but it had suited his style and he too had received nominations for a Golden Globe, BAFTA, and Oscar. While Hannah collected an award from the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, Jeremy had been passed over, more serious roles honored in a post 9/11 atmosphere.

In _There Is Something Here_ , Jeremy Stewart was transitioning from romantic leading man. To what, studio heads and the media weren't sure, critical reaction to the latest film adaptation of a Hannah Adams' novel unknown until the initial premiere in September in London. Hannah's flight and hotel were booked for that, but the wide release was scheduled for late October, the studio with a possible Oscar nominee on its hands. Hannah and Jeremy emailed at length over this issue and Jeremy was nonchalant. With two Best Actor nominations under his belt, he didn't expect the third, if it came, to produce more than a nod.

Hannah had tried to goad him into more than his detached response. He had been so young for the first nomination, 1993's _Silent Wishes_. Another movie based upon one of Hannah's novels, it had been the first meeting between Hannah and Craig Adams and Jeremy and Philippa Stewart. Jeremy was twenty when the production rolled, twenty-one at its release. Only twenty-one years old with a sterling performance in a major motion picture; if he had stuck with dramas, he would probably have an Oscar, maybe two, or so Hannah thought. He hadn't, his next project a light comedy, _Tryst For Two,_ setting the pace for the rest of his career, an amalgamation of adept rom-coms that made Hannah wince.

She had said nothing over the years, writing novels that sold well, but were noted by her mother and sister with a sigh. Jo too, once she was old enough; the books were _okay_ , but nothing to elevate Hannah's stature. Jo had been too young to offer much in the way of critical assistance. Alta and Ellen said plenty.

Hannah had received their comments with a grain of salt; she had a child to support. Alta told her eldest she wasn't going to read any more pap, not until, Alta roared into the receiver, you stop writing such drivel! Hannah had laughed, but it was true. Mother and daughter were emailing by then, but Alta still fired off a letter, telling Hannah it was time to set things aside.

Ellen was gentler, but she too urged Hannah to seek outside help. Craig remained a mist that when she breathed deeply, Hannah still detected in the air. Was it their daughter's enormous brown eyes, her laughing, cherished smile? Jo wasn't at all who she had been, but when her joy returned, Hannah recalled a man she had loved beyond reason. Hearing her mother and sister's words, Hannah didn't seek therapy. Instead, the 2002 awards season moved her.

After her triumph at the Golden Globes, Hannah had posed for pictures with Jeremy and his stock rose, even after losing at the BAFTAs and Academy Awards. Hannah lost too, but for both, _Last Semi-Detached_ had been a turning point. Jeremy received a newfound respect for his work that was now being placed in the same class as Cary Grant.

Hannah's epiphany was personal. As she and Jeremy were thrown together over a six-week period, she saw herself in his manner, trying to gloss over what was private, painful. He had distanced himself by applying a glib mask. While he was a good actor, those portrayals weren't deep, nothing to plumb the soul. Jeremy's characters weren't only that of light comedy, but what he had become.

By the Oscars, Hannah had seen enough. _Silent Wishes_ and his first role, a suicidal teen in the independent _Purge_ , were by a different actor. Another man had assumed those startling, abrasive depictions, but Jeremy had shed those skins, slipping into a new body. The charming, teasing smile didn't alter, never failed. His last three films had bombed, yet Jeremy breathed as the delightfully suave leading man.

In his latest email, that mask was slipping. He tried to hitch it back, mentioning trivia about the movie, buying a new suit for the September premiere. He had sold his flat and would be staying with Griffin, plenty of work with the Darfur documentary as well as plugging the film. In between, Hannah heard an old voice from years back attempting to dissect the past; Jeremy asked about Jo.

Nothing more than was she coming to London for the premiere? Hannah noted her own travel details, that Alta was thrilled with the continued delivery of flowers, and that as Jo would be in school in September, she wouldn't make it.

Jeremy's heart sank; Jo would be in school in the beginning of September? British universities didn't return until the middle of the month and Jeremy checked UC Berkeley's website; the term commenced on the twenty-seventh of August.

The house in Helperby was silent. Jeremy walked to the front window, admiring an orderly garden. Grass was clipped short, tidy and green, and his fortunes were looking up too. Scripts were plentiful, his agent Milton Sexton over the moon. Jeremy had read a few and they were promising, his performance making the rounds. After the premiere, Milton was anticipating a deluge, and it was left unsaid that if Jeremy received nominations, or unthinkable at this stage, a win, his career would return to where it wafted five years previous, when all he touched turned to box office gold.

Jeremy stepped outside, smelling the freshly cut lawn, evening beginning to fall. It was after nine, the sun just having set. Long summer sunshine permeated; it wouldn't be dark for another hour or more. He walked the grounds, which weren't large, but the shorn turf made it look huge, like the hole in his heart. Hannah's note that Jo wouldn't be coming was a brick upside his head. He laughed, would tell her that. Hannah didn't need any implements. Jo's absence was enough.

In her weekly thank you notes for the flowers, Alta implied all he needed to do was hint and she would send him Jo's apartment number. He knew the street, the post code, all but the exact flat in which she dwelled. Alta had supplied those details over the course of her correspondence, unfazed at what could be perceived as betrayal. She only admonished him to eat well and that she was looking forward to the movie when it came out in America.

That would be in October and he would travel to Los Angeles for that opening. Berkeley was only a few hours north, but Jeremy wouldn't make an overture. Jo had made it clear she needed room, a break; Jo needed time. Jeremy would give her that time, would have given her the world. He was prepared to give her anything except what both Hannah and Philippa implored. He couldn't give her the truth.

He returned to the house through the back, lingering in the kitchen, her note still tacked on his refrigerator. Down low, under the counter, it was held by a magnet that Alta had sent him from Jo's university, CAL in yellow letters on a blue background. He knew right where she lived and even possessed her email address. Had Hannah forwarded that by mistake? He hadn't asked, afraid to reveal he had seen it. Copied down, it was stashed with the letters in his dresser.

Jeremy went up and sat at the foot of the bed. She had been there, not all night, but long enough for him to have loved her, to have loved and lost her all in one evening. He had been fully engaged while loving her, fast asleep as she fled, unable to face the morning. Jeremy stared at the upper drawer, then opened it, removing that stack, gently thumbing through the envelopes, her delicate penmanship demanding his focus. His name in her hand, his address laid out; Helperby was spelled with a large H, the postcode set at the bottom, then United Kingdom in all caps to the lower right as she had run out of space.

She had run out of room and couldn't face him, couldn't concede his presence in her life. Jeremy couldn't fault her, amazed she still functioned. She had lived a year of silence, but come out of it, emerging whole but quiet. Hushed. She thought herself faulty, but Jeremy was bewildered she had survived.

He left the letters and went down to his laptop. Opening a new tab, he searched for Craig Adams. Articles appeared detailing the late film producer's career, photos making plain the resemblance of father and daughter. Jo was so much Craig's child and Jeremy then wondered why there were no siblings. It was only Jo, then he became distracted by an article from _The Guardian_ , reporting Adams' death.

The entire right side of the Range Rover was crushed and Jo had lived only because she was on the left. Her name was cited, that the child of Craig Adams and author Hannah Adams had survived. No mention of Jo's silence, an injury invisible.

One photo made Jeremy shudder; twisted metal that had once been a means of transportation lay crumpled on its left side, leaning along a small embankment in the middle of a field. More images depicted the broken rock wall that hadn't prevented the car from rolling off the road, grass mangled by the violent crash. Then the flattened ground underneath after the Rover had been removed, and Jeremy tried to imagine Jo lying on her left side, the earth directly beneath her.

He recalled how Craig had crowed about Jo in Jeremy's presence, describing his daughter as a hellion full of love. Then came Hannah's reproachful gaze; "She is not a hellion!" But her grin couldn't hide the basis of truth. "Indulged, all by you," she added.

Craig had laughed, kissed his wife, then helped Philippa with the dishes. It had been in the autumn of 1993, _Silent Wishes_ just released, Jeremy and Philippa recently moved into the house in St. John's Wood. If he hadn't landed other film roles, that home would have been long sold. Jeremy hadn't expected his career to turn as it had, no way to predict the future. No way to know in October 1993 of what was coming.

Jeremy replied to Hannah, then remembered the letters on his bed. He gathered them, but something slipped loose. He set the pile in the dresser but on the floor lay Jo's last note and the photograph of his daughter. Both were hot pokers, yet they couldn't remain there and Jeremy picked them up, searing his fingers, one no less wounding than the other. He placed Jo's letter next to the rest, but studied the photo. Philippa's hair was brown, past her shoulders, and she smiled. Her mother Sandra had taken the shot in the unkempt back garden of the new house. Philly had relished the project, the home Jeremy's wedding present to her.

He stared at himself; short brown hair, his trademark smile. Even then that grin was evident, but in that moment it wasn't a two-dimensional celluloid creation, only a young father standing next to his contented wife and fussing child. As soon as Sandra took the picture, Philippa had given the baby a feeding.

In the photo, the infant looked ready to scream. Immediately afterwards, Philippa set the baby to nurse. Jeremy retrieved a white woven cloth as his wife and child relaxed; once attached to mum, the baby only made noises of enjoying lunch.

Jeremy had stroked the baby's cheek, causing her to pause. "Hey you, she's eating. Don't get her confused," Philippa laughed.

"She knows where she is, don't worry," he chuckled. "You cold?"

"No, but when she's done, you take her. I want to show Mum something."

When the baby finished, he got three burps walking into a kitchen in need of a refit, one that looked nothing like Philippa's kitchen now. But Jeremy would never forget those sounds, small, slight, ever present.

"Oh, that's a good girl Emma," he had whispered. "What a good girl!"

Jo loved the cool fog, the sun like a gift, reminding her of Yorkshire. She dressed in jeans, sweatshirts, and Birkenstocks; the East Bay could become home.

It was different when she went to see Hannah in San Jose. Warmer, it was California and her childhood, but hazy. Jo associated New York with her younger years. Born there, she had been raised where her father was making a movie, where her mother was writing. She had started school in California, then missed a year after the accident, a delineation. Her childhood had been on the East Coast. What came afterwards took place in the west.

San Jose wasn't overly hot, but some days it baked and at her mother's, Jo wore shorts, tank tops, and Tevas. Clipping back her mass of curls was a task, but she had decided to grow it out, buying a large claw to collect it. She had been at her mother's for a week, but soon Hannah would be up to her neck with promotional efforts.

A new paperback release of _There Is Something Here_ was being shipped to retailers, Jeremy and Elizabeth Watson gracing the cover. Jo had seen it on the web, his face just as she recalled from meeting him that first time; gray-haired, appearing in his late forties. Jo had looked at it without pain. It wasn't the man who'd made love to her, wasn't the man who still held her heart. The man on the book was different, safe.

Jo wandered into the study. Hannah was completing the book she'd begun in New York at a pace Jo thought frenetic. Usually Hannah took much longer with a first draft, but she was eager to finish before the bustle of autumn hit.

"Jo, can you get me some water?" Hannah asked.

"Sure Mum." She fetched them each a glass, setting her mother's to the left of the laptop.

Hannah drained her cup, then leaned back, lifting arms over her head. She was also dressed for the weather, in shorts and a white t-shirt. "Thanks sweetheart." Hannah glanced over and saw Jo shaking. "Lovey, what?"

Hannah called her _sweetheart_ often. Jeremy had done it once and Jo couldn't forget it, or him. "Is he okay?" she asked, taking the chair to Hannah's left.

A box fan stirred the air and Hannah stood in front of it. "He's all right, asks about you."

Jo didn't look up, pulling her knees close, wrapping arms around herself. "I don't know if I ever want to fall in love again."

You haven't fallen out of it, Hannah wanted to say. Instead she allowed Jo to gather her words. They did come; slowly, painfully, with much hesitation.

"I mean, I barely knew him. I just don't think I'm capable of something that deep." Jo reached for her glass, slipping ice into her mouth.

She crunched it, like her father had. Hannah shivered, then sat again, gazing at her last sentence. "Jo, stop that."

"Oh, I forgot, sorry. I do it at my house all the time."

Hannah grinned, picturing Jo alone, dressed in long sleeves, jeans and socks with a glass of ice, munching away. "Jo..." Then Hannah sighed. "Honey, I can't tell you anything because neither Momma nor I ever got back on that horse."

Jo looked up, her mother's blue eyes misty. She had never considered that; was it in her genes to want a solitary existence?

"No, I guess neither of you did." She finished her water and stood, staring at the words on her mother's screen. "You've been busy."

"It's coming. Who knows from where."

"What's it about?"

"Oh love, like usual."

"Well, maybe give it to Aunt Ellen or Grandma. I'm not any good at that." Jo turned to leave, but Hannah reached for her.

Jo found her mother in tears. Hannah rarely cried and Jo knelt beside her. "What?"

"I'm sorry baby," Hannah croaked. "I'm sorry that I didn't get to you, that I wasn't there."

"Oh Mum!" Jo bent into her mother's warm lap, hearing her heart as they embraced.

"I'm sorry Jo, oh baby. I'm so sorry sweetheart!"

Clutching Hannah's legs, Jo noted an eerie echo that sounded like her father's voice, calling her name.

Chapter 12

Having missed academics, Jo found her professors intriguing. She was studying science; skip a beat, library science. To those she told the story, a laugh usually followed. Once her name was revealed, another beat passed. Occasionally: _Are you Hannah Adams' daughter?_ Jo would smile and depending on her mood, give a verbal confirmation, sometimes just a nod.

Her mood since starting the term was good. After a long cry with her mother, Jo sat Jeremy aside. It was either that, she later emailed Hannah, or lose her mind. Hannah hadn't replied right away and in the meantime, Jo had written her grandmother, professing the same. Neither woman believed a word she said, leaving Jo to her ideas. Their protests would have fallen on deaf ears.

Jeremy was hearing from colleagues, Milton, Hannah, the producers, even Charles Wyler had called, all professing one theme: the film was going to be a smash! A review had leaked from a critic Wyler had allowed an early viewing. Even before the September premiere, the buzz was wild. On par with _Terms of Endearment_ , _Sophie's Choice_ , and _Brokeback Mountain_ , but Jeremy took it with his usual flippancy. It was just a movie, he said to Philippa and Griff. To Hannah it was _that_ _film_ and to Alta, he sent more flowers.

Blooms that if Jo had been receptive would have gone to her.

"Well, have a good time," Jo said, watering her plants. "You still stopping in New York?"

Hannah packed her last items. "Yeah, I'll be there for two nights." The phone sat in the crook of her neck as she walked around her house, searching for a scarf. "You didn't take my gray pashmina, did you?"

Jo laughed. "The last time I asked for it, you'd sent it to the cleaners."

"Oh good god, you're right! I wonder if I still have the ticket. I'll talk to you later."

They had been chatting for an hour, during which time Jo tidied her entire apartment. It wasn't large, yet felt huge. Was it the second bedroom that housed her computer and bicycle? Jo loved Berkeley, was ready to make it her home. The masters would take three years, but Jo wasn't in a hurry. She appreciated the neighborhood's intimacy, biking to school, and when it eventually rained, a bus stop was close. She had toured San Francisco already, wandering around Golden Gate Park, getting over both the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges. Spending an afternoon in Sausalito, she realized how little she and her mother had traveled north from their house in San Jose. Jo had either been in school or her mother buried in work. Or, Jo noted, both were in New York.

She had found a coffee shop three blocks from her apartment, staffed by students. No familial overtones, but that suited Jo. Belle wouldn't be spotted in California and just as Jo wouldn't find Belle, she was sure Jeremy wouldn't locate her.

She hadn't sent him her address, assuming her mother and grandmother would keep it confidential. Jo considered Jeremy was also consumed with work. Griffin's Darfur project was ongoing, more than enough to keep Jeremy busy.

Jo glanced at her desk, nothing due immediately. In need of a walk, a coffee sounded good. Grabbing her bag and keys, Jo stuffed her cell into her pocket and headed out.

With a book in hand, Jo hunkered in the far left corner. No one noticed her, but she couldn't shake the sense of being watched. Sipping her latte, she returned to the story.

Still she felt observed. Setting the book on the table, she gripped the cup. A sunny day, but not warm, it was similar to Santa Barbara, but Jo equated the weather to Yorkshire. She smiled, thinking about her driving lessons, moments spent on the set, time with... Jo sighed, then gazed at the street. There was Marco.

As he stepped through the doors, she smiled, then stood to meet him. "Hi."

Marco Gonzalez laughed. "Is it really you?"

They didn't move to the other; lovers for over two years, but now distance reigned. Was it how they had parted, or the space she'd purposely kept between them while together? She offered him a chair and they sat, saying nothing.

The last time Jo had seen him was the summer of 2007. It hadn't been pleasant; Jo stiffly gave him her key to their rental house, having moved out the week before, the small Isla Vista home his to do with as he pleased. Later Jo learned he had left it and during her last year in Santa Barbara they hadn't crossed paths. Two years had changed him little. At twenty-four, his brown hair was still long, now in a ponytail, his round face sporting familiar stubble. Brown eyes which had once appealed now teased and she forced herself to look at his smile, which beamed.

"You look beautiful. I like your hair longer," he said.

"Thanks," she nodded. "Yours too."

"So, what are you doing here?"

"I didn't have any coffee at my apartment."

"Really? I have a hard time believing that."

"I don't," she smiled.

They talked for an hour, exchanging cell numbers. Marco was also at Cal, studying law, which had surprised Jo. "I thought you were gonna be a writer."

He sat back, running fingers through his ponytail, then began to braid the long strip. "After a while you look around and see where the money is."

Jo nodded. "Well, I'm still going to look after books."

"Good for you. At least one of us is sticking to our dreams."

As he stood, she was struck by his honesty; was that another newly acquired trait?

"So, you live around here?" he asked, as they reached the street.

"Uh, yeah." Jo hesitated releasing too much information. That hadn't changed.

"Well, I come by most days. I'll have to look for you." He smiled, squeezed her hand, then headed off. "See you around."

Jo felt nothing from that grip but a fleeting bit of her past. She watched him walk away until his ponytail was lost in the crowd. Then she headed for home.

With a plush room in an expensive London hotel, Hannah wished she was still in New York. Alta had been slow on her feet and while Ellen was in place for the weekend, Hannah hadn't liked the look of her mother. Too much salt and coffee in Hannah's short stopover, and Alta hadn't slept well either. The lilies were plentiful and Hannah had sighed, would ask Jeremy if those were on purpose. She expected they were.

Another unwelcome surprise was Jo's news of seeing Marco, but Jo didn't seem bothered or interested. She hadn't asked about Jeremy, nor did Hannah mention him. Jo had noted her classes, running into an ex-boyfriend in the mix. Hannah didn't assume Jo was over Jeremy, not consciously. That would be ages; maybe Jo would file him where she kept her father.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Hannah accepted her place in Jo's life. A confidant, one who understood, but unable to reach in and remove that great hurt. While finishing her book, Hannah had given long thought to her daughter, if decisions made years ago had been correct. HannahHannah hadn't insisted Jo seek therapy after their return to California. Jo had started school and while she was much altered, she wasn't sad. So quiet, but her grades were good, friends plentiful and Jo talked. She was speaking and after a few sessions with a grief counselor, had said that was enough.

With her child verbal and engaging with her peers, Hannah hadn't pushed; had that been the right course? Now she wasn't sure. If Jo had regressed, become a recluse, Hannah would have done something. Other than her outward stillness, a shyness that could be permeated, Jo appeared to have weathered the accident.

Hannah lay on her right side. If she lay on her left too long, her right hip ached. She didn't know why, having never been physically injured. Jo had suffered a bruised right arm, some facial lacerations. Reaching the hospital, Hannah found her daughter wide awake, saying nothing, doctors unsure if it was an actual injury or emotional trauma. No one would know until Alta arrived. In her grandmother's warm arms, Jo began to cry, wailing for over half an hour, a voice present but muted.

Tracing her finger along the duvet, Hannah followed a floral print similar to the color of those hospital walls; mauve, soothing. Once Jo was released, Hannah received her tears amid packing up the small cottage Craig had rented that summer. With no films on the horizon, for six weeks he had looked after Jo while Hannah wrote. Father and daughter trekked to Scarborough, Harrogate, and Ripon, into the Dales to Masham, also to York and Leeds. The family stayed in the tiny hamlet of Blubberhouses, a name that made Jo laugh, her loud shouts masked by the vast rolling hills, rock walls, and as the moors approached, barren land covered with sheep and deep purple heather. Hannah had loved the solitude and Craig kept their only daughter busy.

Their only child. Losing Craig was devastating, but at least Jo had survived. Yet, had she? Tears gathered along the right side of Hannah's head, pooling at her hairline. Her braids caught the liquid, leading trickles to her ear. She rolled to her back and wiped her cheek. Jo had somehow not been crushed in that accident; it was only an accident. Hannah lost the love of her life but their only child had been spared.

Rarely did Hannah ponder this. For years it had crippled her, the work suffering for ages. After seeing Jeremy in 2002, Hannah had released it, not wanting to end up like him. Nothing she could do for Jeremy, except write a book that took ages, and now that novel was ready to go from her words on pages to his face on a screen. _There Is Something Here_ was written to excise Hannah's pain, the dedication for her husband and daughter, but between those in the know, it was also for one other. Writing that story had allowed Hannah to move on. What it did for its intended was out of her hands.

As was her own daughter; Jo had been spared, but was still trying to claw her way out of the Rover. Hannah sat up and blew her nose. For years she had let Jo move at her own pace, and while she was a stunning young woman, that little girl, noisy, charming, and full of life, had been stunted. Was she even still there?

Hannah stood, moving to the window, staring at a busy London street. The premiere was the following evening; she and Jeremy would have dinner with Philippa and her husband, also Jeremy's friend Griff and his girlfriend. Then to the red carpet where Hannah would smile, wave, sign a few pieces of paper. Handing herself to people, what her daughter had done; in written words, Jo had offered who she had been to her mother and grandmother. Closing the net curtains, Hannah went to take a shower, wishing she knew how to give it back.

On the evening of the premiere, Jo felt as if she too was in London. All day she had read of the festivities, gazing at the still photographs, then later video, of her mother and Jeremy walking the carpet. Jo had called Alta and they chatted about Hannah's blue dress, one that Jo had helped her mother choose. Alta thought it matched Hannah's eyes and Jo had laughed in agreement. Jo said little about Jeremy, but Alta noted maybe he had put on a few pounds. Jo tried hard not to giggle, finding that as well.

When the reviews appeared later, Jo was thankful for the eight hours separating her from England. Superlatives reigned alongside rumors that Jeremy would receive his third Oscar nomination for a role stunning critics; was he really this good of an actor? Older reviewers recalled his initial films, and Jo shed tears, thrilled all that hard work was being lauded.

Jo had spoken to her mum for only a few minutes, Hannah exhausted from jet lag and the long day. Jo had heard deep satisfaction amid the weariness, aware the book had been for Jeremy. She wasn't sure why, other than her mother's explanation that sometimes one needed a swift kick in the backside to get them moving. Jo's parents and Jeremy went back to the first film adaptation of one of Hannah's novels, Jo and Jeremy having discussed how they had almost met when Hannah and Craig shared dinner with Jeremy and his wife Philippa.

Amid her mother's yawning, Jo said goodnight. That had been hours ago and Jo was still thinking of the film, Jeremy in her head for the first time in weeks. Seeing him so dapper had made her ache, and she had tried to steer herself from his photograph, from that image. She would catch the film, already had a friend who wanted to see it with her, but he would be Jim Sullavan, cheating husband and bearer of a secret that could destroy his family. He wouldn't be the man from last autumn, from only a few months back. A man she had placed far away, cloistered with letters and a dried bouquet.

Heading to her closet, Jo slid the door open. On the shelf to the right sat a large box and she stared at it, aware of the contents; the dried roses, Jeremy's t-shirt from their one night together, all of his letters. She had sent that box by registered mail, insuring it. She couldn't leave it in New York, couldn't bear to be far from it. He was in it. Her heart was too.

At her usual table, Jo sipped a decaf latte. It was after nine, but she hadn't felt frightened walking so late, the streets well lit, other students about. She might change her mind going home, but could call a cab. She had a book, an old one of her mother's from before the accident when Hannah's words were of a high quality and not _drivel_ as Jo's grandmother had charged. Jo had heard that claim too, laughing as her mother had.

The plot of _Silent Wishes_ was melodramatic, one of Hannah's first novels. Jo liked the story, but loved the flow of language, family turmoil expressed in Hannah's poetic phrases. The story might be clichéd, but not the author's prose.

Captivated by the book, Jo hadn't noticed Marco's approach. When she saw his loose, flowing hair, she choked.

"Am I interrupting?" he said.

"God, I didn't expect, I mean, hi," she stuttered.

"Can I join you?"

She set the book in her bag. "Sure."

"What are you doing out so late?"

Jo smiled, explaining her mother's adventures. Marco hadn't followed Hannah's career and Jo had much to say, focusing on Elizabeth Watson, Portia Jones, and Hannah's screenplay. The reviews, Jo added, were very good.

"Well, maybe I'll have to see it when it comes out. Perhaps we can go together."

Marco and Jeremy were tall and angular, both with brown eyes, but Marco's face was round, his hair long, with coloring darker than Jeremy's. His demeanor was that of a man barely an adult; he wanted to be older, the hair most striking. At their last encounter it rested on his shoulders. Now it hung down his back like a totem.

"I already have a date," Jo laughed. "You're welcome to join us. Kristin won't mind."

He smiled. "I'd love to."

Jo stared at him. He hadn't found her at the coffee shop by accident. Had he somehow looked her up, tracked her down? Had her grandmother told him? Alta could be chatty at times, overly so on occasion. Jo wondered and as he took her hand, she gazed again.

His face was different than Jeremy's, but the same as before when he had asked her to tell him about the accident, about her father. Tell him everything that lay in her head, he needed to know. He said he loved her, asked her to be his wife. Asked her to marry him and then _tell him_.

Now he was going to be a lawyer, which had nothing to do with literature. Did it have much to do with truth? Jo didn't know. He had spoken of law and politics, those professions having little to do with a deeper meaning, what he had wanted from her before, something so tied to her being she knew not how to separate it.

She couldn't dismiss how he caressed her wrist, but it was only a place she liked to be touched. Instead Jo concentrated on how he moved his chair closer to hers, then allowing his mane to drape one shoulder, shielding his face. It was planned, so obvious, nothing like Jeremy's subtlety. Marco was nothing like Jeremy Stewart, not an adult, not English, not pale, lighthearted, or witty. Marco didn't remind her of Jeremy at all, which was ultimately why she allowed him to walk her home, accompany her upstairs, get into her body, and sleep in her bed.

Jo woke only because the doorbell wouldn't stop ringing. Marco didn't stir, not even as she clomped about. Peering through the peephole, she saw a young man with flowers. Had Hannah woke so thrilled with the final cut she had lost a bit of her mind? Jo smiled, opening the door.

"Are you Jo Adams?" came a beleaguered sigh.

"Yeah. Those for me?"

"Hell yes. I've been walking around this damned complex, waking everybody up and believe me, when they come to the door and find out they've been pulled outta bed for flowers that aren't for them, shit. I've had three doors slammed in my face this morning."

He looked spent. Jo wondered if his saga was so she would feel compelled to tip him extra.

"Okay, just a minute." She went for her purse, which was on the floor near the couch, where she and Marco had started necking before going to her room. She handed over five dollars, then signed for the bouquet; daisies, lilies, and roses. Jo thought her mother amusing, making the delivery man grovel for his gratuity.

He seemed appeased, offering a _thank you_ as she shut the door. The vase was heavy, baby's breath and ferns completing the arrangement, which Jo set on the kitchen counter. Pulling the card from the stick, she watched Marco head for the bathroom. He hadn't bothered dressing, she noticed, opening the envelope. The sex was as before, sturdy but gentle, his rhythms not having left her. He had kissed her, then she had allowed him further. Had he expected to sleep with her, or was he only hoping for a reintroduction, an opening? Jo had given him more; it was safe. She didn't love him, didn't need him. Didn't feel any more for him than when it had ended. Marco was nothing more than a way to not consider the one who did matter.

Jo smiled as he approached her; he was hard and she wore nothing under her robe. With the card in her hand, her eyes moved from what was written to the man in front of her. He hadn't meant any more than sex, but that was still enough to make her set down the note and accept his good morning kiss.

"These are nice," he said, his envy apparent.

"From my mother. She likes to surprise me." And give people a difficult time, Jo smiled.

"You sure?"

She laughed. "Yeah. So, you hungry?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "You?"

"Sure," she replied, kissing him with more force than he'd expected.

He opened her robe; Jo knew he had hoped for something, several condoms in his back pocket. They had used two last night and as he led her to the bedroom, she reached for another, resting on the bedside table. Jo set it on him and lay down. Closing her eyes, she felt a presence that was common, but not disagreeable; as he came, she was not moved to join him.

Marco slid off her, breathless and without words. Unaffected, Jo sat up, noting a beautiful display of daisies, roses, and lilies.

Lilies.

She got up, not even bothering to cover herself. The card remained on the counter and Jo's eyes couldn't keep out the words.

Thinking of you, all my love, Jeremy

Chapter 13

_Wednesday, September 9_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

Well, you certainly know how to make a delivery man work for his keep. Mine was the last of four apartments upon which he knocked and he seemed grateful to be rid of his burden. I was happy to relieve him of it. The flowers are beautiful.

I can only assume Grandma offered you my address. At the risk of being cheeky and only to maintain good relations with my neighbors, my apartment number is 4.

School is fine. I was greatly surprised to find my old boyfriend from Santa Barbara here studying law. He's given up his idea of being a writer and we've shared coffee.

Looking forward to seeing the film; it sounds like you have a winner on your hands. Again, thanks for the flowers. Marco was here when they arrived and seemed a bit put out. I told him they were from Mum, as it would have been too much to explain.

Sincerely, Jo

Arriving in San Francisco, Hannah stepped into a cab, heading straight for Berkeley. The thrill of the premiere still pulsed and for as much as Charles Wyler had taxed Hannah's patience, he had made a picture Craig would have been proud to call his own. That was her highest compliment and Wyler's eyes had watered with her words.

Craig would have been more than proud of Jeremy, but Hannah had left that unspoken. After London, Hannah had spent a week with Alta and again left her mother with a sense of foreboding. Alta was mobile but fragile, and Ellen had arrived as Hannah packed. They were considering live-in help, a last resort. Alta wouldn't take kindly to a stranger in her home and Ellen admitted it was more of a ruse. If their mother was pushed into a corner, she would likely give up her coffee and processed foods. Leave the bacon out of the beans, if push came to shove. Hannah was ready to shove, she laughed to her sister.

She relaxed as the driver headed to the Bay Bridge. Hannah had left New York early, reaching the West Coast at ten in the morning. Jo hadn't said much following the premiere, but Jeremy had been full of his usual self control. Hannah sensed something wasn't right; her gut rarely failed her.

The cab arrived at Jo's complex and Hannah paid the fare, then walked to the stairs, hidden from the street. She hadn't told Jo she was coming and dragging her suitcase up the steps, she pulled out her key and let herself in.

As soon as Hannah inhaled she noted the enormous bouquet on the small counter. Closing the door, she then set down her case, and walked to the wilting flowers. Like a bright flashing light, Hannah felt warned.

Jo's door opened and she emerged in a robe half asleep. "Mum?"

"Oh honey!" In their embrace, Hannah looked past her daughter, unable to miss the sleeping man in Jo's bed.

Marco had dressed, offered a perfunctory greeting to Hannah, then slipped from the apartment without any goodbye to Jo. Hannah sat at Jo's computer, allowing him to leave without fanfare, writing emails to her mother, sister, and to Jeremy. In all three, no mention was made of Jo's houseguest.

Once the front door closed, Hannah got herself some water. Jo was nowhere to be seen, but her bedroom door was shut. Hannah poked in the fridge as Jo emerged in sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt. She stood on the other side of the counter and neither said a word.

She's an adult, Hannah sighed. Except for the long hair, Marco had looked the same but he had barely said two words. Jo had mentioned he was at Cal, studying law. Studying to integrate himself back into familiar surroundings, Hannah mused, setting down her glass. "Well, that was a surprise."

"Oh god Mum. Nice to see you too."

Hannah came around, the bouquet between them. "These from Jeremy?"

Jo nodded, staring to the floor.

"Does Marco know about him?"

"No. I told him they were from you."

"Well, that was convenient." Hannah had been sitting for hours; in a New York cab, then at the airport, on the plane, in another taxi. Jo's couch beckoned and Hannah reclined once again. "So, you two back together?"

Jo gripped herself. "I don't know."

In the clutter, Hannah noted items she didn't recognize. "Is he moving in?"

"No!"

Hannah nodded. "Do you love him?"

Jo touched one of the lilies. "No."

"Uh-huh," Hannah muttered. "Then why in the hell is he here?"

Jo kept her back to her mother. "Why do you think?"

"So he can worm his way back into your life? So you can keep hiding?"

That last sentence made Jo turn, tears rolling down her face. Still she remained quiet.

Hannah stood, the morning nothing she had expected. She had wanted to take her daughter to lunch, talk about the film, about Alta, share as much of Jo's day as possible. Now all Hannah wanted was to go straight to San Jose. Hannah sighed, worn from too much worrying. For what, so people could keep doing stupid things? Her mother, her daughter, Jeremy; Hannah needed three bricks.

She took her phone from her purse. "You know the number of a taxi around here?"

"Mum, don't go. You just got here."

"Jo, I love you, I do." Hannah put the phone in her pocket, then reached for her daughter's face. "But honey, I can't watch this. It's like watching your grandmother drink her coffee." Or Jeremy wearing his mask. "I love you, but you're just killing yourself!"

Words to Jo were usually cloaked in kindness and cotton wool. A rough edge was coming, Hannah's gut talking. If she had a brick...

"He's gonna be a lawyer. He doesn't care about the past anymore. He just wants to be with me now, just me. That's all behind us."

Hope lay in Jo's eyes, but Hannah wasn't convinced. "Is he who you really want?"

Jo gave a feeble nod.

Hannah touched her child's wet cheek. "Whatever makes you happy honey." Scanning the house again, Hannah's eyes landed on the flowers. "But he'll always love you."

Jo nodded. "I'm gonna tell him."

Hannah stared at her daughter. "What Jo? You're gonna tell him what?"

Jo gasped, then broke into sobs.

Both gripped a coffee, hair shielding Jo's face. She had cried for an hour, then they left, Hannah needing a walk. Jo continued verbalizing all that was in her head. All about Marco, Hannah noticed.

"He says he's sorry, you know, for pushing me. Sorry he didn't just let me be."

"And you believe him?"

Jo sipped her latte. "Before he wanted to use all I was for his writing. But now he wants to be a lawyer. He wants to be a senator," Jo laughed. "That has nothing to do with who I am."

Hannah nodded. "Jo, you don't love him."

It was a quiet brick, more resembling a piece of tile, laid at Jo's feet. Hannah couldn't actually slap her child along the head. Jo needed a good kick in the rear, but Hannah couldn't do either one. Still, the small poke was noted. "No, I don't love him, not yet. But I know I will."

Hannah was surprised at her daughter's candor, to a point; Jeremy was too far. Marco, it seemed, was not. "So you're gonna live with him, sleep with him, make babies with him but not love him, is that what I'm getting?"

"Mum, my god!"

"Well, is it?"

Jo stared at her mother. "It's all I can do."

Hannah clutched her daughter's hands. "Oh god Jo it's not, it's really not! You know he loves you, Jeremy loves you!"

Jo winced. "I can't do that. I can't go there."

"But you'll keep his flowers. You'll keep those lilies and I bet all his letters are there too, and you probably sent him a note: _Thank you Jeremy_. Thanks for everything, but you'll tell Marco something else. You'll just keep lying to yourself and girl, one of these days, everything you see'll be nothing. Nothing at all!"

Hannah released Jo's hands, her color high. For so long she had only wanted to protect her daughter. Now, as though she was hurling the Rover through the field, Hannah watched Jo rolling end over end.

But Jo didn't move. Hannah gave her a minute to answer. Still Jo said nothing and Hannah stood up, walking out the door.

When Jo arrived home, Hannah was stepping into a taxi. "Mum!"

Hannah set down the window. "What?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Yes!"

Jo looked at the street, trees losing a few leaves. A Mini Cooper sat across the road and Jo shivered. "I can't love him."

"You can't love either one of them."

Jo stared to the ground. "Email me when you get home, okay?"

Hannah nodded, but Jo still hadn't looked up.

"Mum, I love you." As the taxi pulled away, Jo watched her mother in the back window until the cab turned the corner. She glanced at the Mini, then went upstairs.

The room was a mess, but almost all of it was Marco's. She locked her door, inhaling a scent that had sustained her since his arrival. Condom wrappers littered her bedroom floor; he hadn't expected her to provide protection and even after she made it plain she was on the pill, he still insisted. Jo hadn't argued, it made it even safer. They were having the safest sex ever. A lot of it, but what did she feel?

Jo undressed and stepped in the shower. The water was hot, but she didn't adjust it, liquid pouring over her as did her mother's words: _...live with him, sleep with him, make babies with him..._ Jo smiled. No babies, all kinds of birth control.

She thought about Marco's body, his voice. Familiar, easy. Comfortable. She shuddered, Hannah's words again in her head. I can so love Marco, Jo clucked.

She stepped out, shivering in the cool air. Marco was safe, that Jo wouldn't deny, but she had lied to him about the flowers, then implied to Jeremy that he could send more. Her apartment number in the thank you note; it was only out of courtesy, doing the right thing. Marco was the right thing.

Wanting a skirt that day, Jo slid the closet door to the left, spotting Jeremy's box. Tape secured the contents and Jo sighed. Her mother knew her well.

Jo's legs were chilled, but she removed that box and with a knife, loosened the lid. The roses were still fragrant; she recalled arriving in New York, finding these flowers. Now the petals were dry, but in her fingers they felt fresh, alive, but so dainty; if mishandled, they would crumble. Her heart began to ache, a pain she rarely allowed. Her father's voice wafted in Jo's head and she wiped her eyes. Setting the lid back on the box, Jo returned it to the shelf. Then she stepped into a skirt and finished dressing.

_Tuesday, September 29_ th _2009_

Dear Jeremy,

Well, Mum's back in California. She surprised me this morning, taking a taxi all the way from SFO to my apartment. I had a surprise for her as well, one that I have to share with you because it wouldn't be right if you found out from anyone else.

Marco and I are together. It came about rather suddenly, yet, it's for the best for me and for him. Maybe not for you, and for that I apologize. I know I gave you my flat number, but I'd prefer if you didn't send any more flowers.

I can't be what others want me to be. All I can do is be what I can for myself, for Marco. My mother isn't happy about this, and that's unfortunate.

I just wanted to let you know.

Jo

At the post office, Jo stood in the middle of a long line. The letter burned her hand and as each person made their slow way to a teller, Jo wanted to mail it away. Get it to him so he would know. Send it to England, to where she would never return.

The man in front held several flat packages. As he moved forward, Jo heard the couple behind her speaking Spanish, something about his mother. Behind them an older Asian woman tapped her foot. She too held a letter and Jo painfully gripped her own.

Jo turned to the front, the man with many parcels up next. The teller to the right closed her window, leaving only one person behind the counter. Jo tapped her foot; she wanted to get Jeremy off her chest, from her head. The conversation behind her moved from Spanish to English; the man's mother was ill in Oaxaca and he was trying to decide if he needed to travel. His girlfriend was pressing him to go, a little too eagerly for Jo's liking. The Asian woman had received a phone call, speaking in her own dialect. Jo couldn't understand that conversation, other than the woman clucked often, sounding as exasperated as Jo felt.

Another package was weighed, postage affixed, and if it had been any other letter, Jo would already be gone, not worth her trouble. This note felt like a toxic substance dissolving the flesh from her fingers. She eyed the teller, slowly asking if the man needed any stamps. No, Jo thought. No stamps, no insurance, no receipt.

The man moved away and Jo stepped forward. As she did, a voice called from the other side of the room. As she stared, her eyes played tricks. At first it was Jeremy, his smile bright, arms open to her. Jo blinked, Marco's long hair flowing.

"Can I help you?" the teller asked.

"What are you doing here? I've been trying to find you," Marco said.

The letter ached in Jo's hand, but Marco's brown eyes were safe.

"Nothing, I uh, nothing. Let's go." Walking out of the post office, Jo threw the letter in the trash.

Much later that night, Jo collected used condoms from the floor. Marco insisted on them, admitting to having slept with several women. As she disposed the used prophylactics, Marco snored, giving Jo a headache. In the bathroom, she took two painkillers, then went to her computer. Her inbox was still open, the note from her mother shining in the dark.

Jo hadn't liked Hannah's angry words, reminding Jo she was only hurting herself. Jo wanted to repudiate her mother; Marco didn't hurt at all.

She filed that email, but double clicking accidentally opened an old forward, one from Hannah that Jo had meant to delete. She scanned the addresses, Jeremy's included.

There on her laptop Jeremy Stewart waited. Had this been deliberate on her mother's part? Jo checked the date; from July, over two months before.

Jo's fingers, before so hot with that unsent letter, now moved in dread. Arthritic and cold, they sulked, copying his address into a new email. Jeremy's name sat at the top of the screen. Could she write to him, was that smart?

Marco's snores increased. In Jo's bed lay an old flame that admittedly meant nothing to her. Was that intelligent? It was safe, but the email she considered was a knife, edgy and unpredictable. Jo entered a subject of _flowers_ ; then what? What about the flowers? The dead, dried bouquet she had examined that morning as though cutting out her heart, or the fading roses on her counter, ready for a long time upside down or thrown out with the rubbish?

Jo typed a long, rambling note that included both bouquets, Marco in her bed, and tears if they could have been incorporated. Hitting _send_ , she didn't bother to proofread what she had written. Something in her had snapped, she concluded, getting back into bed. Marco stirred as she set cold feet against his legs. As he moved closer, she felt him stiffen against her.

Then Jo allowed another man, himself cloaked and protected, to enter her. After a time Jo felt Marco's shudder, emotions escaping. Remaining within herself, she fell asleep, arms held fast around her body.

Eight hours ahead, Jeremy drove to Easingwold, posting a letter to Alta. Dismayed by Hannah's latest news, Jeremy had admonished Alta to leave the bacon for him on his way to Los Angeles in a few weeks' time. With Jo's apartment number in his head, he wouldn't have to cajole anything from the older woman. Not that it would have taken much on his part; Alta had been willing to divulge that last bit for ages. Jeremy hadn't wished to set any wedge between Jo and her grandmother, simply making it clear to the florist that one of those flats held a Jo Adams. Don't stop knocking until she's found.

Arriving home, he parked the Mini in the back. Now lunchtime, he filled the kettle, then looked for something to eat. Nothing caught his eye, so he made a cup of tea, heading to the study. His inbox showed four emails waiting, only one address unfamiliar. He opened that one first, the subject _flowers_ catching him immediately. Then the words and Jeremy was transfixed; an email from Jo!

He read slowly, her words and thoughts fractured. Then one sentence: _Marco is here and we slept together on the night of the premiere._

Jeremy sat back, sipping his tea. No longer warm, but he drunk it from habit, continuing to read, her voice in his head. A tone terrified, apologetic. Upset, afraid, so afraid, the mail ending with a long, broken sentence claiming she was over him, in love with this other man. She needed to be honest, which she wrote three times, in all caps.

Finishing his tea, Jeremy inhaled, letting it out in little pieces. He hit reply, deliberate strokes upon the keys.

To: Jo Adams

Subject: re: flowers

Date: Wednesday, 30 September 11.57 BST

Dear Jo,

Well, you know how to make a statement. That's Hannah in you.

I hope you'll be happy.

Maybe one day we'll look back at this and smile.

I'm heading down to the Farmer's Inn for some lunch. Wish you were here.

Love, Jeremy

Hitting _send_ , he picked up the mug. Only then did he notice it was the one she had used that night, nearly a year before. Her lipstick was long gone, but as though he could bring her back, he traced the rim. Jeremy left it on the table and closed the inbox.

When Jo woke, Marco was in the shower. She put on her robe and went to her computer. Wishing with all her heart she hadn't sent the email, Jo found Jeremy's reply.

She wondered what he ate for lunch. Without thinking she asked. Then she closed the inbox and joined Marco in the shower.

They left for class together. When she returned, Marco was cooking dinner. She kissed him and went to the bathroom. As she emerged, he stared at her, a spoon in his hand.

"What?" she asked.

"There's something for you in the other bedroom."

"What is it?"

He pointed to the wilting roses on the counter. "Who are those from?"

"My mother."

He said nothing more, returning to dinner. Jo stood for a second, then went to her computer. Next to the laptop sat another vase full of red roses, lilies crowded around them, the opened card waiting on the desk.

I will never forget you. Love, Jeremy

Jo and Marco ate in silence. The food was tasteless, Jo bombarded by the quiet and the bouquet's scent even though she had closed the door to that room. She had considered throwing them out. Her heart wouldn't allow that and she only shut the door.

Marco's hair was pulled back and he didn't look at her. He sipped a glass of wine, saying nothing.

So many sensations prickled but Jo didn't know what she felt. That hadn't happened in years, not since the accident. One by one she had shut down intense feelings that now filled her with more than she could process. Looking at Marco, she found anger, great betrayal.

"This's lovely," she said, but it felt like sawdust in her mouth.

Marco looked up. "Who is he?"

Small relief flooded her, afraid he might have realized _who_ had sent the flowers. "Someone I used to know."

"Is he relevant?"

She smiled. Only a law student, but Marco had the lingo. "No."

"He thinks he is."

Jo had no response, unable to speak for Jeremy, barely able to think for herself.

Rinsing his plate, Marco brooded over the sink, reminding Jo of when he had shouted, then whined, trying to force her to talk. "I'm never gonna tell you what you want," she mumbled.

He stared at her. "I know. I thought it wouldn't matter."

"It doesn't have to."

Marco returned to the table, taking a chair close to her. "If it was just your dad, you're right, it wouldn't matter. I loved you, oh god, I loved you so much, all I wanted to do was free you!" He took her hands. "Maybe you thought I was being a bastard, but no one pushes you, no one ever makes you do anything, not your mother, nobody. But I loved you and I just wanted to make you better!"

Jo sucked in her breath.

"Maybe you got over your father. I have no idea because you still won't tell me a fucking thing, and now someone's sending you roses, some asshole named Jeremy. But you won't tell me. You'll fuck me, but you still won't tell me a goddamned thing!"

He stalked to her room, slamming the door, leaving Jo alone.

Chapter 14

Later that night Marco stormed from Jo's apartment only taking what he could stuff in a backpack. She heard nothing from him the next day, surrounded by his remaining possessions.

She did receive emails from Jeremy, that he'd had fish and chips for lunch, shepherd's pie for dinner. She responded with the minimum, saying nothing about Marco.

Avoiding the apartment, Jo spent all day at school. After a long night at the library, she returned home. She had grown used to sleeping with someone, recalling even when she and Marco had fought before, they always went to bed together. They might not have sex, but both seemed to need another person beside them. He had needed her and she wasn't sure why. He had needed other women too and Jo was thankful for his foresight. The condoms hadn't been spontaneous or erotic, but less sensation was better than an STD. Yet, now he was gone; as Jo slipped under the blanket, her cozy double bed seemed oddly vast. A great space had again descended and Jo hoped slumber wouldn't be long in coming.

She was almost unconscious when the knocking began. In pajamas she rushed to the door, staring into the darkness through the peephole. "Who is it?"

"It's me. Jo, please let me in."

She had no idea of the voice, muffled by the door. Her heart pounded; could it be? She didn't allow her mind any further, opening the door. As she looked up, long hair fell over stooped shoulders. It was Marco.

They made love in haste as he was contrite and she was lonely. It wasn't so fast that he forgot a condom, but she let him put it on. Then she felt enveloped. Her bed was no longer empty, her head was full of his words.

Those emerged during sex and afterwards as he apologized while bringing her as close to him as possible. His hair fell over her like a shield and she nodded, also seeking forgiveness. She wasn't sure for what, but her words came as he did, and while she still felt nothing for him, once he moved from her, she went to his arms. Again she was safe.

"Oh shit," he said, catching his breath. "I needed you, I need you." He pulled his hair away, kissing her shoulders. "I've tried for three days to not think about you. Three days and two fucking years!"

His voice drowned out her body's pointed cries. "Tell me," she whispered.

"Oh I was so stupid." He explained how, after their split, he had tried to find her, but only by accident had he met up with someone they knew from Santa Barbara, Trista Lewis also at Boalt studying law.

Jo sighed, recalling Trista in everyone's business. Jo had only kept in touch with her because Berkeley was a big school and one contact might be helpful.

"I had no idea where you were living until Trista said she had your address. I came over here, started watching for you. God Jo, I about died when I saw you at the coffee shop. I'd just about given up thinking I was just gonna run into you."

Jo said nothing as he continued, yet she'd been correct; he had been searching for her, but with no other plans than to see her. "I mean, I didn't know if you were with someone."

He said those words quietly, looking into her eyes. "I've slept with a lot of girls, women, whatever. But none of them were you." He laughed. "I'm just a whore, but all I wanted was to find you again, find you in them. I never did. No one was mysterious or precious." He ran his hand along her face. "After you left, I realized I had a lot of growing up to do. I couldn't force you to tell me things you weren't ready to." He kissed her. "Maybe you'll never be ready. And that's okay, it really is."

Jo couldn't believe his words; was this the same person she had hid from? He wasn't a man then. Was he now?

Marco smiled. "Whoever this Jeremy is, I can handle it. He's not here and I am. And I'm not leaving."

Jo began to cry. His speech sounded rehearsed, but it was enough, and she kissed him, setting her hands on his chest. "Make love to me."

As he reached for another condom, she shook her head. "No, just you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll take my chances."

It was better without the rubber, but Jo still felt out of herself. Time, she decided. It would just take time. Marco had gone right to sleep, but Jo fidgeted. Then she went to her computer.

At three in the morning, a long note from Jeremy waited, telling of his day and his plans for the Los Angeles premiere. He would stop in New York, was anticipating her grandmother's cooking. Jo thought back to that night in April, so close to what truly made her alive. All that Marco offered was like the condoms he wore, cutting off the feeling, strangling the emotion. But far better to be protected than exposed.

She didn't worry, having slept with him without that shield. He used them all the time and she could tell. His stunned face spoke of sensations once known, then forgotten. Again realized, he had climaxed almost immediately. Before he fell asleep he told her it had been over a year and a half since he hadn't worn one, how good it was to not use it. A small safety device had kept him healthy, his partners as well.

In reading Jeremy's words, Jo wished for a rubber to filter dangerous sentences: _I wish you were here because walking to the Farmer's Inn alone is awful._ Or: _The conkers are falling along the back path and I imagine taking you there, where the sky is expansive and no one is around._ And: _Jo, I can't stop feeling as I do. It will never change. I will always love you._

Her tears fell and she wished for her robe. She was cold and wanted much around her; clothing, body condoms, a steel shell. Unable to respond, Jo closed the inbox.

No further bouquets arrived. Jo and Hannah arranged lunch in San Francisco, their first meeting since Hannah's return. Now in October, Hannah was busy, the American opening of the film at the end of the month. In letters with her grandmother, Jo gathered something was amiss, but hadn't felt able to write to Hannah. Jo needed the New York scoop, and to know if her mother was still angry.

They arrived at the same time, embracing before stepping inside Darla's in the Inner Sunset district. "Oh Mum," Jo sighed. "I've missed you!"

Hannah's fierce grip acknowledged the same.

After they ordered, Jo observed a man in his forties sharing lunch with a small girl who chatted throughout their meal. As Jo half-listened to her mother, she found herself imagining the man was Jeremy. Jo shook herself, unsure from where that sprung.

"So, I think we're going to hire someone to come in twice a week. And if that doesn't work, we're going to threaten her with live-in help." Hannah stared at her daughter as their burgers arrived. "Jo, what is it?"

"What?"

Hannah cleared her throat. "Are you here?"

"Yeah, oh Mum, I'm sorry. Sorry." Jo took a bite and reached for her mother's hand. "How's Grandma?"

Hannah smile was forced. "Lovey, what?"

Jo sighed as the man stood, wiping his child's face; maybe she was his granddaughter. As they left, Jo took a breath. "Mum, Marco and I are gonna give it another go."

Hannah leaned back and sipped her water. "Are you sure?"

Jo nodded, then told Hannah most of what Marco had revealed. Leaving out all the women he had bedded, Jo explained their situation. Marco knew he couldn't save her and Jo had told Jeremy in no uncertain terms it was over.

"So, no more flowers?"

"No." Jo omitted their emails.

"Well, good luck to you both. You're gonna need it."

"Why do you say it like that?"

Hannah looked away. "That man's been through a lot and I've known him a long time."

Jo sat closer. "Mum, what?"

"Honey, he loves you. That won't change."

"Well, I'm sorry about that. But you know what? Sometimes people you love just leave."

As Jo stood for the restroom, Hannah shivered, staring at her empty plate.

Ten days later Hannah flew to Los Angeles. To her surprise a placard with her name waved as she exited baggage claim. Late in the evening the area wasn't crowded and the man, wearing dark sunglasses, looked familiar. Moving closer, she smiled. "What are you doing here?"

Jeremy chuckled. "Thought I'd surprise you."

"She's not with me," Hannah said.

"I know," he sighed.

They walked to a waiting limo, the driver taking them to Hannah's hotel. While she was tired, Hannah didn't send Jeremy away.

They spoke for an hour, mostly about Alta. Jeremy was worried too, having spent a day with her on his way west. "She seems rather knackered," he said, pouring the wine Hannah had ordered for them.

"Yeah, and she just won't listen to anyone."

"Jo know about this?"

"Yeah, feels the same as us."

Jeremy walked to the window. "I wonder if you have a view from here."

"Who knows?"

"I should let you get to bed. Such a long flight," he laughed.

She grinned. "You ready for this? Lots of people have never seen you in this sort of role."

Jeremy looked out the dark window. Turning to her, he nodded. "It's time."

"Are you sorry I wrote it?"

He laughed. "Hell no. God Hannah, you saved my career! I'd be stuck doing rom-coms until I was fat and balding."

"I don't know about that," she smiled.

He sat down. "You know it's true."

"We all have choices. This wasn't an easy film to make, Wyler or not."

"Oh god, if I never have to see him again."

"I think you will," she giggled. "Directors get nominations too."

"Don't say that!"

"You just may be heading that way," Hannah smirked.

"Well if I am, you'll be there too."

"Maybe."

"If you're nominated for an Oscar, will you take Alta?"

Hannah sighed. It had crossed her mind, but her mother's health was too precarious for the flight. "No, probably not."

Jeremy cleared his throat. "Jo?"

Hannah looked at him, her daughter finally making her way into the conversation. "I'd want her to be there."

He gave a wistful smile. "Me too."

"So, you all ready?" Jo asked.

"Yeah but I never did find that gray pashmina," Hannah laughed.

"Well, I don't have it, or if I do, I'll never find it now." Jo glanced about the apartment, so many new additions with Marco's presence. "Who knows where it is."

"Maybe Momma has it."

"Maybe." Jo collected some dirty laundry. "Mum, is he... Is he okay?"

Hannah reached for her flats, glad she would only need them for the walk down the carpet. Once in the theater, she would slip them off. "He's like he always is."

Jo wrapped her free arm around her waist. "Well, that's good."

"It is what it is. I doubt he'll ever change."

Jo hadn't missed her mother's inferences over burgers in San Francisco. Here it was again, yet she didn't inquire. "Well, have a good time, although I can't imagine you won't, at least once you get those tiny shoes off your feet."

Hannah laughed as she grabbed her purse. "You know me pretty well."

"Sometimes," Jo giggled. "Mum, I love you. Thank you."

"For what?"

Jo heard Marco on the landing. "For accepting this."

Hannah sighed. "Honey, I just want you to be happy."

Setting down his backpack, Marco gave Jo a smile. She knew a peace for his presence, but no thrill, no ecstasy. "I am Mum, I am."

That night Jo felt no differently than when he wore the condoms. That first time had been altered, but afterwards she assumed he must still be using them, her pleasure dulled like she had a head cold and could taste nothing, smell nothing, didn't care to feel anything. After sex he held her, talked to her, then fell asleep. She went out to the sound of his steady, even breathing.

Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night and would only listen for that small, constant noise, a rhythm unceasing. If he snored it was even better, more apparent. Awake, she would check for email; Jeremy noted what he'd eaten for lunch, Jo describing her own meal. Then, with a bit of guilt, she would return to bed, Marco's presence easing her to unconsciousness.

The last email Jo received didn't depict a pub lunch but a dinner at a posh Hollywood bistro. Jeremy was feted all over town; _There Is Something Here_ was a critical and box office smash.

A week after the wide release Jo, Marco, and Kristy went together. Jo sat in wonder, unable to move. Jeremy wasn't familiar, was instead a striking, older British politician impregnating his mistress. His wife suffered from multiple sclerosis, was now dying, the mistress eager to move from her lover's bed into his house. The only obstacles were their daughter and his own.

Portia Jones received rave reviews and would probably earn a nomination for best supporting actress, as would Elizabeth Watson. The mistress, played by Shannon Mitchell, was the dark horse, but no one was more lauded than the star. Jo marveled at Jeremy's treachery, then his agony; Portia wasn't his child. Along with readers of the book, Jo accepted that Jim Sullavan wasn't the bastard initially assumed, not a cold, unfeeling wretch. As Jeremy and Portia battled, Jeremy screamed the truth in a voice tortured and repentant: _"I am not your father!"_

Both Marco and Kristy gasped along with those in the audience unaware of the twist, the theater silent as Portia fell to her knees, weeping uncontrollably.

Seated between her friend and lover, Jo appreciated their steadying grips, shedding tears for herself and the one on-screen. Jo remembered watching the stresses and tensions build, then Charles Wyler's voice: _CUT!_

Using Kristy's hand, Jo wiped her face. Marco looked her way, then back to the screen as Elizabeth's frail character emerged to the brokenness of her philandering husband and a child not his. Portia scrambled to Elizabeth as Jeremy trembled alone in the corner.

"You okay?" Marco whispered.

Jo nodded. She released Kristy's hand and Marco took both of hers. Jo shook and he put his arm around her.

As they left the theater, she still shivered, and Kristy gave them a lift home. Marco walked Jo up the steps, a bouquet waiting at her door.

Jo began crying as Marco led her inside, the vase remaining on the landing. The scent of lilies wafted into the apartment through the open door.

"Jo, my god, what is it?"

She couldn't speak as he closed the door. "I, I need to see the card," she finally mumbled.

"No you don't. I'm here now." Marco kissed her wet face, trying to go further.

Jo didn't want him, didn't want the flowers left outside where someone might pinch them, or worse, take the card. She had to know what he said.

She tried to stand. After a few seconds, Marco allowed her, his hands balled into fists as she opened the door. She didn't pick up the vase, only the small envelope, which burned.

As Marco approached the door, she pulled it closed. That would hurt him, but her face, once she saw the words, wouldn't be any less painful. Jo removed the small piece of paper, slightly stiff from the cold. The light was poor, but holding it up, she could make out the message.

There is something here; all my love, yours forever. Jeremy

Chapter 15

Holding the bouquet, Jo stepped inside, the card in her pocket searing her hip. Setting the vase on the counter, she turned to Marco on the sofa, hair over his shoulders.

She knelt in front of him, nuzzling against him.

"What are you doing?" Marco asked.

"I want you."

"No, he wants you."

Jo didn't move, feeling him stiffen. She caressed his thighs, then up along the sides of his body. Her fingers slid to his chest where she grazed his nipples. As Jo slipped hands under his shirt, her fingertips against his skin propelled him backwards. "God Jo, don't!"

She stopped. "Why?"

He wiped his face. "Because it doesn't mean anything to you."

"Of course it does." She moved against him, but felt him shrink.

He remained still. "No it doesn't."

"Marco, I love you."

"No, you don't. You love..." but he couldn't finish.

"I do, I do love you."

Jo began kissing his neck, but Marco pulled her off, then stood, stomping to the flowers. "Who are they from, who really?" he yelled, turning to her.

Jo scooted to the end of the sofa, hugging her knees. "No one."

"No. Who is he?"

She shook her head. "You don't wanna know."

Marco went to edge of the couch. "No Jo, I do wanna know because he's someone who's gotten into you, someone that keeps you from, from coming with me!"

She stared at him.

"You don't think I haven't noticed?" he laughed. "Jesus Jo, give me some credit!"

"Marco, I..."

"I don't do anything for you other than keep you from being alone." He sat on the couch, putting his head in his hands. "Who is he Jo? God, just tell me!"

She had tried faking it, but as with words Jo couldn't conjure, an orgasm was equally lost. "Marco, it's over. I told him..."

"Who Jo?" Marco sat back. "Some asshole, pretty goddamned full of himself. Did he make you come?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Marco stared at her. "Christ Jo, just tell me and we can be done with it. Or you can. Jesus, don't you wanna let these things go?"

She shuddered. "Marco, please make love to me."

He laughed. "Why? It doesn't do anything for you!"

Jo set her hand between his legs. She caressed him and he sighed.

"Make love to me," she murmured, then spoke of other moments when he had brought her great pleasure. Marco took her in his arms and that time, neither moved until Jo found a voice Marco hadn't heard in ages. Then he picked her up and carried her to bed.

Eleven months since a man made her shudder and flinch, Jo lay immobile, unable to help her smile.

In slumber, Marco breathed smoothly, but he had known the buttons to push, movements to make, words to say. It had taken longer than he'd wanted; as soon as she came, he stood, her body locked to his. Laying her on the bed, he slipped inside her, ejaculating immediately. Later they made love again. That time Jo was still.

It hadn't taken Jeremy any time, and with that thought Jo got out of bed, using the toilet. Jeremy had made her come with no more than a kiss along her cheek, his fingers tracing her skin. Jo went to her computer, staring at the monitor's soft glow. Marco had brought her to an orgasm through hard work and suffering. Jeremy had only needed seconds.

Jo owned no tears, only an inner emptiness. She didn't love Marco, that was true, but she might, someday. Maybe if we do it enough, maybe if he fucks me enough, a vulgar thought that Jo discarded. _Live with him, sleep with him, make babies with him..._ Hannah's words haunted Jo. Make a baby with Marco; she could do that. Not now, but someday. Maybe that would bind her to him.

Jo thought about lunch with her mother, seeing that man with the little girl. Not Belle, who would be a year old; where was she? Jeremy's friend had lost a baby; how old would that child be? Would Jeremy ever have kids?

He would be a good father, he's been patient enough with me, Jo sighed. He'd be patient and adoring, his lover realizing a great happiness. Jo wept, thinking of some other woman carrying Jeremy's baby.

Maybe he needed to knock someone up. Jo wiped her face, then went to the living room where her jeans lay on the floor. Marco had gotten her out of those trousers, laying his hand along her thigh, his mouth on her breast. It had taken every trick in the book, but he had done it. Picking up the jeans, Jo removed Jeremy's card from the pocket. It wasn't in his handwriting, just words on a rectangular piece of paper. As she read it again, her heart ached, her body too. She slipped the note in the pocket of her robe, then returned to bed.

She woke late on Sunday morning. Smelling French toast, Jo leaned over for her robe, but it wasn't on the floor where she had left it. She sat up, saw it at the foot of the bed, lying flat along the mattress.

Jo put it on and reached for the card. It was missing.

She walked out, cinching the tie along her waist. Marco was clad in only sweats and she ran her hands along his chest. "Good morning," she whispered.

He said nothing as she spied the card on the counter, propped next to the flowers.

Jo leaned against the refrigerator as Marco slid bread from the pan, shutting off the flame. Then he turned to her, his eyes red, his face too. Jo stepped toward him, trying to touch his cheek.

Marco caught her hand in mid-air. Then he set it down and walked past. Two slices waited on the plate. An empty dish sat in the sink.

"It's for you," he said, pointing to her dish.

"Why'd you read it?"

He sat on the couch. "Who is he?"

"You don't wanna know," she said between bites, surprised he hadn't guessed.

"Yes I do. I need to know what I'm up against."

Jo breathed deeply, taking another bite. She chewed, then swallowed. "Marco..."

"If you tell me he means nothing, I won't believe you. He'll keep sending these because obviously he doesn't believe you either. So just tell me the truth. I can't fight someone I don't know, someone I can't see."

Her heart lurched with those words. He still wanted to pluck an agony he assumed was easily extricated from within.

"Marco..." If she spoke of what he so wanted, what they had wouldn't survive. It wasn't spectacular sex or incredible closeness, perhaps only hearing him breathing next to her. Jo would take that. She could take it and only wanted it to be enough for Marco.

It wasn't. "For god's sake Jo, just tell me! Tell me and I promise it'll be okay."

She choked on her last bite. "Don't make those sorts of promises."

He stood, taking her in his arms. "I love you. Whatever it is, I won't leave."

She looked in his eyes; such willingness. For the first time since Marco's return, those eyes didn't remind her of Jeremy. They reminded Jo of her father.

Marco was gone before noon. Jo had begged and pleaded. So had he. She had begged not to tell him. He had pleaded for her to trust that he could take it. As soon as Jo said Jeremy's name, Marco took a step out the door.

A theoretical step, figurative in nature. The literal walking over the threshold happened after Jo described the driving lessons and lunches, Hannah's departure to New York and how Jeremy saved her from symbolic death at the Thanksgiving dinner. Then she had asked to go to his house, to not be alone.

Marco was dressed at that point, stuffing things in his bag. He didn't ask her to stop, for he had pleaded to know and because he had pleaded, he listened as she told him how Jeremy, yes, Jeremy Stewart, had made sure his guest bed was ready. But, her joy obvious, she hadn't slept in that extra room.

Nor had she literally gone to sleep _with_ him. Jo admitted that she had run away, prepared to leave England altogether without saying goodbye. Jeremy went after her, but unlike Marco, hadn't implored or beseeched. Jeremy had allowed her to flee, hadn't tried to save her.

Marco was crying, so was Jo. He cried because it was over. Her tears sprung from memory. Speaking about Jeremy dug up her heart and it hurt terribly. Her heart and Marco's wounded face. He blew his nose, his backpack stuffed, a duffel bag too.

Jo looked up. He wore a jacket, his bike next to the door. "How are you gonna get home?" she whimpered, curled into the couch.

"I'll manage." He glanced around. "If you find anything, just leave it on the landing."

She shook her head. "Someone'll pinch it."

"If I don't have it now, it doesn't matter."

Jo stood, moving to him. He backed away, then stopped.

"I, I'm sorry," she said, her voice haunted.

Marco gazed down, then shook his head. "No, you told me. You warned me."

She wished to offer some token, anything to make it less agonizing. Instead Marco spoke. "Jo, please, whatever you do, if nothing else, for me?"

"What?" she inhaled.

Reaching for her face, Marco stole a tear from her skin. "Find a way, any way, to be happy."

She shook, watching as he carried the bike and duffel, the backpack on his shoulders. As he approached the bottom, he nearly turned to her. Instead he mounted the bike, slinging the bag across his back, spokes ticking as he cycled away.

For three days Jo rarely left her apartment, only emerging for classes. Otherwise she planted herself in bed, answering her phone only when her mother rang.

Hannah offered to come up, but Jo said no. She had told her mother everything, making Hannah wince. It wasn't just too much information, but the depth of Jo's pain, her broken and desperate voice claiming to want solitude. Hannah stayed where she was, allowing Jo that space.

On Wednesday, Jo woke to a knocking, then a key in her door. She had given one to Marco and he had left it on the counter, next to Jeremy's card. Had he made a copy, Jo wondered. Then her mother's boom filled the flat. "Jo?"

"Mum?" Jo leapt from bed as Hannah stepped into her room.

"Lovey!" Hannah cried, taking her child into her arms.

"Oh Mum!" Jo whispered, over and over.

Having nursed her daughter for two days, Hannah felt able to leave. Jo had spoken, again more than Hannah desired, but as long as Jo could talk, Hannah hadn't stopped her.

Jo's words and tears were brutal, Hannah's heart twisted by her child's agony. With her own mother in dubious straits, Hannah left her daughter to fly east the next day. Ellen had called, Alta's heart the trouble.

"You want me to come along?" Jo asked as Hannah put a suitcase in her car.

Hannah caressed Jo's cheek. "You have school to tend to."

"Mum please, give me a ring. I'll be on a plane..."

"You need to be here."

Jo nodded, then went to her mother's arms. "Oh Mum, thanks, you know?"

Hannah gripped her. "Baby, oh lovey. It'll be all right."

"Yeah, yeah," Jo said, unconvinced.

"It will. Give it time."

Hannah got in the car and Jo watched her drive away.

On Saturday morning, with her mother's plane in the air, Jo breathed easier. She had spoken with Ellen and Alta, and while Ellen expressed relief for her cavalry, Jo nearly cried hearing her grandmother's frail tone. Jo noted fear, a mood Alta rarely expressed.

Jo checked the progress of Hannah's flight, then cleaned her room. Hannah had sorted the rest of the house, but Jo's space was off limits. Tears fell as Jo collected condom wrappers, two of Marco's socks, and a pair of boxers. She stuffed the clothing in a bag, threw the wrappers in the garbage, then vacuumed the entire apartment.

As the afternoon turned to evening, Hannah's flight arrived. Receiving her text lifted Jo's heart. She ate dinner while chatting with Hannah, wide awake and still on West Coast time.

"Mum, does she seem okay?"

Hannah spoke softly, Ellen asleep in the other room. "Honey, she's not well."

"What can we do?"

"Lovey, I just don't know. I'm gonna try and get some sleep. I'll call you in the morning."

Jo hung up, feeling chilled. She dressed for bed, finding one of Marco's t-shirts in her drawer. With a sigh, she set it in the bag.

She turned off the lights and while not particularly tired, got into bed. Pulling the covers over her, she rolled to the right. No one lay next to her and she shuddered.

Jo went to her computer; no new notes, only Hannah's itinerary, which Jo filed away, her mother's return uncertain. Then Jo considered writing to Marco, telling him of her findings; his clothes, her loneliness. Would he consider coming back? Was that a fair request?

She knew it wasn't. He'd been gutted at her story, a love story he had called it. You were in love with him, Marco had muttered. She had tried to deny it, but as she spoke, it was plain.

Jo used the bathroom. After washing her hands, she got a drink, then smiled. Silly to urinate, then sip water that would only rouse her again. Setting the glass on the counter, she looked into the space, once more tidy, airy. Empty.

Jo headed for bed, but the knock, seemingly from nowhere, made her jump. The silence was loud, but that rattle was deafening. Reaching the door, she squinted through the peephole. Again it was too dark to see.

Had Marco sensed her isolation, felt her distress? Alta's poor health wasn't far from Jo's mind and as she asked who it was, she so hoped it was him. She could hand him that bag, offer herself. Even if for one night, Jo didn't want to be alone.

She opened the door the inches a chain allowed. "Yes?"

"Jo, can I come in?"

He didn't have long hair and it wasn't just Jo's eyes playing tricks. The man standing outside spoke in an English accent, making Jo shake.

"Love, you all right?"

She closed the door only to remove the chain. Jeremy stepped through and Jo fell into his arms, sobs her only sound. He shut the door, whispering; "It's all right sweetheart. I'm here. It's going to be all right."

Chapter 16

As Jeremy released her, Jo stared at him, touching his face. "Why are you here?"

"There's no way I could be in California and not see you." He noted the roses on the counter, the card against the vase, no visible sign of any other occupant. "Is this all right, me being here?"

"Oh god yes," she cried. "Oh Jeremy," but she couldn't finish.

"Love, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere." He took her to the couch, wrapping around her. "I booked a room in Oakland because I needed to see you, needed to..." Stroking her long hair as she burrowed into him, he closed his eyes, able to breathe. She wept, her trembling limbs clutching, and he spoke softly, affirming her hopes. "I'm sorry if I messed things up with him, but sweetheart, I love you."

"It's over. He knows about you, knows I didn't love him."

Jeremy nodded, absorbing another wave of oxygen. "I know you wanted a breather, a break. But," and he smiled. "I also read between the lines, something I'm sort of good at. I'd love to say I had no intention of being a pain, but once you emailed me, that was it for you."

As he grinned, her weak smile broke free. He wiped her cheeks, finding eyes red but open, waiting. She had somehow figured out how to hold on. Jeremy wasn't sure just how she did it. Behind her obvious happiness flailed a sinking girl, waiting and waiting as the night grew darker. Jo had been waiting since she was ten years old.

"Jeremy, I wanna tell you about the accident, about my dad, everything!"

Her words hit him with force and his heart ached for what was coming. She gazed around the room, as if some truth had leaked just from her desire. Then she smiled, setting her face along his.

"Jo, that's fine. Whatever you want to tell me, I'll listen."

She nodded. "You said you had a hotel in Oakland."

"Oh well." He ran his hand along her neck. "What I meant is there _are_ hotels in Oakland. If you hadn't been home or were busy, I would have booked one."

Her head shook. "No, no. I want you here!"

As Jo caressed his face, Jeremy nodded. "Love, this is right where I want to be."

Watching her sleep, he considered how they reached this point. Instead of speaking, they had kissed on the sofa, then he carried her to bed. While undressing, she had shuddered, their bodies tangled as soon as both were naked. As they made love, Jeremy noted her tears, then bliss. Nobody else had landed in his bed, his heart, into him. No one but her.

He held her as she spent herself with tears but no words. Jo tried to speak, but it only turned to more sobs. Then she rolled to her left side where she started breathing in a sleeping rhythm. The side light remained, better to see her by; nearing unconsciousness, he didn't wish to close his eyes. Was he afraid she would flee again? This was Jo's place. Where else could she go?

She turned to him, her face so disheveled, stirring a memory. As his mind and body struggled, one trying to think, the other wanting rest, he stared at her; breasts were round, barely fitting in his hands, her shape unlike any other he had loved, voluptuous and sensual. Usually Jeremy chose women like himself, slim and angular. Even Philippa, when they were married; she had been waiflike until she was pregnant. Then she developed breasts, hips, a...

Jo curled next to him. She owned generous curves and one in particular developed in front of his eyes. Jeremy blinked, then reached for that hefty outgrowth under the blanket.

It dissolved as his hand hit the comforter. Jo rolled to her back, her abdomen smooth. Jeremy stroked her hair, wishing to touch her, but not disturb. Wanting to give her something that felt like fire, forbidden but so warm.

Jo woke to his smile. "Oh my god, you're here! I thought it was a dream."

Immediately she was encased along his frame. Laying her head against his chest, Jo noted his breath and heartbeat, then his arms around her. If she had any tears left, they would have fallen. They waited for later, words restless in her mouth.

"It's no dream." He kissed her. "It's Sunday and I have six days with nothing to do but be with you."

"Six days?" she said, glee and constraint in her voice.
"I have to be in New York a week from yesterday. Need to see people, one of whom will be your grandmother." He caressed her face as he mentioned Alta.

Jo nodded, then smiled. "Should I tell them you're here?"

Jeremy laughed. "Your poor mother. She probably knows more about my life than I do."

"She was here a few days last week."

Jeremy took her hands. "I'm sorry if those flowers made it difficult."

"No, no. If you hadn't sent them, I don't know..."

"I just wanted to make sure you knew I would never give up on you." He kissed her hands.

She nodded. "I'm going to see if Mum wrote. I'll be right back."

"Right," he said, reaching for his briefs.

Jo put on her robe, then sat next to him. "Jeremy, today. I need to tell you today."

"Sweetheart, whatever you want."

She stood, nodded, then headed for her computer.

Hannah had written; they were considering taking Alta to the hospital. Jo replied that Jeremy had arrived, and for her mother to only worry about Alta. Then Jo headed for the bathroom. On her sink were ponytails, face wash, and next to the toothpaste, birth control pills. She washed her hands, then popped one from the container. Swallowing the small tablet, she squinted from a headache. In the medicine cabinet sat Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, and Aleve. The Aleve was Marco's and Jo left it alone. She wouldn't need Excedrin for another week, and she grinned, Jeremy's timing impeccable. That left ibuprofen and acetaminophen.

Jo stared at her birth control pills. It didn't matter what she took, she wasn't pregnant. Swallowing two Tylenol, she felt a deep stirring within her. Then she went looking for Jeremy.

He cooked breakfast, toast with jam. How adept, she laughed, making the tea. Sitting at her small table in the living room, they spoke of her classes and his days in LA, lost in the joy of the other. It had existed since the driving lessons, but was never stated, not even when he had taken her to his house and made love to her. She asked for his forgiveness for running away. He told her it wasn't necessary.

"Jo, I understood." Jeremy kissed her fingers. "I understand more than you know."

She looked down, then up again. "There's just so much I need to tell you."

"Love, it's all right."

She nodded and led him to the couch. They sat and she leaned into him, a completion never experienced. Not even with Marco had Jo known such wholeness. They said nothing and she listened to his heart beating, breaths one after the other. Her mind drifted from that first night with him last year to their drives in Yorkshire, lunches at the pub. Then her thoughts shifted further. "He used to sing to me," she murmured.

Jeremy nodded. "What did he sing?"

Jo found Jeremy's eyes. ""Michelle", by the Beatles. It's my middle name and he would sing the whole song to me. It was the first song I ever knew."

She said no more, hearing the one French line that her father had repeated in the car, over and over, until he said nothing.

Jo got up for a shower, but Jeremy didn't move until he heard her cries. Then he stepped to the open bathroom door. "Love, you all right?"

"Uh-huh."

Stripping his clothes, Jeremy joined her. She was soapy and he rinsed her off, massaging conditioner through her tresses. Then he eased his hands along her skin.

As he reached her middle, Jo's hands held his still. Jeremy had grown hard against her, but he didn't move. For all the places he had touched her, he'd avoided this part of her anatomy.

"I want you there," she said. "I want your..."

"I know," he whispered.

"Can I..."

"Yes," a great pain through him. "Oh god yes."

Turning her around, Jeremy slipped inside her. "Jo, I want you to..."

"Yes, oh yes!"

As water beat against him, Jeremy gripped her, his heart also wishing to implode.

They stepped from the shower and he dried her off, then wrapped a towel around her head. Jeremy collected her birth control pills, staring at them.

Was it too soon, irresponsible? Her mouth trembled as he looked to her face. With her nod, Jeremy threw them in the trash.

In bed they said nothing, but he kept his hands around the center of her torso, kissing the back of her exposed neck. She wore her robe but he was naked. His heart pounded and he clung to her wondering just what had they done?

He had no desire to fish those pills from the bin. How many times had he dreamt of what he'd imagined only last night? Managing to keep it from his head for months, but in April after seeing her and hearing stories of that missing baby, a child with Jo was Jeremy's desire. Once she wrote him about Marco, Jeremy's dreams turned even more realistic, which was why he had sent the flowers. If he couldn't tell her implicitly, he would be damned if she missed the message!

But a real baby with her? In his dreams Jo was thrilled and impatient, anticipating a child that to her carried no ill connotations, no bad memories. Jeremy couldn't remove his hands from where he wished himself to be. It might all come to naught, but before Jo's were to follow, that day Jeremy took one step. "When are you, you know, supposed to start?"

She turned to him and smiled. "Next week, just about as you leave. You're pretty punctual."

He nodded. "Well, that's me, right on time."

Jo traced his jaw. "Are you busy at the end of the month?"

He closed his eyes. "Just working with Griff, nothing too taxing."

"I have no idea what my cycles will be like, but I'll be in New York for Thanksgiving. You could join us."

Jeremy's smile beamed. "Love, that would be heaven."

"Maybe," she whispered, "we can start trying then."

He removed the towel, loosening her hair. "Maybe we can start trying now."

After another shower, they went out for dinner, then stopped at the coffee shop. Marco didn't enter Jo's thoughts, but she did receive a call from her mother, Hannah still on California time. They spoke a few minutes, long enough for Jo to get an update.

Jeremy's laughter in the background made Hannah smile. Jo had returned him from a hidden place and Hannah was thrilled for them both.

She went for some water, the living room illuminated by streetlights. As if ghosts swirled, Hannah saw her daughter and Jeremy sitting at the table, possessed by the other. Hannah wondered if Jo had told him about Craig. She was sure Jeremy hadn't told Jo about Emma.

Alta stirred and Hannah headed that way. Alta was in the bathroom and Hannah asked if she needed help. Alta mumbled she was fine and Hannah sat on the bed.

With a slow shuffle, Alta returned, only seventy-one, but her body much older. It was partly genetic; Alta's mother and siblings had died of heart failure, diabetes, and stroke. But Hannah couldn't dismiss what a physical exam didn't note; Alta's weakened heart wasn't only from bad food and lack of exercise.

Alta got back into bed and Hannah smoothed short hairs from her mother's face. "You okay?" Hannah asked.

"So tired," Alta said. "What about you?"

"No rest for the wicked."

"Well, that would be you, such a naughty girl."

Hannah smiled. "Momma, I talked to Jo. He's with her."

Alta lit with that news. "Really?"

Hannah caressed her mother's hand. "I heard him laughing. They both sound so happy."

Alta smiled. "Oh Hannah, oh lord! I've been praying for them."

"Really?"

"Been on my heart, so I figured I'd better do what He says, since I might be seeing Him sooner rather than later." Alta spoke in mock seriousness.

Hannah smiled. "Well, I suppose we all will."

Alta looked at her daughter. "Yes, I suppose we will. I want to talk with her tomorrow."

"Me too."

"He's coming to see me," Alta murmured.

"We'll both give him a hard time."

Alta rolled over. "We'll take care of that boy, fatten him up. They'll be fine."

Hannah tucked the blanket around Alta's feet, then said goodnight. Going upstairs, one picture stopped Hannah. Lee stood along the street, a tall, slender man, one Alta had taken into her heart just as Jo had taken Jeremy. But Lee hadn't been strong enough.

As Hannah slipped under her covers, she too prayed that Jeremy would stay.

On Monday Jo went to school and Jeremy accompanied in sunglasses and a Los Angeles Dodgers cap. Jo had laughed at his get-up, but it seemed to have been enough, although he received a few scowls.

"What?" he asked.

Jo laughed. "We need to get you either a Cal hat or another local team." She kissed him before heading to class. "Niners or Raiders and no one'll give you a second look."

He nodded, watching her depart dressed in a Santa Barbara hoodie, jeans, and Birkenstocks. The day was foggy, but sun was forecast for the afternoon.

Jeremy killed time on his phone, promising his agent he would be on the East Coast by Saturday. To Philippa, Jeremy spilled great delight; lowering his English accent, it was hard to contain what lay in his heart. As they talked, the binned birth control pills snuck into the conversation.

"What?" Philippa exclaimed.

"It's not going to be anytime soon," Jeremy laughed. "But you're the first to know." Jo hadn't revealed anything to her mother, but if Jeremy didn't tell someone he would burst.

"Oh god love, that's wonderful! Did you tell her about Emma?"

He viewed people Jo's age. Emma wouldn't be quite this old yet, but it was rare for him not to think of her when surrounded by so many of her peers. "No. She's trying to tell me about her father."

"Oh well, yeah, get that sorted first. But love, you need to tell her."

"I know." He focused on one young woman, her nose in a book. She looked like Philippa, brown hair and close-set eyes that could be so knowledgeable of him. The girl glanced up, but Jeremy turned away before she caught him.

"Love, you there?" Philippa asked.

Jo approached and Jeremy smiled. "Yeah, listen, Jo's done. I'll talk to you later. Keep this under your hat."

"Right." They ended the call and Philippa sighed as Rodger met her on the stairs.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Jeremy. They're back together."

Rodger kissed her. "Oh, that's brilliant! About time."

"Yeah." She stepped to the bookcase finding a picture of Jeremy holding a baby. Philippa picked it up and a few tears fell.

Rodger put his arm around her. "You think he's told her?"

"He hasn't."

"Will he?"

In the photograph, Jeremy's pleasure was authentic, but so unlike all he had lived since 1993. "If she can't get it from him, no one else ever will."

As Jeremy and Jo walked home, they stopped for a coffee. Jeremy now sported a red San Francisco 49ers cap and no one had given him a second look. He kept it on as they ordered, removing only his sunglasses.

Jeremy's left arm encircled Jo's waist, his fingers upon her stomach. She leaned into him, closing her eyes. The scent of coffee and the students' chatter soothed, her heart able to beat. Jeremy said nothing and Jo only noticed where his hand waited. Classes had lost their urgency. Her life was now complete.

It was only how Jeremy's hand left her middle that made her stir. In front of them stood Marco. "Oh my god," she choked.

"H-Hi Jo," he stammered.

Jeremy leaned toward the young man. "I'm Jeremy," he said without emotion.

"I assumed," Marco muttered.

Jo felt naked. She hadn't dreamed Marco would return to this spot; had he been waiting for her?

"You can join us if you like." Jeremy's voice was nearly unaccented and Jo wondered if that was on purpose too.

"No, but can I uh, see you outside for a moment?"

"Of course." Jeremy continued with that traceless tone.

From where Jo sat, she had to lean way over, could only see them speaking. Then Marco reached to shake Jeremy's hand. Jeremy reciprocated and Marco walked away, his hair tossed over his right shoulder.

Jo gripped her cup. It was nearly empty and she swigged the last of the decaf latte. Jeremy had smiled when she'd ordered it, but Marco's arrival hadn't been anything Jo expected.

Jeremy returned, finished his espresso, again placing his hands around her torso. He tickled her, then clasped his fingers together.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He wanted to know if you were all right. Said he'd been watching for you and had seen us this morning. He just wanted to make sure you were happy."

Jo began to cry. "Oh god, that was the last thing he said to me."

Jeremy nodded. "Do you have any more classes today?"

She shook her head, wiping her face. "Nothing until Wednesday."

He pulled her up and they left. Marco had said one other thing, but Jeremy wouldn't reveal it in the shop. Once he and Jo were on the street, Jeremy sat her on a bench at the bus shelter.

"What?" she asked.

"He wanted to know if you were all right, and said that he could see that you were."

"Uh-huh."

"He said he wanted to save you. I told him that wasn't up to him. Or me."

Jo began to shake. "Oh my god."

"Sweetheart, let's go home. I think it's going to rain."

No clouds swirled, only a bright sun that comforted, warmth also from Jeremy's hands and Marco's heart. He had wanted to make sure she was happy, but he also wished her to be free.

Chapter 17

Jo opened the door, but Jeremy closed it as she went into the kitchen for some water. Jeremy set the bags on the counter and Jo emptied them into her cupboards. When Jeremy stepped from the bathroom, Jo was in bed, dressed in only a t-shirt.

He lay beside her, but Jo couldn't speak. If she did, words would spill, and she knew not how to place them. Jeremy slipped under the blanket as Jo burrowed into him, tears released first.

After she fell asleep, Jeremy went to his laptop at the small table from where he could see her. As he read messages, she began to stir. "Daddy, Daddy?"

Jeremy stepped to her side of the bed. "Sweetheart, wake up."

She blinked, her face searching.

"Jo, it's all right, you're all right."

She looked at him. "He's gone, oh my god, he's gone!"

Getting under the covers, Jeremy wrapped her close. "I know love, I know."

Jo laid her palm along Jeremy's chest. "Mum was writing and Daddy took me to Harrogate for lunch, then all around. Then we stopped for groceries, the sausages, right before heading home."

"A day out with him," Jeremy said.

She smiled, the memory warm, but never explored. "Usually he was the one busy, but that summer was for Mum to work and for him and me to just be together."

It was a long drive from Harrogate back to their cottage. Craig laid the sausages in a cooler. Then they got in the Rover.

Jo sat in the back, but not behind him, easier for them to see each other if she was kitty corner. Craig had short, dark brown hair and wore a polo shirt. Jo remembered his arms, legs, and upper body were covered in curly, brown fuzz.

Jeremy grinned. "Not really me at all."

Jo ran fingers through the one small patch on his chest, then stared at him. "I'm not looking for a father figure."

He kissed her forehead. "I know."

Snuggling against him, Jo began kissing his skin.

"Oh Jo," Jeremy muttered.

Her hands traveled all over him. "Make love to me."

He tipped her face to his. "Are you sure?"

"Please?"

Jeremy didn't need to hear any more.

It was after seven when they stirred, both starving. Jeremy cooked pasta while Jo made a pot of tea, losing a few tears. Jeremy drained the noodles, then took her in his arms.

"It's right on the tip of my tongue." Pressing her head against his chest, Jo noted his breaths.

"Do you want to talk?"

"Oh yeah, oh my god yes!" She pulled away, still gripping his hands. "But it's so scary."

"Love, however you need to do this, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, setting his hands in a space which made both weak. "They only had me. Mum wasn't able to have more kids." Jo glanced up, a few tears on Jeremy's face. "Isn't that awful, because they loved me so much. He loved me."

Jeremy recalled how Craig cuddled Emma, Craig and Hannah both, such yearning on their faces. "He talked about you all the time."

Jo smiled. "At the dinner?"

Jeremy nodded. "Then and always."

By the time they sat to eat, the pasta wasn't hot, but they devoured it, then went to the sofa. Jeremy held her as she spoke of growing up, wishing for siblings. When Hannah explained there would be no others, Jo had been sad, but moved on, naive to her parents' anguish.

"I never asked..." Jeremy mumbled.

"I know that's why Mum didn't fall apart more than what she did after the accident. She lost Daddy," Jo choked, then continued. "But I was still alive."

Jeremy stroked her head. "She loves you so much."

"I know. And I love her, and you just don't know, I mean, when she got to the hospital, I wanted to talk, I wanted to tell her everything, but nothing would come. But I'd been waiting because, because..." Jo sobbed as Jeremy steadied her as best he could.

Jo explained how she had tried to speak, especially when alone, but nothing emerged. Hannah had stayed with her that night and the next day Hannah and Jo talked, Hannah with words, Jo with pen and paper. Jo didn't remember what she'd written, but it hadn't been much. Her right arm was deeply bruised and she could only print a few sentences at a time. Hannah's voice was loving, strong, warm. "Thankful," Jo said, lying in bed, Jeremy next to her. "She was so thankful."

"I imagine."

Jo broke down and Jeremy had never seen anyone so debilitated. Philippa had been close, but not this wrecked. Memories had grown into Jo, old festering rot twisted through her. Philippa's tears had been from fresh loss. Once eliminated, she had been freed.

As Jo spoke of her grandmother's arrival, Jeremy compared those two situations. Trauma had attached to a small girl, Jo maturing with that memory. Philippa had been twenty-one, speaking of her grief shortly after it occurred. As Jo recalled her grandmother's loving arms, she became sleepy. Jeremy noted her slow breaths, then small snores.

He set her on the mattress where, comfortable in her own bed, she succumbed fully. Jeremy covered her, but feeling nowhere near sleep, he moved to Jo's side.

Then he recognized love wrenched from arms of one so adored; for Jo it had been her father. For Philippa it had been their baby.

Philly had wailed for her daughter, their daughter, begging Jeremy to not leave, to stay with her. He hadn't left as she shook and wept, nor would he leave Jo. This was hard; it was awful, but Jo needed to talk. Marco's face had been wounded, seeing them together, but even more plain was his insistence that whatever Jeremy did for Jo, to please get her to talk.

"I see how happy you make her," Marco had choked in front of the coffee shop. He had peered inside as though he could find Jo. It was futile; she was tucked in the back and Marco would only have a memory.

Then he had offered his hand, which Jeremy had shaken firmly. "Just don't let her hold onto this," Marco said, right before he walked away. "It'll kill her if she can't let it out."

"I know." Philippa had been telling him for years, Hannah too, in her own subtle way.

Jeremy felt slumber's approach and Jo didn't even move as he lay beside her. He would let her cry, talk, whatever she had to do. His own pain would stay at the door.

He woke to darkness and an empty bed. He got up and used the loo, but she wasn't in the apartment. Jeremy's heart raced and searching for a note, this time he found none. Then he reached for his phone, but grimaced. He didn't have her number! Since his arrival on Saturday night, except for her classes yesterday, they hadn't been separated.

Jeremy hadn't slept well, dreams disturbing. He set them aside, trying to think. Where could she have gone? Why did she leave again? He scoured the flat, but found no hint to where she could be. She didn't have a car and her bike was still in the second bedroom; where in the world was she?

Maybe she needed to get away, take a walk. Perhaps she was only outside, sitting on the steps. It was six o'clock, neither light nor warm. He peeked through the blinds where a thick fog hung, the streetlight a pale, hazy glow.

While putting on his shoes, Jeremy heard someone taking the stairs. He rushed to the door. As he threw it back, Jo stood with a box in her arms.

"Oh my god, where have you been?" He placed the box on the table, then wrapped around her with a force from his dreams, securing one precious before they slipped away.

Jo nestled into him. "I was hoping to get back before you woke up. I'm so sorry," she murmured. "Oh baby, I won't leave you, I can't!"

He nodded, releasing her. Worry creased his face and Jo led him to the couch.

"I didn't have your number. I was going to ring you but I don't have your number!"

Retrieving their phones, Jo put her number into his. Then she smiled. "Call me. Then I'll have yours. Oh Jeremy, I didn't even think you'd wake up so early."

"Later, later. Tell me, where were you?" He set the phones down. She hadn't meant to leave and had brought something back.

"I had to go to San Jose, to Mum's." Jo gazed at the table, slight fear in her voice. "I don't keep that here."

"What is it?"

"It's, it's what I gave my father."

She told him she had stirred at two, fully alert. He was unconscious, but agitated. After soothing him, she rose, checking her email; Alta seemed better and Hannah chalked it up to Jo's good news. That bit of information lifted Jo. "I've kept this box at Mum's. I never had it in Santa Barbara. I don't even remember the last time I looked through it."

Jeremy nodded. "Did you take a taxi down there?"

"Uh, yeah. It's not a quick ride, but in the middle of the night, traffic isn't a problem. I knew right where it was, in my old bedroom. I think this might've been the very last thing of mine in that house."

Jo made no effort to move, but did keep her eyes on it. Then in Jeremy's face, she noticed a familiar notion. Things once considered, then forgotten.

"What's in it?" he asked.

Jo sighed. "Junk mostly, the sort of stuff a child gives a parent. Crap really," she chuckled. "Letters I wrote him when he was away." She blinked a few tears. "Right after he was gone, that was how I thought about it. He'd just left on another trip, a really long one."

Her breathing turned choppy and Jeremy cradled her.

"Like he was just away, but I didn't need to write to him. I wrote about everything for Mum and Grandma, but there wasn't any more to write to Daddy." Jo inhaled, then reached for a tissue and blew her nose. "So I know those are in there and probably, oh god."

"What?"

She stared at him. "The trophy. The trophy I'd just given him for Father's Day."

In June 1996, Craig, Hannah, and their daughter had flown to New York, the last time all were together; Jo and her parents, Alta, Aunt Ellen and her boyfriend Eric Horn, now Uncle Eric. That was the family Jo associated with her father, those people gathering for a weekend of food and conversation. Ellen had taken a picture of Jo, Hannah, and Craig, one that Alta kept on her wall, and Jo recalled they would do it again at the end of summer. When Hannah and Craig returned through New York on their way back to California, Jo would see her grandmother before school started.

"I gave him this trophy, _World's Best Dad_." She blew her nose again. "It was small enough to fit in his briefcase so he could take it wherever he went."

"He loved you so much, so much." Jeremy rocked her, thinking of Craig tenderly bouncing Emma, a man clearly enamored with fatherhood. Craig's words to Emma, only four and a half months old, had been those from an old hand. He had sung to her, held her close, probably all he had done with Jo.

She stood on shaky feet and Jeremy followed. As she reached the table, she stood over the large hat box, a foot high and nearly that deep. The lid wasn't secured, only set atop the container, and Jo brushed it with her fingers.

Then she took Jeremy's hands, unable to open it herself. At the top was a faded blue t-shirt, a name in the upper right corner, but some letters were missing.

Jo peered, then turned to Jeremy. "It's the Curtis t-shirt."

After setting the box in the second bedroom, Jeremy made her toast and tea. As he stepped to the table, she met him in the middle of the carpet. "I love you," she said.

He wiped crumbs from her mouth. "I love you too. You all right?"

She nodded, leading him to the other room. The box waited next to her laptop and she picked up the shirt. "It belonged to a friend of his. I don't know why Daddy had it, but when I was little, I wore it to bed."

Jeremy smiled. "I bet you were sweet."

Jo nodded. "He called me Curtis when I wore it. I haven't thought about it for years."

Under the shirt sat items in tissue paper. Jo took them out, but didn't unwrap them. Two small boxes secured with rubber bands were next, then envelopes and drawings, but those she left in the box.

Jo stared at the cloaked pieces, then picked up one, but didn't remove the paper.

"Do you want me to?" Jeremy asked.

She shook her head. With gentle fingers, she stripped away white tissue paper. Underneath wasn't a trophy, but a small, brightly-painted wooden truck. Jo set it on the desk, stepping back.

"I made that for him in school. See the license plate? C-123, Craig one two three. That was his personalized plate." She looked at Jeremy. "At home he had a specialized license plate, but the Rover was only a rental."

A toy truck, old clothes, items bringing Craig nearer, but Jo didn't open anything else, the trophy still under wraps. Jeremy gazed at Jo, a girl on the verge.

As if the Rover was in the room and all she had to do was uncover it.

Chapter 18

Jeremy led her to the bedroom. "Love, we'll do this however you need."

She kissed his fingers. "It's like everything's all in my head. That's all I thought going down to Mum's, just running it through my mind."

He sat on the bed and Jo snuggled into him. "It's been a long time to hold all this in."

She nodded. "Grandma asked me things, maybe she knew that was the best way. Mum needed to know, know how he..." Jo paused. "How he died."

Jeremy stroked her face, wearing a peaceful, loving gaze that understood. He understood, but she didn't know how or why. His divorce? Jo wished she had pressed her mother; he hadn't pushed, hadn't tried to cajole her into revealing a thing. He said he understood. More than once Jeremy had made that plain.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Know what love?"

She scooted closer as if she was near enough, she could read in his eyes, read as her mother and grandmother had how Craig died. Jeremy's brown eyes only held love. "How do you know how badly this hurts?"

If nothing else was true, Jeremy was an actor, that and his love for Jo. She came first, then his gift, which allowed his words. "Because I love you and see it in you. Jo, I know your heart."

His words were truth enough, the _why_ kept silent.

Those words returned her to tears and them to each other. As he moved from her, Jo pulled the blankets over them, humming a tune Jeremy recognized. "I always loved that one, my favorite Beatles record."

She laughed. "You're not that old."

He smiled. "No, but my parents had all their albums."

"Oh god Jeremy, your parents! That's how you know!"

He offered no resistance. "But Jo, I was fifteen, and just came home to a house full of distraught neighbors." His parents' demise had been bad. Emma was worse.

Explaining their deaths, he crooned to her. Not "Michelle", only her name, telling her it was all right. Then she took a deep breath and sat up, her body exposed. She had the body of a woman, but her voice was that of a little girl.

"They all died in car accidents," was how she began.

"The noise, I don't know, I can't remember now, like a big screeching, maybe it was his foot on the brakes. And he swore, _goddamnit_ , but he never said anything like that around me. He never spoke that way and as he said it the car began to flip."

Jo tucked hair behind her ears as Jeremy reached for her t-shirt at the foot of the bed. He placed it over her head and she set her hands in her lap, fiddling with the fabric. "It rolled and rolled and I know I screamed. I can't remember if he said anything, not until it stopped. All I knew was we were stopped, but not straight. We were leaning, but it didn't feel like we were gonna fall."

Her eyes met Jeremy's. "And I could smell it."

"What sweetheart?"

Jo twisted the night shirt in her hands. "I could smell the blood."

" _Oh god, Jo, JO?"_

" _Daddy, Daddy, I'm here. What happened?"_

" _Jo, you all right? Oh god Jo, can you move?"_

" _Daddy, I'm stuck. What happened?"_

" _Love, oh god, we've had an accident. Jo, you sure you're okay?"_

" _My arm hurts."_

" _Which one?"_

" _My right arm. I can't move it. Daddy, are you okay?"_

" _Yeah love, I'm fine. Sweetheart, can you move your legs, how's your other arm?"_

" _Daddy, I'm okay. I can move, but I can't get out. Daddy, I smell blood."_

" _I know, I know. I've got a cut on my leg. Jo, are you sure you're okay?"_

" _Yeah, I think so. Daddy, what happened? Why'd we crash?"_

" _I don't know love. I don't know."_

"At first I thought it was me. I broke a glass when I was little." She showed Jeremy the scar, along her left hand, between the thumb and forefinger. "Mum freaked out and Daddy wrapped it up, so I knew that scent. But I felt fine, well, except for my arm. He asked if I was okay and I said yeah, but that someone was bleeding."

Jo breathed deeply. "He said his leg was cut. That was it. He bled to death. Just nothing we could do because neither one of us could move. I don't know if he knew how bad it was; he never made any sounds, you know, like it hurt. But it must have."

She stared at Jeremy. "Oh my god, it must have!"

" _Jo, listen, we need to keep talking until someone comes, all right?"_

" _Okay. Daddy, are you okay?"_

" _Yeah honey, I'm fine. Listen, I can't move. Honey, can you reach me?"_

" _Oh uh, lemme see. No, no, I can't lean forward far enough."_

" _Oh god, okay. Okay. That's okay. Jo, oh Jesus. Love listen, we'll keep talking and I just want you to relax, okay? Someone'll come along here and see us. I think we're on a hill."_

" _Daddy, are you still bleeding?"_

" _Uh, no. No, honey, I think, uh, I think it's fine. I'm fine. Are you okay?"_

" _Yeah, I just can't move. And I think I have a cut, on my forehead."_

" _Oh yeah, you do. A little one. It'll be okay."_

Jo recalled her father's smooth voice, that someone would be there soon, and how he tried to move, but was stuck in the crumpled remnants of the Rover. She had reached for him, trying to touch his head, the closest part of him to her. Her left fingers were less than inches away, but not long enough, the hardest part. Wanting to touch him, but unable to do so.

Then Craig had spoken of Hannah. "Maybe he felt faint, I don't know, but he began telling me about Mum, how much he loved her. He never said I needed to tell her, it was still just him talking. He said people had to talk when they were in an accident so they didn't slip into unconsciousness. He told me how when they met he'd fallen for her instantly, said she was his perfect match. That maybe they were from different countries, but he said she was his best mate. He wasn't her Prince Charming, just her best mate."

Jeremy nodded.

"He just loved her so much. I knew how much they meant to each other. I was the only one, no other distractions, all the time in the world for them to be together. They didn't have regular jobs, spent all their time with each other or with me."

Jo stopped, reaching for Jeremy's face. "I always wondered if I would ever meet anyone like that, someone I could love as much as they loved each other."

Jeremy was still.

Jo smiled. "And then Mum introduced me to you. I was scared of you, you know, because I knew." She laid Jeremy's hand over her heart. "As soon as you made love to me, that first time, oh my god." She kissed him. "I knew Jeremy, I knew."

" _Okay, Jo, I uh, I love you. Oh baby, you're gonna have one hell of a story for your mum."_

" _Grandma too."_

" _Yeah, Alta's gonna love this, oh Christ. Jo, did I ever tell you how I met your grandma?"_

" _No, I mean, maybe."_

" _Oh Jesus. Okay, so I'd met Hannah in London, you know, over the summer. And then she brought me to New York. Alta was waiting for us and Ellen was there, and I come in, and oh god, Jo, uh, just a minute."_

" _Daddy, what is it?"_

" _Nothing baby. So uh, so Hannah goes in first, and Alta was tapping her foot, giving me this look like now what? Then she said something about me being British; was your mum looking for a prince. I told your grandma I was just Hannah's best mate."_

" _Daddy, that's silly."_

" _I know. Then she asked if I liked black eyed peas. That was the first time I'd ever had them. Your mum was just rolling her eyes as Alta kept refilling my bowl, and, and... Oh my god."_

" _Yeah, Grandma's always saying how much you like her black eyed peas. Daddy? Daddy?"_

They didn't make love, but lay together, whispering intimate notions spurred from deep within. Speaking of when they could be together, when they might conceive a child; Jeremy let Jo bring that up, not wanting to distract her from the issue at hand.

"If we get pregnant, school can just take a flying leap."

"A flying leap?"

She smiled, then grew serious. "Daddy used to say that and Mum said her father did too." Jo inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "Is it crazy, what we're thinking?"

"About a baby?"

"Uh-huh."

His heart pounded. "No, Jo. Not to me."

"I need you." Jo lay atop him, moving in rhythm to his motions. She didn't speak, her eyes closed, her head nodding, then tears falling. With those tears, Jeremy became flaccid and Jo collapsed beside him.

"Love, what?"

"They only had me. Daddy kept asking if I was okay. He was bleeding to death, he must have known it, but he kept asking if I was okay." She blew her nose in the sheet. "What if I can't have a baby? What then?"

"Love, we don't need to go down that road."

Jo sniffed, gazing into the room. "Daddy said they'd wanted another baby because he loved her so much." She looked at Jeremy and smiled. "Maybe that was more than he meant to say." She touched Jeremy's face, then sighed. "I think that was when he knew he wasn't gonna make it."

" _Oh baby, it's okay. I'm uh, just feeling a little sick. Jo, listen, when they take us to hospital, I might pass out. If I do, tell your mum how much I love her. Tell her I really wanted a baby, I really did."_

" _Daddy, are you okay?"_

" _Yeah love, just getting a little tired. Keep me talking Jo."_

" _Daddy, I love you."_

" _Oh I love you too. Josephine Michelle, my belle. You're my belle, you know that?"_

" _I know Daddy. When will they come?"_

" _Soon baby. Oh god soon."_

Jo used the toilet and Jeremy followed. As Jeremy washed his hands, Jo began the shower. Jeremy went to leave, but Jo reached for him. "Stay here, okay?"

He nodded, sitting on the seat.

Clipping back her hair, she stepped into the tub. "When I was in New York, Grandma got my bath ready most nights. I was ten and a half when we left Yorkshire and I didn't need to her actually bathe me, but she'd fill the tub. Maybe she worried I'd use too much honeysuckle oil."

Jo chuckled as Jeremy watched her through the curtain. "Perhaps," he smiled.

"But as soon as I was in, I don't know how she knew, but she'd come in, maybe it was because I didn't close the door or something. She'd take my robe and sit there until I pulled the plug. Or if I was getting a shower, once the water went off, then she'd leave, and close the door. But while she was there, she'd tell me stories about Mum and Aunt Ellen and about my dad."

Jo turned off the water, then pulled the curtain, where Jeremy waited with a towel. "How when I was born he'd bathe me, powder me, all these things that otherwise maybe I would've never known. How much he liked to dress me up, give me a bottle or feed me, you know, once I was old enough. She wasn't sad, just like she wanted me to know, things that maybe he would've told me someday." Jo wrapped the towel around her. "Like when I'm a mother, things that I'll do one day."

Jeremy helped her from the tub. "You will love, I promise."

She loosened her hair, setting the claw on the sink where the pills had lain. Then she removed the towel. Her moist body stood next to his. "Jeremy, please."

Her mouth pressed to his. Then he moved to her breasts, sighs of pleasure easing her tears.

While Jeremy showered, Jo fixed dinner. He had no idea of the hour; they had gone back and forth so often, as if living more than one day. Memories took him to 1993, but Jo hadn't accompanied him.

At the table were fried potatoes and eggs. "This okay?" she asked.

He smiled. "Looks delicious." She joined him and they said nothing, both starving.

As Jo ate, she glanced to the computer room. She hadn't spoken of the box since they had left it earlier. Once finished, Jeremy sat back and smiled.

"It's nice to cook for you," she said.

He kissed her hand. "Tomorrow I'll take you out. What time do you have class?"

"Ten," her tone flat.

"It'll be okay."

She stood, gazing to a dark window. "It's after six."

He laughed. "I had no idea what time it was."

She turned and held herself, eyes to the floor.

Jeremy joined her, moving her arms from her sides. "You've told me a lot today. You don't have to say anything more."

Jo led him to the other bedroom, turning on the light, the small truck where they had left it. She went to the remaining wrapped items and removed the paper. One was the trophy, which she noted without fanfare. The other was a small rag doll. Jo fingered the loose, broken hair, the faded face and tattered skirt. Looking at Jeremy, her few tears fell.

"What is it?"

"It's Lolly. Her name is Lolly." Jo stared at the doll. "I'd forgotten all about her."

"Was she yours?"

Jo nodded. "Daddy bought her for me on one of his trips. Then I made him take her as though he was taking me. She fit in his briefcase too." She set the doll atop the truck and again held herself.

Jeremy enveloped her. "You wanna go out?"

She shook her head.

Craig had bled to death beside his offspring and Jeremy's mind drifted. Losing his parents had been dreadful, but not even their passing had prepared him for a quiet that stifled. "Jo, why don't we get out, you know, for a bit?"

Again she shook her head.

He turned her around and her slack face frightened. "Love, what is it?"

"The silence," she murmured. "I remember the silence."

With Jeremy beside her, Jo sat on the sofa. The loudest sound she had ever heard was the ominous hush after her father stopped breathing. Craig had struggled for a long time, then a noise emerged that Jo found intolerable, yet not immediately, creeping upon her as night fell, as she spoke to her father, those questions unanswered. As she waited for someone to arrive, silence grew louder and louder until it was all she knew.

Settling into Jeremy, Jo's tears emerged in waves, similar to the silence, punctuated by stray echoes from Craig's dying body. Words, music, odd breaths, strange gurgles, scattered speech, and then noises Jo hadn't recognized. Gasps, a choking sound, gulps for air. Then the last words. Then nothing.

Jo looked at her walls covered in posters and pictures, and she went to her room. Jeremy followed, finding her clutching a photograph. Jo was little in the picture and her father held her, both of them pointing to the camera; Craig laughed, Jo missing her two front teeth.

She fingered that smile, then her father's. Setting the picture down, she went into Jeremy's arms. "The last thing he said to me was _my belle_. He called me _my belle_."

Jeremy's face was streaked with tears, as was Jo's. Heading to bed, he noticed it was nine o'clock. It was Tuesday, the third of November, 2009. The accident had taken place in July on a Friday in 1996. For over thirteen years, Jo had lived with those words unspoken. After those words and a few attempted breaths, there had been no sound.

"I wonder if he saw, I don't know, something, someone. He said _Oh Jesus, no not now. Not now_. Then he called for me, but I don't know what he thought about life, death, faith."

"I never heard him mention anything specific."

"He told me he was sorry. He must have known." She spoke those words softly.

Jeremy nodded, taking deep inhalations followed by long breaths out.

"I just kept running his words through my head. For a little while I said them out loud, to Lolly. She was hanging there, caught in the metal, and when they found us, I pointed to her. The EMT saw what I wanted."

"Uh-huh."

"They saw I was alive and got me out first. They took me, but left Daddy there."

" _Daddy? Daddy? Daddy! Daddy, please, Daddy? You have to wake up. Lolly, tell him. Tell him he has to wake up."_

" _Mr. Adams, it's time to wake up."_

" _Lolly, he can't hear us. Daddy? Daddy, I won't go to sleep. Daddy?"_

Darkness enveloped the field where they lay, then one loud, long cry. Then it too was gone.

Chapter 19

For the next three days, except when in class, Jo began to process the minutes leading up to the crash, the last moments with her father, and the long-forgotten silence.

She had owned no yardstick by which to measure the time. Her watch had been left in New York and she could only estimate they had been in the field for no less than two hours, possibly up to four. She also wasn't sure how long her father had been alive. Craig's right leg had suffered a deep gash and when rescue teams appeared, he was dead. As lights flashed into the crumpled vehicle, Jo's bright eyes offered hope. As medics freed the mute girl, she pointed to her doll, Lolly hanging in the remains.

As Jo shared those memories, her tears were many and Jeremy made love to her as was needed. On Friday, Jo attended a lecture and Jeremy sat in the back of the room, his baseball cap firmly attached. A few glances were offered, but it seemed incongruous that a movie star would be on the Berkeley campus, and no one bothered him.

They shopped at the bookstore, Jeremy picking up Christmas gifts for Philippa's children. He would travel to New York for Thanksgiving, one thought sustaining the couple. His departure early on Saturday wasn't mentioned until after dinner on Friday night; by then only fragments remained and Jo's words flew. She didn't want them to linger once he was gone.

As she cleared their plates, Jeremy packed. It was reluctantly accomplished; he dreaded the idea of leaving. Jo's flat had an aura of seclusion, of escape. They had joked he could move in and Jeremy was tempted. In a small two-bedroom flat he had found his life, an existence revolving around one woman. Jo had opened herself to him so completely, Jeremy felt in need of no other thing. They ate when hungry, the rest of their needs met within those walls. While loving her, talk of a baby returned, a notion explored in depth. Perhaps they might conceive over Thanksgiving. If so, Jo was willing to leave school and move to Britain.

Jeremy put the last of his laundry into the case. Jo hummed in the kitchen and he joined her, his hands traveling to her breasts. He nuzzled her neck, and she settled into him.

"I'm gonna miss you so much," he said.

Jo nodded.

Turning her around, Jeremy tried to imprint this body, her eyes which did seem eased. "It's only for three weeks," he smiled.

"It's gonna be so long," she sighed.

Grinning, he reached for her face. "Not so long."

Again Jo nodded.

"It'll be okay, you know?" his voice convincing.

"I know," she murmured. "But..."

"What?"

"All the time we've lost, you know?"

He nodded, not quite a year since she had gone to his house. "Three weeks won't kill us."

"It might," she smiled.

"Well yes, it might. But I doubt it." His voice teased and her small laugh reassured. Jeremy helped her finish the dishes and they went to her room.

He moved the luggage from the bed, then laid her down. She was a part of him; no one since Philippa had attached so firmly. Jo had gone even farther than Jeremy's ex; Jo was in his soul, had become his heart. Jeremy had loved Philippa deeply, but it had been tied to their baby. If Philippa hadn't gotten pregnant, they wouldn't have wed. As it was, after Emma, that relationship didn't survive. Their friendship had lasted, but not the marriage.

Jo's breath infiltrated his lungs, wound through his veins. Philippa had never permeated to that intensity, a sensation he relished, but it stirred unpleasant memories. Jo's presence soothed, and Jeremy closed his eyes, aware of her breathing, her heartbeat, nudging aside a ghost. If they had a child, that baby would follow to where Jo lay.

Jeremy opened his eyes, finding Jo's were closed. She was smiling, at peace. Not asleep, but in a state of great contentment. For a few seconds, Jeremy tingled with dread. Her serenity was like looking into a mirror, but he didn't see himself, the reflection empty.

Closing his eyes once again, he set soft, light kisses along her forehead. She made contented sounds and Jeremy continued until Jo called for him.

In the middle of the night he woke from a dream. Looking at her bedside clock, it was one thirty. He had to be up in another three hours. Uncertain if he could go back to sleep, he got up, used the bathroom, and returned, Jo unmoving.

He watched her, so blissfully unaware, how Jeremy wanted to keep it. She had revealed much during his six days, memories still raw, in need of healing. Philippa had emailed, asking about Jo. The usual request was unstated, but now that Jo had spoken, Philippa would urge him to tell her of his past, his secrets. Tell Jo of his pain.

He stared at his cases on the floor. Everything was packed. He didn't want to leave, but would spend four days with PR handlers, squeezing in at least one night with Hannah and Alta. He was anticipating that visit, except that like Philippa, Hannah would ask: _Have you told her?_

Jeremy brushed Jo's curls to the side of the pillow. How could he? She was still so tender, time in the future for truth. He would leave that to days ahead, once she was pregnant, maybe even after they had a baby. Let her have his baby, then he could speak of that other one.

He wasn't tired, could nap on the six-hour flight from San Francisco to JFK in a comfortable first class seat. Instead of going back to sleep, Jeremy lay down and watched Jo. For if he was there, he'd be sure to hear her breathe. He wouldn't miss a single breath.

Jeremy had showered without disturbing her. As he dressed, Jo began to stir, and he went to her side. "Good morning."

Unclothed, Jo shivered, then pulled the blanket to her neck. "Are you sure you have to go?"

He nodded. "Love, just three weeks. Then we'll be sitting in your gran's lounge."

She smiled and he kissed her cheek. Then she found his mouth.

"Oh you! I need to catch my taxi."

"How much time do you have?" she whispered.

"Enough," he chuckled, taking off his clothes, getting under the covers.

The day was still dark, only six in the morning. As the cab waited, Jeremy kissed her once more. "I'll sleep well on the flight."

"I'll miss you."

Taking her in his arms, he inhaled her peace. "I'll ring you once I'm checked in and if the plane has internet, I'll email you. I'll not be far away."

"You're gonna be all the way across the flippin' country," she smiled.

If Jeremy could cancel his meetings, he'd turn right around and take her back inside. "Three week, love, just three weeks. You take your vitamins. We've got a baby to make."

He caressed her flat belly and Jo nodded, kissing him once more. Pulling away, she gripped herself as he stepped in the taxi, remaining on the street until he was gone.

Jeremy sat at Alta's table, his eyes focused on the last photograph of Hannah, Craig, and Jo together. As Hannah and her mother yammered in the background, Jo included over the phone, Jeremy half-listened, studying the picture.

A tall man, Craig was thick-bodied, but didn't look overweight. Hannah wasn't petite, but seemed small against her husband. They stood in the living room near a bookcase and Jeremy's eyes went there, only feet away. A family snapped in this house, in this very room.

Hearing his name, Jeremy responded, then returned to the picture. Holding Craig along his waist, Hannah leaned into him. His left arm clasped hers, his right hand resting on his daughter's shoulder. His only child; they couldn't have any others.

Hannah clucked into the phone and Jeremy sensed she would have given Alta more than one grandchild. There would have been several, had it been possible.

In the picture, Hannah grasped her husband, gazing at their only offspring. Then Jeremy stopped looking; hard to view, knowing what was coming. In less than six weeks, that man would be wrenched from his wife and their daughter, torn from the wreck that had been the Rover. During the flight, Jeremy read how the body of film producer Craig Adams had been removed with the Jaws of Life. His extrication from the car had taken time, but time they had.

The procedure for Hannah and Jo was ongoing. Only a few days ago Jo had ripped that last bit of metal from her heart, and there, laying so still, was her dad, never removed from his child.

And Hannah? She chatted with her mother, laughed with Jo, who was present, but not close. Was that how Craig survived for Hannah, in the guise of their only child? Not a son, but a daughter that resembled her father, a fleeting image nonetheless. Jo had lived, hardly a scratch on her. Voice gone but body intact, what Hannah had left, one living remnant of her husband, their marriage, of their love.

Hannah had survived, continued to write, then wrote for Jeremy. _There Is Something Here_ was dedicated to Craig and Jo, but written for him; Jeremy had been floored when she told him. She hadn't elaborated, didn't need to. Jeremy couldn't do much about it, but it never escaped him what she had tried to convey.

Emma was still trapped, had been since the day she died. For ages his daughter had dwelled within his heart and only Jo's arrival had begun to untangle those tentacles. Jeremy longed for another infant to move in as well and do what Jo had done, take that excruciating pain.

Did Hannah feel that way? Had Craig's death been dulled by Jo's life? How much sorrow was she to lessen, for how many hearts was she the salve? Was that even fair, was it too much to ask of her? Jeremy wasn't sure. All he knew was in Jo, he was alive. Since meeting her in September, over a year ago, even before he learned exactly who she was, he couldn't deny her smile, her face, her voice. Small bits of her, then identity; Jo Adams, Hannah and Craig's daughter. Their only child.

Philippa had James and Bethany, and Jeremy loved them dearly, but Emma had been solely his. Jeremy wished Jo wasn't only a voice in a phone, but a real woman he would have taken to his hotel and loved until she was carrying not a replacement, not a substitute. A baby with Jo wouldn't be that at all. No, he smiled, hearing her laughter through the receiver. A baby with Jo would be liberation.

After dinner, Alta gave Jeremy a kiss, then a whisper out of Hannah's earshot. "Thank you for bringing her back to us."

Jeremy shook his head, not wanting credit for something of that magnitude. Alta hushed him, kissed him again, then shuffled to her room. Hannah followed, receiving a mild scolding. Then she returned with a sigh.

On the sofa, they chuckled over Jo's lengthy chat. Hannah admitted she wouldn't have been surprised to see Jo with him and Jeremy laughed. He had nearly booked her a seat on his flight.

"Well, I'd like to see her finish school," Hannah said with a straight face.

Jeremy smiled.

Hannah reached for her wine. "Was she, I mean, how was it?"

He picked up his glass. "She had so much, so much."

"Sometimes I can't believe, even now, that she survived."

He nodded. "It sounded like he knew it was bad."

Hannah stood and gazed out the window, her back to Jeremy. "I think maybe he did."

"Hannah, I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." She turned, her smile relaying little lasting pain.

Jeremy joined her. "Jo told me some things I didn't previously know." He paused. "I'm sorry about Craig. And I'm sorry that," but he stopped.

"What?"

He breathed deeply. "I'm sorry Jo was your only one."

Jeremy rocked Hannah as he had her daughter. His loving voice had broken her, a soothing English accent that reminding her of Craig. Jeremy's easy tone also spoke of a place from where Hannah's ancestors could have originated, although she knew little of her father's lineage. His ancestry might claim England or Holland as home, perhaps Germany, France, Belgium, or Ireland. Hannah had no idea, only that Nebraska was the point of Lee's birth.

Hannah's birthplace was New York, like her mother and her child, the only one she and Craig had made. Jeremy's crooning unearthed old tears Hannah had thought gone. Was it that Jo had finally relived her father's death? Hannah wasn't sure, but she heaved with cries, bellowed in whispers.

She sat up and laughed; Jeremy was just skin and bone, nothing like Craig, a huge presence. His father, over six foot five, had claimed to be descended from American slaves sent to Canada for their freedom. Craig never questioned it, that sort of probing of little worth to him, the here and now all that mattered. Hannah had mattered, he'd made that plain. Hannah and Jo, because no more followed. For all their attempts, only Jo.

Hannah wiped her eyes with the tissue Jeremy offered and again she smiled. So courteous were these Englishmen, such gentlemen. She had fallen for one, her daughter too; Craig and Jeremy were dissimilar in the physical, but with hearts much alike, gentle and affectionate. While Jeremy's still carried anguish, Craig's had longed for more children. But it had been Hannah to refuse a more aggressive course.

"We wanted more, but never did anything about it." She moved from Jeremy to the other end of the couch, where she blew her nose. "We were so busy and I just didn't want to spend all my time in doctor's offices. We were traveling around the world, then Jo was in school, and it just ended up the three of us."

Jeremy gave her another tissue.

She smiled and blew again. "After he died, oh my god! All the things you think, all that we could've done." Hannah sighed. "I regretted it for a while, but Jo needed so much and I figured that must be the reason. What would I have done with one silent child and then more?"

"I am so sorry," Jeremy said.

Hannah nodded. "It certainly wasn't our choice. But maybe it was. We could've gone on fertility drugs. IVF was happening then and I could have."

"Why didn't you?"

Hannah laughed again. "Oh, because it was a pain. Isn't that terrible? I was always a wicked thing. Craig would've done, did do, whatever I wanted. And I didn't want someone poking around my body. Didn't want to take drugs, risk having five all at once, didn't want to undergo some regime." She sniffed. "God, that sounds appalling, but Jo was five kids rolled into one. So much love and noise and..." Hannah wiped a few tears.

"What was she like?"

She smiled. "She was the apple of his eye. Mine too, but that girl, oh she was just his joy." Hannah cried those last words.

He nodded. "I can only imagine."

"So funny and bright, she's still is, but before he died, what a spark." Then Hannah laughed.

"What?"

"Well, at the risk of embarrassing both of us, maybe you'll know one of these days."

Jeremy chuckled. "Thinking of being a grandmother already?"

She giggled. "Well, not tomorrow. Jeremy," and she paused again.

"What?"

Hannah moved closer. "I know, I mean, it's hard, thinking of what was. I try not to because it was so good. That man... No one else ever came close."

Jeremy looked down.

She took his hand, a thin, bony thing, like Marco and Jack; Jo preferred skinny men and Hannah smiled. "We can't replace what we've lost. You need to tell her before anything happens. I know how she works and if she thinks..."

"Hannah, I love her. It's not about trying to make up for something else."

Hannah leaned back. "No, what I mean is that, good god. If you and Jo, if you are that serious..."

"We are."

Hannah nodded. "She said something in an email a few days ago, asking how I was pregnant, why I never tried to have any more."

"It's certainly something I want with her."

"And she wants that with you." Hannah sighed. "I told her I had no idea why we never got pregnant again. She came so easily, not a mistake, but very easily."

"It may happen sooner than later."

She laughed. "Yeah, I figured. Well let her finish school first. Or maybe she can transfer to York University, Leeds maybe." Hannah got her own Kleenex and blew.

He smiled. Hannah wouldn't be pleased, but the sooner Jo held his child, the sooner Jeremy could breathe.

Chapter 20

Jo arrived in New York late on Monday, the twenty-third of November, the ride to her grandmother's in a slushy rain. Jo wasn't bothered; she was home, where her mother had been for weeks, where Alta was recovering from a bad cold confining her to bed for much of the month. Jeremy would arrive tomorrow and Jo wanted to embrace her most loved.

Ellen, Eric, and their boys were arriving Wednesday night and Jo was fine with splitting time between family and her boyfriend. Jeremy had started referring to himself as _her boyfriend_ , making Jo giggle.

The father of her child was Jo's response, which had made him laugh. As the taxi stopped at Alta's brownstone, Jo grabbed her luggage and paid the fare. If she was where she assumed in her cycle, it might lean more true than not.

Hannah let her in. So much had occurred since they had last seen the other; Jeremy's return, Alta's illness, Craig. It was for Craig that Hannah gripped her daughter. Then tears for Alta. Finally a smile, for the one Jo wore due to Jeremy.

Jo caressed her grandmother's hand, Alta's breathing somewhat labored. Alta was mostly asleep, but Jo had wanted to say goodnight. She wouldn't be sleepy for a few hours, but Hannah had wanted to talk and Jo's jet lag would accommodate conversation.

While Hannah made tea, Jo put away her bags, returning dressed in comfortable clothes. "How's she been?" Jo asked, her hair loose, now to the middle of her back.

"Well, anticipating your arrival, a little better. She's on some pretty strong antibiotics. I just wish they'd given them to her earlier."

Hannah gave Jo the tea, but Jo shook her head. "Oh, just some water, thanks."

"It's decaf. I want you to sleep too."

"I'd really just love some water."

As Jo got her drink, both women went to couch. "When does he get in?" Hannah asked.

Jo smiled. "Supposed to be early afternoon. Oh Mum..." Jo sighed.

Hannah sipped Jo's tea. "Lovey, how are you?"

"I wish I'd come with him and just stayed here. I worried about her all the time, you too."

Jo had skirted the question, but it wasn't deliberate, so much in her head. The few days together wouldn't offer all that Hannah wished to know. "She's getting better, but it's slow."

"Is she, I mean..." Jo's voice went to a whisper. "Is she gonna pull through this?"

Hannah nodded. "She's so much better than last week, rallies when people are coming."

"Are you going to stay here now?"

"At least through December. Ellen's busy with the boys, nowhere else I need to be."

"You been writing?"

"Some, but she's a handful."

"That she is."

Jo's obvious peace calmed Hannah's heart. "So, you'll be staying with him?"

"Yeah. Mum, it's so good."

Hannah squeezed her daughter's knee. "He's a good man."

"Oh he is. And it's more than that."

"Jo..." Hannah finished the tea, then cleared her throat. "Honey, what you decide is your choice. I'd like to see you finish school, but I'm not gonna stick my head in the sand."

Jo gazed into her glass. "Mum, I love him."

Hannah set their empty cups on the coffee table, then wrapped her daughter close. "I know you do. And I know what you both want. Lovey, it's fine. It's good, you know?"

Jo pulled away. "Telling him about Daddy, oh my god. I went down, you know, to the house. For the box."

Hannah nodded.

"And the stuff in it, oh god. I wish I'd told him last year. All the time we lost and I don't want to lose any more with him."

"Honey, you're only twenty-four."

Jo smiled. "But he's thirty-seven. And I want, I mean, we don't wanna wait."

Hannah wondered if they were actively trying now. She didn't mind being a grandmother at forty-five, Alta hinting toward a great-grandchild. Jo could admit she loved Jeremy, yet things remained that he needed to share.

Hannah stroked Jo's face. "Are you going to finish school?"

"Maybe," Jo smiled.

"Are you gonna get married?" Hannah tested.

"Mum, there's so much coming with the whole awards thing. I mean, he might be busy for the next few months. You too," she giggled. "How do you plan a wedding when you're looking for Oscar dresses?"

"Don't count your chickens girl," Hannah laughed.

"All I know is we'll be together this week, then at Christmas. I'm going to school next semester and then, who knows? A year ago I was scared shitless of that stupid dinner." Jo grinned. "And now everything's changed, I mean, all except Grandma. Mum, I don't know how much longer she'll be here. I want to put a great-grandchild in her arms. Is that so wrong?"

"It's not wrong." If Jo knew everything, Hannah wouldn't carry a single hesitation. "Lovey, I was younger than you."

"Exactly. I love him so much. All I really want is him here." She placed a hand on her torso. "I've never felt anything like that."

The women cried, then laughed, as slush outside turned to snow.

Jo woke early and started the rice. Jeremy would arrive in a few hours and her dreams had been filled with him.

She hummed, hearing her grandmother in the bathroom. While Jo would be happy with cereal, she would splurge for rice and ice cream. She hadn't taken the tea last night, unsure of what exactly was in it. Jo had eliminated all caffeine, swallowed a vitamin daily, and tried to eat all she had read was necessary. Leafy greens, which at her grandmother's weren't a problem, proteins, dairy; that morning, vanilla ice cream would count as calcium.

"Good morning," Alta called, dressed her in robe and slippers.

"Good morning." Jo gave her a kiss. "You hungry?"

"What're you fixing?"

"What do you think?"

Alta sat at the table. "She up yet?"

Jo looked at the clock. "No, we were talking late."

Alta chuckled. "You hear from him this morning?"

"No, but he had an early flight. Well, early for us." Jo turned the flame to low, setting the timer for twenty minutes. "You want some coffee?"

Alta shook her head. "Nope. Gave it up."

Jo sat with her and they held hands. "I don't believe it!"

"It's true. Although," her smile teased. "If you get down there, bring me a decaf."

"I'll bring us both one."

Alta took her grandchild in her arms. "Are you now?"

"Not yet. But..." Jo looked upstairs. "Don't tell Mum, but maybe, when he gets here."

Alta stroked Jo's face. "Oh honey, I'd love that!"

"Me too."

Alta ran fingers over Jo's skin. "You two'd make some pretty lovely babies."

"I think so," Jo whispered. "But Mum wants me to finish school."

Alta clucked. "Well, she's not one to talk."

Jo laughed. "Grandma, I love him so much."

"Oh honey, that's the best thing." Alta glanced to the stairs. "He's skinny, but a good man. You and your mother, picking ones from England, you ever think about that?"

Jo nodded, close to tears.

Alta went to the bottom of the stairs. "Hard loving a white man in my day." She gazed at Jo. "But you don't have to worry about that now." Alta smiled and returned to her chair.

"Grandma, I wanna hear more about it. I know things are different, but that was your life, my history. It's important to me."

Alta smiled, hearing Hannah over their heads. "She's up. Here it comes."

"She's got all our best interests at heart."

"Yes she does. But she's a wicked thing."

"And we love her anyways."

Alta laughed, Jo joining, as Hannah stepped into the room.

Hannah had scolded lightly about the breakfast treat, all three women eager for Jeremy's presence. Jo took a shower once her mother was dressed and as they watched snow fall, Jo hoped he wouldn't have a hard time getting through traffic. She was in the bathroom when her phone rang, but Hannah picked up it, and as Jo came out, her mother's smile told of the caller.

Jo's face was bright for seconds. As Jeremy spoke, revealing his location, her strained voice conveyed to Hannah and Alta things were not as any of them assumed.

"What do you mean? Why didn't you call me last night? Why didn't you email me this morning? I don't care if you wanted to tell me in person. We're all here, waiting for you."

Hannah stood, but Jo turned away, wrapping her free hand around herself. She sulked to the back of the kitchen, near Alta's bedroom door. "So, you're sick. You don't sound very sick. What? Don't give me this. Yes, I'm upset. What do you think?"

Hannah and Alta remained at the table, the bowls from breakfast in the center. The scent of vanilla wafted, but Hannah knew something was terribly wrong.

"Oh Jesus, just stop lying!" Tears streamed down Jo's face as she moved toward the stairs, then sat on the steps. "Yes, I mean, no, I don't understand. No, because she's fine. She's waiting for you, we all are. No, it's not okay. Jesus, I believed you!"

A wave of cool air rushed through and Hannah went to windows. Snow swirled, but no draft was apparent.

Jo started up the stairs. "You lying bastard, don't say that to me! No, fine, just stay there! It doesn't matter now, does it? You never really wanted a, a..." Jo raced up, the slamming of her door the last Hannah and Alta heard.

After Jo's cries subsided, Hannah found her daughter in a crumpled heap on the bed. Hannah sat next to her and Jo trembled. Mother picked up her limp child, Jo's sobs restarting. "Oh g-god Mum, h-he's not c-coming!"

"Lovey, oh baby." Hannah rocked Jo's broken frame, listening to her mutterings. From what Hannah discerned, Jeremy was sick, didn't want to give Alta his cold. That's what Jeremy said. What Jo understood was far different.

"Lovey, if he doesn't feel well, maybe it's for the best." Hannah whispered those words, and various others, trying to calm her daughter.

"M-Mum, that's not it!"

Hannah had a pretty good idea of why Jeremy hadn't traveled. She turned, hearing footsteps, but Alta never took that staircase anymore.

"Momma, what are you doing?" Hannah asked.

Alta slumped at the foot of the bed and Jo left her mother for arms that had eased a pool of tears years before. Hannah stood, her heart breaking not only for her daughter.

"Honey, now if he's sick, he's better off there," Alta said.

"He's not sick. He sounded absolutely fine."

"Honey, now you need to just take a breath."

"No!" Jo stood, storming to her window, snow thick all over the street.

"Jo..." Hannah forced herself around her daughter.

"Mum, he doesn't want a baby. That's why he's not here, that bastard. Why'd he lie to me? Why'd he pretend?"

Alta sighed as Hannah pulled away. "What are you talking about?"

Jo returned to her grandmother's side.

"Don't tell me you're trying already?" Hannah gasped.

Jo couldn't look at her mother, reaching for Alta's hand.

"Good god!" Now Hannah was certain; Jeremy wasn't ill. Scared stiff, but not sick.

"Mum, I love him." Jo's voice broke. "He said he loved me and wanted to get pregnant now." She cleared her throat. "What bullshit!"

"Jo," Alta scolded.

"No Grandma. He's not coming because he doesn't want a baby. Maybe he never really did. Maybe he was just like Marco, wanting me to spill my guts and..."

Flying to her daughter, Hannah gripped Jo's hands. "Stop that before I slap you!" Hannah fell to her knees. "Josephine Michelle, don't you say those things because when you go to take them back, it's gonna hurt like nothing you've ever known!"

Hannah's blue eyes flashed and Jo shivered. What her mother knew Jo didn't want to hear.

Hannah looked at Alta. Those brown eyes carried ages of hurt and memory; no one escaped life without it and while Jo's anguish was exceptional, it didn't stand alone. Hannah took her daughter's left hand, tracing that faded scar from when Jo was very young. Hannah hadn't been able to dress that wound, but Craig had taken their bleeding child and calmed her, cleaning her injury. Then Jeremy had taken over and done it for Jo's heart. Hannah sighed, then stood, bringing Jo with her. With a nod to her mother, Hannah led them downstairs.

Jo sat on the couch in Alta's arms. Her mother made a pot of black tea and Jo drained one cup, then got another.

Hannah gave her a look, but Jo ignored it. Jeremy's voice had been broken, Jo would give him that, but no other trace of ill health emerged. After going upstairs, Jo had reeled off bitter, nasty sentences. He'd said that he _did_ love her, that it had nothing to do with their baby. Every time he said _their baby_ , she hurled another missile. In the middle of him saying _I'm sorry_ , Jo hit the button, then turned off her phone.

As her mother took the open end of the sofa, Jo stared at the floor, trapped between two from whom she couldn't flee. While she had to face her mother, at least Alta's arms supported. Jo couldn't imagine what on earth Hannah might say to condone Jeremy's behavior.

"Lovey, have you read his _Wikipedia_ page?" Hannah began.

"What? Of course not!"

"I'm surprised."

"I don't vet my relationships on the internet." It had never crossed Jo's mind to investigate Jeremy. What he chose to tell her was what mattered.

"Jo," but Hannah paused, sipping her tea.

"If he'd been sick enough not to come, he would've told me, emailed me. But this is just bull..."

Alta poked her. "Don't you say it."

As Jo finished her tea, the caffeine hit, her heartbeat right in her ears, crowding out his voice, as though he'd been crying? Jo pondered that, missing her mother's words.

"...and that's why he's not coming," Hannah said gently.

"Oh good lord," Alta muttered.

"What?" Jo turned to her grandmother's gaze of love, acknowledgement of pain. "Mum what?"

Hannah leaned closer, taking Jo's hands as her grandmother steadied her. "Mum, for god's sake, tell me!"

"Jo..." Hannah unraveled the truth; Jeremy and Philippa had buried a child.

Jo had listened for a few more seconds before erupting and it took both Hannah and Alta to hold her still. The breakdown was more for Jo's caustic words to him over the phone, what hit her first. Then as Hannah spoke, it was for Jeremy's dead child.

Curled into the sofa, Jo huddled beneath a blanket propped by a pillow. Alta had laid down, news to her as well. After hearing the basics, she had stopped at her computer long enough to pull up Jeremy's _Wikipedia_ page. At the bottom it was confirmed; his daughter had died at six months of age from crib death.

Hannah sat on the couch in the small spot left by Jo's bent knees. She laid her hand along her daughter's legs and Jo shuddered, a box of tissues in between her and the back of the sofa. Emma had died not long after Hannah and Craig had met her, having dinner with Jeremy and Philippa. At first the two couples were going out. Jo had stayed with Craig's mother, but Emma had been fussy and Philippa hadn't wanted to leave her.

As the news sunk in, Hannah had only offered a bit more. Jeremy never spoke of Emma, not to anyone. Hannah and Craig knew due to the friendship acquired during the production of _Silent Wishes_. Jeremy was just twenty-one when they shared that takeaway Indian meal and at four months old, Emma had been content in Craig and Hannah's arms. Philippa was relieved her baby's crankiness was only temporary, but two months later, Jeremy found their unresponsive daughter, who had probably died after being tucked in for the night. By the time he collected her in the morning, Emma had been deceased for several hours.

"Honey, sit up and drink some water." Hannah's voice was soft but maternal. Jo responded in kind as Hannah held the glass, Jo sipping half of it.

Smoothing her daughter's hair, Hannah tried not to show distress. Jo was similar to when Hannah had arrived at the hospital, her little girl quiet, but so wrecked. Again Jo was in a deep hole, but this time part of it was her own making.

Yet, she hadn't known, he hadn't told her! Hannah had warned him and now all Hannah's fears reverberated in Jo's aching face.

"M-Mum," Jo started. "Mum, oh god, oh my god!"

"I know honey. I'm sorry to have to tell you. But lovey, you needed to know."

"Oh god Mum, I need to call him, I need to apologize!" She took the water and drank the rest. "I said some really horrible things to him."

Hannah leaned against the back of the couch and Jo set her legs over her mother's lap. "Honey, he didn't come not because he doesn't want a baby with you."

Jo nodded. She gripped the glass, then relaxed. "I better not break another."

"Nobody here in any frame of mind to clean it up."

"Oh Mum, I just wanna talk to him, tell him I love him, tell him I'm so, so..." Jo set the glass down and fell into Hannah. "Mum, what if everything I said..."

Hannah stroked Jo's head. "Honey, he loves you so much. I think that's one of the reasons he hasn't told you. You'd spilled so much about your dad. He was just trying to protect you."

"You think so?"

"Don't worry about him not loving you. He'll never stop."

Jo nodded, then her face turned again. "Mum, what do you mean one of the reasons?"

Hannah sighed. "Oh lovey, he's never even told himself about Emma."

Alta joined the women on the sofa as Jo repeated the words: _He understood, he said he understood_. "Lovey, what?" Hannah asked.

"All this time he's said he knew where I was coming from, why I wouldn't see him or any of that. I thought it was because he knew about the accident. Then when I told him about Daddy, I thought it was because his parents had died, another car accident. And he said that was it. But Mum, it wasn't. Oh god, it was because of his..." Jo couldn't say those words. She thought them; _his daughter_ , her head full of that notion. Jeremy had a daughter. Had, past tense, like she'd had a father. "He knew because... Oh and he couldn't tell me. He couldn't even tell me!"

"He couldn't tell you because he loves you and because he can't even deal with it himself. He never has."

"Sometimes men can't face what hurts them and they just destroy themselves," Alta said.

Hannah nodded as Jo looked to her grandmother. "But why?" Jo asked.

"Because they don't know how to cry. Or because people tell them to take it like a man. What a crock," Alta hissed.

Hannah squeezed her mother's hand. "Jo, he found her, was so young himself, just twenty-one. Then he became a big star, and all that got shoved away. I know Philippa got over it. She didn't go to any of the awards with him, but before they split up, she and I talked. I told her about not being able to have any more and she was worried she wouldn't want to try again. But I could see that she'd started to let it go. She was talking about trying and that's a lot. You lose a baby and even if you can think of having another, that's something."

Jo stared at her mother, more than Hannah had ever revealed concerning her infertility.

"But he never let it go, just put on the mask that's been every movie he's made until this last one. He just smiled, never let it touch him. Sometimes I don't know how he's lasted so long."

Alta nodded as Jo gasped. "Oh Mum, is that why you wrote _There Is Something Here_?"

Hannah sighed. "I tried Jo. I tried."

An hour later Jo wanted to call Jeremy, but as soon as she picked up her cell, the choking returned. No more tears within her, but again Jo's verbal skills were lost. Instead she wrote loving, contrite words, then fell asleep.

Hannah had informed Ellen of the change in plans. Ellen wished them a quiet day and promised to pray. As Alta took the phone, Hannah checked on lunch, melting cheese spilling from rye bread.

She sliced the sandwiches in half and set the plates on the table, then started another pot of tea. Her heart was heavy, but she blamed no one. Jo had reacted as Hannah predicted and Jeremy was still hiding. The outcome was anyone's guess.

Joining her daughter, Alta smiled. "Real healthy food here girl."

"You know me, always something up my sleeve."

"Wicked you are," Alta sighed. "So that boy had a little one?"

Hannah nodded. "He and Philippa weren't much more than kids themselves."

"He was the same age you were when you had Jo."

Hannah hadn't considered that before. "But Momma, I was much older when Craig died and," she paused. "I think women are stronger."

"We are. You think they'll be all right?"

Hannah took a bite. "Jo will. I don't know about him. God Momma, why does he hide? Why did he think it was never gonna come back to him?"

"You know, Lee was a lot like Jeremy, and not just how they look."

Hannah grinned. The men were white, slender, with comparable smiles. Then she stared at her mother. "Momma, oh my god!"

Alta took Hannah's hand. "All this time you've been trying to save another skinny white boy. But it's up to him now. If Jeremy wants to get over it, he's the only one who can do it."

Hannah was dizzy heading up the stairs to the picture of her father. His smile was like Jeremy's, wide, beaming, and false, as if he was drowning. The photo had been snapped by Alta in June of 1969, just weeks before Lee left. His parents had harassed him through incessant letters, then phone calls; leave that woman, those children. They want you to go home, Alta had said to him, Nebraska full of yellow corn and white people. Recalling her mother's words, Hannah remained on the stairs, staring at the snapshot.

Alta went to the bottom step. "Hannah, come down."

She wiped tears. "Momma, why are they so afraid?"

Alta sighed. "Honey, I don't know. I really don't know."

When Jo woke, she found her mother and grandmother had been crying. "Mum, you okay?" Jo asked, joining them on the sofa.

Hannah nodded, but as Jo sat down, Hannah pulled her close.

"He didn't call, did he?" Jo asked.

"No," Alta said. "It's been quiet."

Jo nodded, feeling a strange peace against her mother. "I wrote him an email. But now I'm scared to look."

Hannah and Alta's conversation had been of a similar nature; answers might exist, but searching for them was risky. Even if reasons were found, those lost weren't returning.

Hannah released her daughter and Jo stood. "Go see, maybe he can't talk either and wrote you something instead."

Jo sat at her laptop, fingers frozen. She glanced at the women, both nodding their support.

One note waited. Jo choked, then swallowed, the message long, Jeremy's initial words loving and equally apologetic. Jo gasped again, reading in silence, as Hannah pulled up a chair.

"He says he so sorry, says he can't talk about her, but that he loves, oh he loves me."

Hannah took her daughter in her arms. "Baby, it'll be okay."

"He says he wanted to come, but just couldn't. And now he wants, oh my god, he wants me to just forget about him. He says he can't talk about her, he'll never be able to, and he's so sorry that he hurt me. Oh god no!"

Alta stood, setting her hands on Jo's shaking shoulders as Hannah looked at her mother, apprehension on both faces.

Chapter 21

Having left Jeremy one last message, Jo fell into restless sleep, aware that Philippa was traveling to Yorkshire. Hannah felt more eased going to bed due to her chat with Jeremy's ex-wife, the women speaking as if old friends. Like Hannah, Philippa had no idea how Jeremy had survived.

Having kissed her granddaughter, Alta then said a few words to her daughter; Lee and Craig were gone, and Jeremy was out of their hands. Alta's night ended with a solitary prayer she had been offering as of late: _So many have gone long before they should. Please let this one stay._

Jeremy woke to a hangover. For a few seconds he thought he had only napped, but sunlight peeked from his windows. He had no idea what time he'd gone to bed, nor the hour he had finally found sleep. The mobile had rung, several bottles of Guinness swallowed, then one last look at email, Jo's written words like her voice, tender, haunting, so many _I love you's_ , so many _I'm sorry's_. He had cried while reading it, then downed another Guinness. He didn't remember getting up the stairs, didn't remember lying down. The only firm notions were her words, first angry, then terrified.

He stood, feeling sick. He used the loo, then stepped into the shower, wishing to dissolve under the water. He had never felt so gutted, not even after Emma died. Maybe it was age, wisdom, that sort of clap-trap, thinking how painful was the light, how the spigot's noise rumbled in his head. How sharp the water felt, like knives. Little innocuous knives that he would love to remove, then just bleed to death.

He stopped the water, remembering Jo's words in Berkeley; Craig had died right in front of her in that very manner. Slamming his fists against the tile, Jeremy fumed, but not at Jo, not at Hannah for telling her, not at Philippa for all the warnings. This was his fault.

Reaching for a towel, he remembered drying Jo's body, then they made love in her bathroom. Gripping the terrycloth, a small tear appeared. He ripped it in two, then shook, pieces of himself being plucked away; Jo, their baby, his life. All he had wanted fell in hunks and shards.

He dressed, movements still subdued. His head throbbed and going downstairs, he felt each step as if skin was patchy, organs dropping to the carpet. By the time he reached the kitchen, a skeleton started the kettle, made some toast, then pulled out a mug, the one Jo had used.

Jeremy fingered where her mouth had rested along the rim. Then he hurled it to the stone floor, tiny pieces flying in a spray.

As that cup broke, Jo woke. Immediately she reached for her phone. Calling his cell, it rang and rang, and just as she was ready to leave another message, someone picked up. For a few seconds, Jo wondered if she had hit the wrong name, as no one answered.

"Hello, hello?" she asked. "Is Jeremy there?"

A wobbly voice emerged. "Jo?"

She sat up, blue sky slipping from the blinds. "Oh Jeremy!"

Hearing her daughter stir, Hannah came from her room, waiting in the hallway.

"Christ Jo, don't call me!"

Jo began to choke. "Baby, oh please, just let me come see you!"

"No! I mean, I can't."

Jo sucked in brisk air. "I love you, I'm sorry."

"Jo for god's sake, just let it be!"

Hannah moved to the door, peering through the crack. The phone was pressed to Jo's ear, her other arm around herself, trying to ease her shakes.

Jo looked up. "Jeremy, here, talk to Mum."

Hannah took the phone. "Jeremy, you all right?"

"I can't," he sighed. "Just tell her I'm sorry."

"Jeremy..." Saying nothing more, Hannah gave the cell back to Jo, then headed for the stairs. Passing her father's photograph, Hannah ran a finger along a smile that had strangled Lee McIntyre. The same awful shrieks resounded from another man five time zones ahead.

When Ellen's family arrived, a hush floated that eleven-year-old Mason and eight-year-old Aitkin found strange, a tenor changed as Alta offered rice and ice cream. Eric settled their things downstairs as Ellen comforted her niece, wiping tears that had come and gone all day.

Hannah followed Eric. "Flight all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, fine. How's Jo?"

"Oh god, it's a mess." As they embraced, Hannah noted his eyes, brown like Craig's, Eric's skin the same hue as her mother's. Hannah and Alta could be daunting, but unlike other men, Eric Horn had remained, and Hannah went for another hug.

"The boys know something's up. I'll take them out on Friday. Is she gonna be okay?"

Hannah nodded. "Yeah, I mean, she was a little better today."

Eric smiled. "Hopefully we'll be saying that this time tomorrow."

When Jo woke Thursday morning, her cousins were watching TV, Ellen and Hannah busy in the kitchen. Jo poured some coffee, joining the boys on the sofa. She said little, but soon Aitkin was beside her, telling stories. Jo's small laughter wafted through the room; as Alta emerged, she stood with her daughters, observing the grandchildren.

"They'll bring her out of herself some," Alta said, reaching for a cup.

Ellen poured her mother's coffee. "It's decaf."

Alta nodded. "Better than a hole in the head."

Hannah checked the turkey. "You hungry?" she asked her mother.

"Any rice?" Alta smiled.

"It's cold," Ellen said.

"Just nuke it. Doesn't matter as long as it's hot."

Jo came their way, finishing the last from the pot. She hugged her grandmother, watching the boys sprawled on the floor. The coffee table had been moved, making space for them to sleep. Now blankets and pillows covered the carpet. "They've gotten so big since I saw them last," she said to her aunt.

Ellen squeezed Jo's shoulder. "Growing up is what kids do."

Jo drank her coffee. She had never considered herself on par with these women, but now her place was earned. Was it having spoken of her father, or another heartache? Jo didn't feel young, not like Mason and his brother, who were beginning to fight over the next show.

Ellen went after them as Jo embraced her grandmother. "I'm not little anymore, am I?"

"You'll always be my baby," Hannah said.

Jo smiled. "I guess."

Alta kissed Hannah's cheek. "They're always someone's baby," she said with more tenderness than usual. Then she set her empty cup on the counter. "I'm gonna take a bath. Save the rice for after I'm done. Jo, you come help me."

"Okay Grandma."

Alta headed to her room. Jo followed, handing her mother the empty mug.

Once Alta was in the tub, Jo sat on the closed toilet seat, honeysuckle oil filling her heart. She had wanted Jeremy to ask her to fly to England. Just the opposite was what she heard. Inhaling that fragrance comforted, but not what his words would have offered.

"Jo, you need to let him be," Alta's voice croaky.

"God Grandma, how?"

"Girl, just leave him. He's gotta sink or swim."

"But Grandma, what if he sinks?"

"Sometimes they do. Nothing you can do about it."

"Is that what happened to Lee?"

Alta splashed the water. "Yes."

Jo noticed the lavender walls, with a blue border. "Grandma, this's just like my bedroom."

More small splashes. "I know. I liked it so much I had someone paint it like that in here."

Jo smiled, then wiped a few tears. "Grandma, if he sinks, I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll manage. It won't be easy, but you will."

"Grandma, I'm not you. Or Mum."

Alta splashed again. "Sometimes Jo you don't get a choice. I didn't. Your mother, well, she could've found someone after Craig died. She did, in a way."

"Who?"

"I'm about done. That picture, in the hallway. You go look at it, then tell me what you see."

"The one of Lee?"

"Yes. You tell me what you see and then we'll talk."

For the rest of Thanksgiving, Jo refrained from writing or calling Jeremy. She didn't hear from him, but Hannah received word from Philippa, who had arrived in Helperby. Jeremy was drunk and Philippa was cleaning. Knowing he wasn't alone lifted Jo, her grandfather's face running through her head.

For years Jo had seen Lee's photo in the center of the stairwell, surrounded by snapshots of Hannah and Ellen from childhood, a memorial to a life of which Jo was unacquainted; her grandparents together. Only one existed of Lee and Alta as a couple, kept on the back of Alta's dresser. Other pictures crowded it out and the next time Jo was in there, she would have a look.

Jo traveled the stairs plenty that day, each time stopped by Lee's familiar eyes, medium sized, like Jeremy's. Lee's nose was narrow, his jaw defined but not hard, showing a glaring smile that looked odd when, a few weeks later, Lee was gone.

Alta said nothing all day, other than noting the greens were slightly bitter and the gravy contained too many giblets. Otherwise she was light-hearted, her eyes clear. Watching football, she sat with her grandsons rooting against Dallas, offering to Mason and Aitkin the same loving arms Jo received. Jo's bond with Alta was special, but not isolated; Alta owned an equal but different relationship with the boys who were loud and looked like their father. Mason's tight curly hair was short, Aitkin's looser waves resting past his collar, but both had Eric's wide-set eyes, his broad nose and easy smile, a grin nothing like Lee's.

Heading to her room, again Jo paused at the photo. At her laptop upstairs, she scrolled through pictures of Jeremy in Berkeley. That same bright, forced grin was plastered all over his face.

Jo shook as Hannah called for her. Jo headed downstairs, but didn't look at Lee's picture.

Alta was heading to the table, Mason's arm in hers, and Jo took Alta's other side. Mason was just taller than his grandmother, but not as lofty as Jo they joked. She helped with the food, pouring wine for the adults, Jo's first glass in over a month. As everyone sat, Jo squeezed her grandmother's hand. Eric said a short grace, Jo's bowed head leaning toward Alta's. Amen was spoken by all, then Jo whispered in her grandmother's ear.

Alta nodded at Jo's words, but as soon as Mason kidded her about his ever increasing height, Jo smiled. Taking some turkey, Hannah noted the exchange between her mother and daughter.

Chapter 22

Jeremy hadn't expected Philippa's arrival, but wasn't surprised, and Philippa didn't hesitate to say why she had come.

"You know," she started, after clearing a spot on the kitchen counter for her purse, "Hannah doesn't sound any different than she did years ago."

He looked at her, but said nothing.

"This place's a tip." Philippa poured remnants from bottles into the sink, stacking them near the window. "Don't you have recycling around here? Or do they pick them up with the rubbish?"

"There're bins at the Oak Tree. I'll take them down later."

She turned with hands on her hips, how she had stood before, and still did when James or Bethany was in her sights. This time the look was all Jeremy's. "Well, that'd be a good start."

"How long are you staying?"

"Oh maybe the weekend. Rodger's got a handle on the kids." She came closer, reaching for his stubbled cheek. "How long do I need to stay?"

Her hand felt warm. He hadn't shaved in days, hadn't bathed since Wednesday morning. He needed a shower, but might let a beard grow. "Be careful in here. I broke a mug recently."

She looked to the floor. "Did you get it all?"

Jeremy had already left the room.

Thursday evening they talked about the past, but not their baby. He wanted to know if he had been a good husband; how did he compare to Rodger? Philippa laughed, tried to steer him toward Emma. He wouldn't budge.

After a few moments of quiet he smiled. "Listen, you busy in February?"

"Kids are off for half term, why?"

"Want to go to the BAFTAs?"

"Won't you take Jo?"

Jeremy stalked to the fireplace. A fire had burned since Philippa arrived, edging a chill he couldn't fully shake. Even a long shower after dinner hadn't warmed him. A drink would get a fire burning, but with her presence, he refrained. "Philly don't."

He threw in three pieces of coal which sparked and hissed as the dust caught.

"I didn't come here to reminiscence about us. You're a mess and I love you. She does too."

He turned with an angry, aching face. "Don't!"

For years, all emotion was absent, except for what had been captured in his latest movie. Philippa had been stunned by skills she had doubted still existed, authentic sentiments upon which he could draw. In front of her the mask was gone, the smile forgotten. He was raw, human, and she was glad. "Don't what?"

"Oh god, don't push me."

She walked toward the fireplace. He tried to flee, searing heat in his way, those pieces having splintered.

"Jeremy, oh love." Close enough to touch him, she moved nearer and he was trapped.

"Philly, god please don't."

She rubbed the back of his head. "Love, you have to let her go."

"I can't, god, don't you understand? I can't!"

"You have to or else you'll die."

He laughed, facing her. "Oh, that's melodramatic!"

"It's true. Look at you, alone. You should be in New York."

"I couldn't," he whispered, looking to the front door where his luggage still sat.

Two packed cases waited; he had been so close. Jeremy stepped her way and Philippa gripped him. "It's okay love, but I'm telling you, you're just killing yourself. She wouldn't want that."

He trembled. "Oh god, I love her so much, but I can't."

"Yeah, yeah Jo loves you too. But love..." Philippa pulled away, staring into his eyes. "Emma wouldn't want you doing this."

Hearing that name drove him to the kitchen for a Guinness. As he drank bottle after bottle, Philippa cleared them away, threw out old food, scrubbed the sink. Once he was finished, she helped him upstairs and into bed. Jo's letters littered the floor, but one photograph sat on the side table, making Philippa cry; the three of them when Emma was alive.

In her room, Philippa emailed Hannah about the packed cases, then she checked the fire. Ringing Rodger, she gave him an update, then went to bed.

A few hours later, Philippa woke to Jeremy on the phone, his voice broken and contrite. Philippa smiled, hoping this was a beginning.

On Friday morning, Eric and the boys left early, but Jo saw them off, a small spring in her step. Jeremy had had finally reached out late last night. While he was drunk, it was a start, and Jo made rice and decaf coffee, offering a bit of good news as the rest of the women stirred.

Hannah read out Philippa's email and Jo wept, the waiting suitcases reaffirming her hopes. She wrote to Philippa, asking to be kept in the loop, then sat with her grandmother. Alta said a few words, ones Hannah and Ellen knew. Jo was shaken and excused herself for a shower.

"You gonna tell her?" Hannah asked.

Alta nodded. "She's old enough. I wasn't gonna do it, but now, well, she needs to know."

Ellen sat down and took their hands. "She's not a little girl anymore."

Alta chuckled. "Yeah, seeing her around your boys, no, she's not so little."

Hannah moved to the window. "No, but maybe it's too much."

Alta joined her eldest. "Right now you're not the best judge."

Mother and daughter faced one another. "Momma..." Hannah gazed to the stairwell, but her father's picture was too far to see.

"Honey, if he swims, he'll be with her forever, helluva lot stronger arms if he makes it back."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"We survived," Alta sighed. "She will too."

After a shower, Jo tried calling Jeremy, but his phone was off. She went down, somewhat dejected, finding the table full of women, all with a cup in their hand.

She suppressed a small giggle. "Am I the sacrificial lamb?"

Alta laughed. "You're too smart for your own good. I wonder who you got it from."

Ellen chuckled as Hannah smiled. "Her father I'm sure."

"Oh yes. Brains from Craig and wickedness all from you."

Jo poured some water, then sat between her mother and grandmother. Ellen was across and Jo leaned back, breathing in women whose plusses and minuses made her world. Ellen had lost her father, but enjoyed a happy marriage and two sons who kept her busy. Mason's mild autism sometimes overwhelmed his parents, but he was a kind boy, in public school, and if they thought Jo was bright, what did they think of Mason?

Aitkin was calmer, kept his brother balanced. Ellen had wanted to try for a daughter, but Mason's Asperger's had limited their family. Jo reached for her aunt's hand and squeezed.

Alta began to talk, things Jo knew. Lee's relatives weren't pleased he'd gone back east, that he had kept his marriage a secret. Not until Hannah was born did they know he had met someone, started a family. It wasn't to his parents he sent those first pictures of a bouncing baby girl, his wife, and himself. He sent them to his maternal grandmother.

As Alta explained, Jo shivered, then stood, needing space; so ugly were a family's reactions to what was only an infant. Hannah had been just a baby, but to Lee's parents, she was an abomination. Jo stayed at the window, wishing to conjure the honeysuckle oil that made all hurts fade away.

As her grandmother kept speaking, Jo thought more of that scent, how it had loosened her years ago. Not to speak, that came by a fluke, from peanut butter and jelly. Suddenly she was starving. As her grandmother continued, Jo went to the kitchen and made a sandwich.

Hannah joined her. Jo dropped the knife and Hannah's arms encircled, once tiny limbs like Belle's. Jo hadn't thought of Belle in ages, a happy, chirpy baby of mixed race whose presence had made Jo's day. And whose absence had broken Jo's heart.

Had it broken Jeremy's? Had speaking of that baby, over and over, driven nails into him? Jo began sobbing and Alta stopped speaking. Jo heard that silence, then Jeremy's devastated voice from last night; he was sorry, he missed her. He needed her. Jo pulled away from her mother and ran upstairs.

Hannah watched her go.

When the boys returned, Mason didn't miss the hush. He sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and wouldn't speak. As Aitkin tried to soothe his brother, Hannah explained to Eric; Jeremy had called, but it hadn't gone well. Ellen was upstairs with Jo, who was drunk, but not due to Alta's words. Jeremy's angry, sober voice had caused Jo's heartache. After that brutal conversation, Jo ate her sandwich, then spent the rest of the afternoon drinking wine. Inebriation was a slow process, she told her mother, akin to the way Daddy bled to death.

Hannah had nearly collapsed, her daughter so cryptic. Ellen took Jo upstairs, where Jo replayed Jeremy's voice in her head, crowding out Alta, Hannah, and Ellen's sorrow.

Eric got the boys back in their coats. Mason seemed glad to leave, but first he ran up and kissed Jo. Nearly asleep, she had said one word: _Jeremy._ Unfazed, Mason sprinted down, waiting at the door.

Ellen went to the table, putting her head in her hands. Her mother's recollections had been difficult to hear, but were nothing new. Yet, Jeremy's words were awful. Ellen had seen _There Is Something Here_ , and for a few minutes felt he was reciting lines in character. This wasn't the suave hero she had seen in other movies, or the man with whom her niece was in love. Over the phone, Jeremy had been sniping and vicious, a bastard.

Hannah grasped Ellen's hand. "Will Mason be okay?"

Ellen took off her glasses. "What? Oh yeah, yeah. He just needed to get out. He'll be fine."

Alta joined them. "What a day."

Hannah nodded. She had never heard Jeremy so agitated, but it was expected. He had lived so long on fumes, was it possible he could turn it around as quickly as they wanted?

"How could he say those things to her?" Ellen asked.

"He's trying to stay hidden," Hannah said.

Ellen sighed. To their surprise, Jo appeared, looking ill. Hannah reached her first. "You okay?"

"I threw up. Grandma, you have some aspirin?"

Ellen knew where the medicines were kept and Jo sat beside her grandmother as Hannah poured ginger ale, handing it to Jo as Ellen set two painkillers in front of her niece.

Jo took them, drank the liquid, then leaned into Alta. "I'm going home tomorrow."

Hannah nodded. "Wasn't your flight for Sunday?"

"Yeah, but I need to be alone."

Alta kept her hand on Jo's. "Honey, you gonna be all right?"

"I just need some time."

Ellen reached for Jo's other hand. "Baby, what he said..."

"Aunt Ellen, it's all right. He didn't mean all that."

"Good God Jo! He needs one of Hannah's bricks."

Jo nodded, drinking the ginger ale. "It's really okay."

"Honey, I know you love him, but good lord!"

Jo stood. "Aunt Ellen, he's an actor remember?"

While Jo was forgiving, Philippa was not. She wished for a cricket bat to slam right over his head.

Having run to the store, Philippa returned to words cruel, biting, and of course, untrue. Hannah's sister might be taken in by Jeremy's attempts to eliminate Jo from his life. Fortunately for Jeremy, Jo knew better. Unfortunately for Jeremy, Philippa did too.

"You lousy, lying bastard!" she yelled as he sat at the table, a bottle of Guinness close.

"It's over. It doesn't matter anymore," he shouted back. He had wanted to get off the phone before she returned, but timing hadn't been favorable.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? This's your life we're talking about!" She threatened to throw the bottle across the room. Instead she moved it to the far end of the table.

He needed that drink to wash the words from his head. Jo had apologized about the baby she'd seen, a baby that had vanished. She cried for that and something about Hannah's father, but Jeremy couldn't make out the words, nearly ready to fall at her feet. If she had been there, or him in New York, he would have scooped her up, taken her away. She was far away but he needed her even further, as far as he could get her.

Belle hadn't hit him, not after Darfur. She didn't hit him until they passed that abandoned shop in April when he finally spilled a tiny portion of... He had told Jo of his friend, a friend who was now standing in his house screaming at him, so different to what Jo had said; "Jeremy, I love you, and I'm sorry you feel this way."

"Jo, I never wanted anything more than a fuck. And now that I've had it, you can just go to hell!"

There were other things, but she had only repeated herself quietly, consistently: _I love you. I'll wait for you. I understand._ With every gentle phrase Jo spoke, Jeremy turned more spiteful, that she was nothing to him, she meant nothing. But what was that?

Who he was now without her.

"You know, I can't stay here. I'm leaving!" Philippa crossed her arms, then turned for the stairs.

"Fine! Just fucking go right ahead and do that!" He stared at ash in the fireplace, dark, gray, dead, Jeremy's head and heart the same. "Go right ahead," he repeated, but he didn't wish to be alone. He had shut Jo out, but couldn't lose Philly.

He found her in the guest room, stuffing things in a bag. He took her hand, but she yanked it away. "Don't you touch me!"

"God, I'm sorry! Don't go, not tonight. I'll take you to the station in the morning."

"I can't be around you," she spat. Then she softened. "I can't watch you do this anymore!"

Philippa sat on the bed, tears falling. "I loved you, I still love you, but you're like an addict, just wanting to kill yourself, and I just can't watch!"

"Philly, I, I don't know how."

She sniffed, taking his hand. "She wouldn't want it like this, you know? Emma wouldn't want to see you suffering and for so long. I was so scared when I was pregnant with James, but I loved Rodger and I wanted another, another..." Philippa swallowed hard. "When they were tiny it was like a game; will they make it another twenty-four hours? Every morning would they be breathing? But they did and now James is ten years old. Sometimes I think what it would be like having a teenager, oh god. But love, that's gone. Emma's gone."

Jeremy tried to breathe, her words so close to his heart. Then Jo's voice: _I'll wait for you, I understand._ "Philly, I don't know how."

"God love, you need to figure it out. I know what Jo means to you. When you came down, was it two weeks ago, I saw _you_ again. I haven't seen you for sixteen years, but there you were, sitting in my kitchen, a man that I know is still in there." She poked his chest. "But Em's in there too and if you don't get her out, she'll destroy you."

He shrunk back.

"Jeremy, please. For yourself, for Jo. I'm not gonna ask for me, that's selfish, but for you, for her. For what you want with her; you could have a child with her."

The words slipped into him like a suffocating mist. He coughed, then felt sick. Running to his room, he reached the toilet just in time.

Philippa knelt beside him, wiping his face. "It used to be like this when I was sick with her, remember? You'd come down and hold my hair." She smiled. "Love, you need to get her out. Just like I had her, now you need to."

He leaned back, still feeling queasy. The Guinness? Jeremy knew what it really was.

"Love, I mean it." Philippa paused. "I love you and so do the kids, but I won't let them see you like this. We cannot watch you do this anymore."

He looked into her face, she wasn't lying. She hadn't wanted to tell him when she was pregnant with James, but as he had recognized that, Jeremy knew she wasn't offering this ultimatum in jest.

Philippa stood, helping him up. She squeezed his hand and left the room. He sat on the bed, seeing Jo's letters on the floor. He gathered them, returning the stack to his drawer.

The photograph remained on the bedside table. He picked it up, but the image was fuzzy. Blinking back tears, he noted a different picture; Jo was holding his baby. He stared for seconds. Then it was Emma and Philippa. And himself, looking the same.

Chapter 23

To: Jeremy

Subject: Belle

Date: Saturday, November 28, 12:07 p.m. EST

Hi. I just wanted to tell you she's alive. I saw them this morning as I went out for coffee. (Only decaf at the house and I'm flying home today and really needed leaded.) As I walked down, their shop was open. Merlene, Belle's mother, and I talked for twenty minutes; Merlene's mum had been ill in Kingston and they went back to help out. Not only is Belle alive, but she's walking, beginning to talk. And will receive a sibling in the next few months.

Maybe this is more than you want to hear, but as I prepare to leave, it's taking me back with a lighter heart. Belle didn't remember me, but Merlene did, and her husband Jack. Her husband's name is Jack White, Korean American, born and raised in New York. His English is flawless, but because he only speaks Korean to Belle, I'd never heard it before.

I bought two more reggae CD's and need to burn them onto my laptop for the flight. But before I do, I just wanted to email you some happy news. Or at least it makes me happy. You're never far from my thoughts. If that's a problem, I'm sorry. You said you would always wait for me. Now I give that back to you.

Love, Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: Ta love

Date: Saturday, 28 November 18.33 GMT

Glad someone is settled. Also thanks for letting me know you'll be in California soon. I need to send your grandmother some flowers for my absence. I'd send lilies, but with Hannah there, I'll refrain.

I won't say anymore, as I need a drink to be kind. Philippa left today. I'm not on her good list either.

I hope you get home safely. If you would, please drop me a line so I know you made it.

Jeremy

To: Jeremy

Subject: home

Date: Saturday, November 28, 4:55 p.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

The flight was long, and there was a sick kid behind me, but better to travel on Saturday than the crush that will be tomorrow. Aunt Ellen and Uncle Eric left today too, but they had a short flight back to Boston.

It's so mild here compared to NY. No snow, no frosty air. Some fog, but not much.

So, I'm home. Please don't drink too much, not the best thing for a body.

Love, Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: poinsettias

Date: Sunday, 29 November 8.42 GMT

Does Hannah have a problem with these?

I'm glad you made it all right.

Jeremy

To: Jeremy

Subject: smile

Date: Sunday, November 29, 7:16 a.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

No problem with poinsettias. Actually, Mum loves them.

School tomorrow, then studying for finals. Grandma is doing much better; the rumor is she's willing to maybe permit a woman twice a week to come in and check on her. We will see.

Mum will be flying out here for a few days if it's a go with help for Grandma. But then she's back to NY for the rest of the month.

That's all here. Off to the grind.

Love, Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: Ta again

Date: Monday, 30 November 13.18 GMT

Thanks for the heads up. I'll send a few their way.

Good luck with the end of the term. I hope you won't have to pull too many all nighters.

I'll watch out for the alcohol, you keep a limit on the caffeine. Don't want you getting the shakes after the sabbatical.

Jeremy

To: Grandma

Subject: Lee

Date: Tuesday, December 1, 2:23 p.m. PST

Dear Grandma,

Classes are calming in a strange way, like everything that happened last week was a dream. He's writing little emails to me, but it's something.

I'm not calling him, trying to keep my distance, but it's so hard! How did you keep from deluging with words the one you loved?

But I guess Lee's parents didn't have a problem with that. And of course I think in modern terms, email so instantaneous. Even with Jeremy, at the latest it's overnight.

I can't get Lee out of my head. I keep wishing I could tell Jeremy, but I can't. Sometimes I sit on my hands, go take a walk. There's no snow here, makes it easier to get out. I think of Belle; alive, going to be a big sister. I'm going to bring us a coffee every morning when I come for Christmas. We'll drink the decaf at home and Mum won't be the wiser!

I love you. Thank you for sharing with me. I know it wasn't easy, but it put things in perspective. Like you said, you and Mum made it. I suppose I will too.

Love your Jo

To: Jeremy

Subject: caffeine

Date: Wednesday, December 2, 11:43 a.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

Well, the coffee here isn't as nice, and I'm trying to be good. Just wanted to tell you Grandma called me this morning and was so thrilled with the plants. Says she put them in the living room and when they get a tree, she'll move them to the rest of the house. She keeps her tree right by the window and at night you can see the lights outside from the street. I remember when I was there that year, she let me decorate it. She's pretty particular about how it looks, but she never moved a single ornament. Probably drove her nuts the whole month.

Love, Jo

To: Mum

Subject: poinsettias

Date: Thursday, December 3, 1:48 p.m. PST

Dear Mum,

This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I write these stupid little notes and get back a sentence. Maybe I should be glad for it. But I'm not.

I wrote to Grandma yesterday when I should have been studying. But it was that or go for another walk and I'm sick of my neighborhood! Decorations are up, there should be snow, or at least cold. When we moved out here did I pine for a white Christmas? But then maybe we lived in so many places, it wasn't intrinsic to me, not after Daddy died.

I want to tell Jeremy about Lee and all I can do is study, bah! Or write to you and Grandma. I wrote to Mason and Aitkin; Aunt Ellen says Mason loves getting mail. I felt bad for freaking him out, but she told me he never mentioned it later. No one's life is perfect I guess.

I feel so cheated. We were so close and I'm not just talking about a baby. He was packed, suitcases at the door; why didn't he come? Why did Lee leave? I'm not going to write about Daddy, but Lee and Jeremy; why were/are they so afraid? I don't understand.

Love, Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: plants

Date: Thursday, 3 December 23.55 GMT

Glad she got them. I'm waiting for my thank you note. It invariably comes a few days after the delivery.

No plans here for the holidays. I sent the kids' gifts with Philippa, as I don't think I'll be getting to London this year. I think they'll like the Cal hoodies.

Jeremy

To: Josephine

Subject: fairness

Date: Friday, December 4, 8:49 a.m. EST

Lovey,

It's snowing here like you wouldn't believe. As for white Christmases, you had one most years in New York. Craig would take you outside, make a little snowman off the steps. You smiled and laughed as the flakes fell on your head.

Once we moved to San Jose, Momma came to see us to get away from that snow. But I suppose it's what you grew up with, so that's Christmas for you.

As for men, my father was torn. I don't know if even Craig could have withstood that sort of persecution. Times are so altered, and where you and I live, it's another world compared to those days.

Ellen never said anything to me about Mason, so I assume he's fine. Don't worry.

I'll arrive noon your time for the weekend. Two women from Momma's church have been coming, and if Ellen needs to pop down she will. It's a hoot hearing Momma talk to these ladies, like my mother from ages ago when I attended church with her, as though she's been going all these years. Maybe it doesn't leave you.

I'll call when I get in. See you in a few hours.

Love, Mum

To: Jeremy

Subject: Christmas

Date: Friday, December 4, 2:57 p.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

Why aren't you going to London?

Mum just landed in San Jose. I'll be heading down there for the weekend.

Love, Jo

To: Jo

Subject: (none)

Date: Saturday, December 5, 10:22 a.m. EST

My sweet sweet girl,

The ladies are here, getting some cleaning done. Hannah will be back on Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. I think we can hold down the fort until then.

I love her, but she's about ready to put me around the bend. I did a naughty thing and you'll need to keep quiet about it. I bought some real coffee and put it in the canister. Don't tell.

I wrote to Jeremy today, thanking him for the poinsettias. They are just beautiful.

As for men, honey, I have no idea why God does what He does. If Jeremy comes back, it will be for good. If he doesn't, it was for something else, what I don't know. Why Lee left, why he died, still I can't fathom it. But I had two girls and one of them had you. If that was why, I have no complaints.

When are you coming? Let me know and I'll have Miss Cindy put a plant in your room. Those ladies are up and down the stairs like you wouldn't believe, makes me feel old.

Love, Grandma

To: Grandma

Subject: real coffee

Date: Saturday, December 5, 6:18 p.m. PST

Dear Grandma,

Mum and I are getting ready to go downtown and see the lights. But I just wanted to tell you I love you so much. I have no idea what's going on, Jeremy's not going to London for Christmas. I'm worried that he and Philippa had a falling out because he always goes there. But I'm trying to be calm, not pressure him.

Looking forward to some of that _decaf_... Hee hee!

Grandma, I know you're not as spry as before, but I never think of you as old. Sometimes it's like I have two mothers, one is just more patient with me.

Please say a prayer for Jeremy. Like I said, him not going to London is not a good thing. I'd love to fly over there, but I won't. I will be heading your way on the 15th or 16th, depending on when I get these papers finished!

Well, she's ready, so we're off. When the driver calls, I jump.

Love your Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: Christmas

Date: Wednesday, 9 December 14.03 GMT

I'll just be here, as Philippa and Rodger are going to Ibiza. Took me by surprise.

Enjoy yours with family. I know you'll be in good hands.

Jeremy

To: Mum

Subject: Jeremy

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 10:04 a.m. PST

Dear Mum,

Something is really wrong. I know you just left, and if you weren't on a plane, I'd call you. Maybe you'll have internet on the flight. If you do, please write back ASAP.

Jeremy says he's not going to London because Philippa and family will be in Ibiza. But I wrote to her and she says they aren't going anywhere. She told me she did ask him, but he said no. Oh Mum, I'm just dying to call him, but I haven't. Trying to be good, trying to be mellow, but it's so damned hard!

On the lighter side, I saw Marco at the coffee shop, which was odd because of course he doesn't live over here. He asked if I was all right. He also asked about Jeremy. I wanted to say it's fine, but his emails are just worthless, except to let me know he's still breathing. Anyway, I told Marco it wasn't good. He didn't flinch or smile. Seemed sad actually and I said that maybe it was just me. Maybe I'm not meant to be with anyone.

Maybe that's more truth than I want to admit.

I miss hearing your voice. Can't wait to be there next week! I'm looking at flying into JFK on Wednesday the 16th and I'll be there until the 2nd. Then back to the grind. At least it keeps me occupied.

Maybe I'll hear from your soon? I'm just here, slaving away. Oh, just a minute.

Oh my god, you won't believe this. Jeremy sent me a poinsettia! It's pink, really gorgeous. Oh Mum! Maybe not all is lost.

Love a very jubilant Jo

To: Jeremy

Subject: thank you

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 10:15 a.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

I just got the plant, thank you so much!

Jeremy, I know they aren't going to Spain. Please remember that I care about you. That's how I know.

Love, Jo

To: Jeremy

Subject: (none)

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 11:03 a.m. PST

You know what? You can lie to yourself all you want. You deserve an Oscar. And the Golden Globe and the BAFTA, a fucking hat trick!

You used to deserve me. Maybe one day again you will.

Until then, screw you!

Jo

To: Mum

Subject: I hate him

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 11:10 a.m. PST

Maybe you'll get these emails and think I've lost my mind. I'm so mad right now I wish I had a brick. So he sent the plant and I emailed him _thank you_. Then in the very next sentence stupid me wrote that I knew Philippa wasn't going away.

He called me, oh Mum, he was so mad! At who, I'm not sure. Me, for checking his story? Philippa, for telling me the truth? Himself? That was the hardest to hear. So what did I do? Threw the fucking plant down the steps. While on the phone. And he heard everything.

It's still down there. Maybe someone will pinch the poor thing and give it a decent burial.

It's over. Fortunately I'm still so pissed it's okay. In a few hours, it's going to hurt like hell. Hopefully you'll be off the plane by then. He said he doesn't give a shit about me, about us. Those were his words. Oh Mum, it was like he was putting on the performance of his life! He's a good actor, a great one. Does that make me sound shallow, that I think he's not serious? But I know he's not. He's lying through his fucking teeth, that SOB, hurting me and himself. Makes me want to pound him, then take him in my arms.

I think the anger's fading. I'm in for a long night.

Love a miserable girl

To: Josephine

Subject: patience

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 4:10 p.m. EST

Lovey,

I tried calling, but you're not picking up. I'm in NY, can't tell you anything you don't already know. He's a hurting liar, has been since 1993, and as Miss Cindy says _Bless him_.

Momma sends her love. Sweetheart, you'll be here soon enough. And as for him? Denial is a nasty place to be.

Baby, I love you. Call me.

Love you, Mum

To: Mum

Subject: I'm out

Date: Wednesday, December 9, 2:14 p.m. PST

Can't talk. Just crying and crying.

I'll call as soon as I can. Glad you're there.

I love you. This hurts so bad, worse than Daddy. I'm going for a walk.

Love, Jo

To: Hannah Adams

Subject: Jo

Date: Thursday, December 10, 3:41 p.m. PST

Dear Hannah,

I know you probably didn't expect to hear from me. I ran into Jo today, she looked terrible. I don't know what's going on between her and Stewart, but I feel compelled to say something to him. Do you have his email address? If so, would you consider sending it to me? If not, would you forward something to him from me?

Thanks, and have a merry Christmas.

M. Gonzalez

To: Marco Gonzalez

Subject: forward

Date: Thursday, December 10, 8:19 p.m. EST

Dear Marco,

Thanks for your concern. I'd be happy to forward an email to Jeremy for you.

Merry Christmas, Hannah A.

To: Jeremy

Subject: forward

Date: Friday, December 11, 8:13 a.m. EST

Dear Jeremy,

This is from Marco.

Thinking of you, Hannah

Dear Mr. Stewart,

I just wanted to tell you that I saw Jo today, and she's absolutely devastated. I have no idea what happened between you and her, but whatever it was, you really ripped her guts out.

I took her home and she told me about the plant that is still sitting at the bottom of her stairs. I got her to bed and made sure she was asleep. All she could do was cry and talk about how much she loves you. Then she would cry again. All I wanted was to take her pain. I loved her, I still do. All you did was fuck her over.

I went to see your movie again, see what she saw in you. I hope to hell she's right, that you're just that good of an actor, that all of this is just bullshit. That's what she says. She's still holding out hope for you.

I just think you're the biggest asshole I have ever met.

M. Gonzalez

To: Marco Gonzalez

Subject: fuck off

Date: Friday, 11 December 17.51 GMT

Thanks for that update. Tell Jo, if you see her again, which you probably will, that I hope you make her happy.

JS

To: Jeremy Stewart

Subject: you fuck off

Date: Friday, December 11, 11:19 a.m. PST

I'd love to make Jo happy. But all she can do is cry her heart out over you.

You happy now?

M. Gonzalez

To: Grandma

Subject: pieces

Date: Friday, December 11, 2:52 p.m. PST

Dear Grandma,

Marco just left. He's been lovely, and the worst part is I know he'd love to just take all this, but he can't. I told him today that he should just stay away, for both of us. I know it kills him to see me like this and there's nothing that can change it but time.

It's over. I can't write to him anymore, it hurts so bad to think of all we planned, like it was some lovely dream, like you and Lee. Oh Grandma, I don't know how you did it!

I have one more paper to finish, then I'm done. I'm flying out of SFO early Wednesday, the 16th. Should be to JFK by mid afternoon and depending on the weather, at your house in time for dinner. Closer to him geographically, hopefully that won't be hard. But more than an ocean separates us and it's only a baby. His little baby and he can't give her up.

I love you. Give Mum a hug for me. Hearing her voice, yours too, has been a godsend.

See you soon,

Love, Jo

To: Jo

Subject: (none)

Date: Friday, December 11, 6:27 p.m. EST

Dear sweet girl,

Honey, rice is already on the stove. Just keep praying. I know that's a lot to ask. It's all I have, all I had from years ago. Didn't seem to make much of a difference then, but maybe it wasn't for then. Maybe it was for now.

Love you, Grandma

Letter from Alta McIntyre to Jeremy Stewart arrived Saturday, 12 December, 2009.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Dear Jeremy,

Well, thank you young man for these lovely poinsettias. Hannah and I are thrilled with the variety of colors. Red, yellow, and pink ones sit in the living room, and the other red ones are scattered around. Before Jo gets here, I'll have Miss Cindy put one in her room.

Jeremy, this is a longer note, partly a Christmas letter as I don't send cards, my circle's pretty small. Years ago I sent a lot and many years ago I sent one to Lee's grandmother in Nebraska. Just last week, when Jo was here, I told her about those Christmas letters and other letters. Now I'm going to tell you.

When Lee and I were together, his family was hard on him. I was that nigger woman and while I told Jo they called me colored, I'll tell you the truth. Nigger to you is just a word. To a black person, no matter how light or dark, it's evil coming from the mouth of a white man or woman. Jo thinks they said colored, but between you and me, it was worse.

I was that nigger woman with nigger children. Lee's children, their grandchildren, but his parents couldn't see the forest for the trees. Lee loved his girls, he really did. He loved me too, but in 1969 all he heard were horrible things from his parents, yet he stayed with us until summer, when his mother started calling. She had never done that before and maybe it was hearing those words over the phone. I don't know, but I heard it, her words, his tears. I saw how he was losing his grip, and Hannah, Ellen, and I were the ones to slip away.

When he left, it was only going to be for a little while. He said he was going back there to straighten them out. I knew it was over. We never divorced as he said he would return and while he did, to see the girls, for us it was done. Once he left for the cornfields of the Midwest he could never find in himself the strength necessary to come home for good. In those days a mixed marriage took all you had. He couldn't do it.

I never blamed him, probably because I loved him. And because I had two daughters with him, and never wanted them to think he was weak. I told them he fell out of love with me. I have letters to prove otherwise.

In May 1974, I got another note from him, that he was coming to see the girls in July. He never made it, dying in a car accident in June, hit by a drunk driver I was told. His sister Cally called me, letting me know he was gone, and something else. Could I send her some pictures of the girls for their maternal grandmother? I was so torn, but if someone wanted to see my beautiful daughters, I would send some photographs.

Six weeks later I received a letter from Irma Reynolds in Lincoln, Nebraska, and her words brought me to tears. She apologized profusely for her daughter and son-in-law's behavior and asked if I would send the girls' school pictures when they were ready. I did and as we corresponded, it came to light that years ago she had loved a black man. Of course it was impossible for them to be together and nothing came of it, except her heart was forever lost.

Can you imagine? Lee's grandmother was like me, in love with someone she couldn't have!

We wrote to each other until her death in 1979. Then Cally called me again. I only got two calls from her, both about death. Irma had passed on, but before she did, she had told Cally she wanted me at her funeral. I wasn't to bring the girls. She knew what sort of reception they would get. She knew what kind of reception I would get, but I was an adult. And if I could, she would love to have me there.

I left the girls with my mother and flew to Nebraska. Even in 1979, I had this sense of being an outsider; maybe it was just knowing the hostility I was going to. Lee's parents were furious, but said nothing to my face. I stayed with Cally and her family, lovely people. Then Cally told me the truth. Jo knows about this, just keep the N word to yourself.

Jeremy, Lee wasn't in an accident. He had killed himself. Cally knew, Irma too, as he had left a note for his sister. His parents didn't believe it, assuming he was drunk or high when he died. He wasn't, only heartbroken. I cried and cried over how they had convinced him what he felt was garbage. That our girls, their own flesh and blood, weren't worth his time, his love. He didn't get hit by a drunk. He crashed into the concrete side of an overpass, was thrown from his car, and died alone on a deserted highway.

Before I left Nebraska, I wanted to ask his parents if their son's life was worth their hatred. Instead I flew home and once Ellen was in high school, I told my daughters the truth. It was hard, but I wanted them to know two things, that their father did love us, and that fear, whether born of hatred or sorrow, is as evil as that word I can still hear through the phone.

When Craig died, Hannah had a lot to process. I think knowing about her dad kept her from losing her mind. When Ellen was told about Mason, now I don't know if you know this, but Ellen's son is slightly autistic. Not the kind that keeps one quiet, but a better kind, if there is one, that keeps him emotionally detached. He's a lovely boy, but usually doesn't see when people are hurting, although when Jo was drunk last week, he did go give her a kiss.

Both my girls have had difficult roads, but they know that life needs sorrow to appreciate the joy. Now you had a little girl who died and Jeremy that's miserable, no saying it's not. But you've got a girl here, and I call her a girl, but she's a woman who loves you. She lost a part of her heart too, you know firsthand because you got her through it, brought her back to us. You know there can be release.

Jeremy, I just wanted to thank you again for these lovely plants. But I'm missing my lilies and Hannah won't be here forever.

Merry Christmas,

Love, Alta

Chapter 24

To: Hannah A.

Subject: your mother

Date: Saturday, 12 December 14.19 GMT

Dear Hannah,

I'd write this to Alta directly, but I don't have her email, and the post is slow with the Christmas rush. I got her thank you note today and if you could, just tell her I wish her a very Happy Christmas, and thank her for the provocative words.

Jeremy

Carefully examining Alta's letter, Jeremy assumed Hannah's talents were genetic. Alta had communicated with eloquence, and some reading between the lines. That Jo had been drunk was one, sticking with Jeremy all afternoon.

He wanted to get drunk, thinking of the moments Jo might have needed a belt. Maybe when he first told her he wasn't coming. Maybe when he hurled vicious lies at her, was that on Friday? Friday, because Philippa had been there and then she had screamed at him.

Maybe it was on Thanksgiving; with everyone near, Jo had lost it. She was drinking and not merely caffeine. Jeremy shivered, his heart barely beating. Early in the morning Pacific Time, Jo was probably sleeping. He sat at his computer, revisiting his inbox.

To: Jo Adams

Subject: (none)

Date: Saturday, 12 December 15.00 GMT

Dear Jo,

I just got a letter today from your grandmother. Hannah's talents come directly from Alta, and in your notes, you haven't fallen far from the tree.

I feel a chill, but maybe it's from not having lit a fire. Perhaps it's from ages ago, maybe from your absence, which I have insisted upon. This chill goes all through me, has for years. I ignore it, usually, until a brick arrives in the guise of a thank you note.

Yet, these are only words. And no, I haven't been drinking, but will do so soon.

Jo... Then I am lost, for no one's handed me the lines. I wish I'd never met you, then this chill would be as before, unnoticeable. I wish I had the strength your grandmother possesses, that Hannah has, that you own.

Alas, I'm another white man, scared beyond belief, and for that I am sorry.

Jeremy

When Jo woke on Saturday morning, she showered, dressed, and ate breakfast. Taking her bike downstairs, she avoided the poinsettia, heading to the library.

It wasn't until lunchtime that she checked her inbox, finding Jeremy's note. She didn't open it. Instead she read emails from her grandmother, mother, and aunt. Ellen said the boys had received their letters and were in the process of writing back. Jo laughed at the heads-up, assuring all three women she would be fine, leaving Jeremy's note untouched.

She spent the rest of the day working, then bumped into Kristin, the women discussing their holiday plans. Kristin asked about Marco, but Jo only said they were old lovers and she had no desire to rekindle a romance.

Jo had ignored her email all afternoon, but after wheeling her bike into the second bedroom and plugging in her laptop, she couldn't resist. Her relatives had all responded and Jeremy's note remained. Jo read the women's messages, then ate dinner, taking another look at her paper. She only needed to proof it once more.

Using some of honeysuckle oil Hannah had brought the week before, Jo took a bath. Running her hands along her body, she conjured memories only considered in dreams. Jo's waking moments were stripped of the more intimate notions, but at night she couldn't keep Jeremy at bay.

Her tears poured and she breathed deeply. Like a cure for some bronchial distress, the oil's scent slipped into her, enabling her to continue. Once clean, she splashed her feet in the remnants, clearing the tub.

Jo put on her softest pajamas, wrapping herself in a robe. With slippers on her feet, she read Jeremy's note. By the end her tears had returned; her grandmother hadn't sent Jeremy a simple thank you note. Jeremy knew about Lee.

On Sunday Jeremy woke to a pounding headache and an empty inbox. Nothing from Jo, or her mother, or Philippa. He would have been happy to receive something even from her. It wouldn't be soothing, but more than the emptiness blanketing his screen.

He was growing accustomed to the hangovers, unable to find sleep without numbing himself, aware that wasn't altogether a good thing. He had left the beard, was getting used to it. He hadn't worn one in ages, usually only between pictures, but it had been a year since he'd worked, and while Milton had more scripts, Jeremy was hedging. He'd been nominated for a Golden Globe, Hannah had been too. When Milton rang him with the news, all Jeremy could ponder was would Jo be there?

If so, would he avoid her? Could he not join Elizabeth Watson and Portia Jones, both nominated for Best Supporting Actress. Charles Wyler had received a nod; while Jeremy wouldn't mind sitting well across the room from that bastard, it would look more than odd for him to avoid Hannah.

And if he avoided Hannah, would that include Jo too?

In the shower, Jeremy washed his hair, ran some soap through his unkempt beard. He hadn't bothered to shape it and after he was done, he pulled out his shaver, trimming along his cheekbones, cleaning up his neck. Confirming it was even, he saw his red eyes, but he hadn't cried yesterday, not with all that Alta offered. Peering at his face, that wasn't true. Reading that Jo had been drunk spilled a few, but not enough that would allow for such bloodshot peepers.

Having hurt her so badly, he deserved more than red eyes. He wanted a drink, only to again numb his head and heart, but his eyes scared him. He looked different with the beard, with eyes that spoke of too much Guinness. Too much held inside and then he thought of Lee.

Jeremy had seen that photograph of Hannah's father, how Jeremy thought of him. He wasn't _Jo's grandfather_ and _Alta's husband_ sounded peculiar. Lee was _Hannah's dad_ and like Jo's dad, and Jeremy's own, Lee was dead, but not accidentally.

Lee McIntyre had committed suicide for reasons Jeremy still needed to consider, living a far different existence, yet sharing a similar pain. Jeremy had never pondered such an action, not with any real meaning, until after reading Alta's words: _...although, when Jo was drunk last week..._ Jeremy had never fired a gun, but for a few seconds he'd wanted to blow his brains out, extinguish pain far more hefty and wrenching than Emma had ever been.

Jeremy had lived through Emma, but was beginning to wonder if he was going to get through Jo. His words had gotten her drunk, words that had tumbled like poison from his mouth, right into her body.

He had tried to not think about Jo's body. Only in sleep, once enough Guinness had been consumed, did Jeremy escape her. Awake, even drunk, he considered her voice, her warmth, her hair now so long, her skin soft and soothing. He had tortured himself by recalling her stepping from the tub, then drying her off, making love to her. Then he had reached for another bottle.

What did she drink, he wondered. She was drinking caffeine and his hangover was fading. Maybe it wasn't really a hangover. Maybe it was his heart cracking, turning brittle. He looked again at his eyes, still not clear. He needed to dry out. Jeremy brushed his teeth, combed his hair, made the bed. Then he took off the duvet and stripped the mattress, unsure of the last time the sheets had been washed.

By the time he got downstairs, he wanted to check the computer, but instead threw the linens in the machine and made some tea. He emptied the bottles, set them in a carrier bag, and cleaned the kitchen. He ate some toast and by eleven sat at the laptop, hopeful. He wasn't sure why. Maybe she had written him late, right before bed. Maybe Marco was with her and once he was asleep, Jo had stirred. Jeremy didn't mind torturing himself with Marco. He'd found the young man's emails slightly humorous once gleaning Jo from them.

There was nothing except a short note from Griff; Shura was making Christmas dinner and Jeremy was welcome to join them. Jeremy smiled, but didn't reply.

He put the sheets in the dryer, then grabbed a jacket and walked the bottles to the Oak Tree pub where several large recycling bins waited. Jeremy headed back along an unpaved road that ran parallel to the main street. Chickens darted in front of him and as he reached the top of the small hill, cows _mooed_ from a barn to the right.

Returning home, he felt refreshed, and went upstairs, his eyes having cleared. The photo of Emma, Philippa, and himself caught his attention and he picked it up, then stepped into the guest room, opening the wardrobe. At the bottom was a small box and Jeremy removed it, then sat on the bed. Lifting the lid to more photographs, he had only meant to lay this one inside, then close it up again. The top photo stopped those plans; dressed in a hospital gown, Jeremy held his newborn daughter.

Jo's Sunday was spent doing laundry and proofing her paper. She spoke with her mother and grandmother, thought several times about writing to Jeremy, but dismissed each attempt with a trip downstairs to check her clothes, averting her eyes from the plant still spilled on the ground. If she wasn't adding quarters to the dryer, she was removing commas from her document. By noon she stopped for lunch, fixing pasta with butter and cheese. Having lost weight, she imagined what her grandmother would say: _Gotta get some meat on those bones girl!_

Alta was always going on at how thin Jeremy was. Jo had kept him from her mind with some success. Picking at the rest of her food, she threw less than half away.

Hauling up a basket of jeans, she returned to her laptop. Her inbox held notes from Kristin and Marco. He wished her a merry Christmas, inquiring if she wanted any company? Sleeping with him had kept Jeremy away with limited success in the past and Jo had no heart for another go-round.

She looked at her phone. It was two in the afternoon, ten in Yorkshire. Ten at night all across Britain, but Helperby was the only place she wanted to call. She folded the jeans, checked the washer, and returned to her paper. Her tears were few.

By midnight Jeremy had cried more than he had in ages, studying each picture, all from his brief marriage and his even shorter tenure as a father. Pictures of Philippa pregnant, ones of Jeremy bathing a wailing infant, snapshots of Emma in her pram, held by her mother, cuddled by him, so many of Emma in Jeremy's arms.

He had stayed sober all day, but preparing for bed, his eyes were once again bloodshot. This wasn't Guinness, he told himself, only his heart bleeding all over the floor. He had stared at Emma's smile, a tiny face having claimed him from the moment he had laid eyes on her. As Philippa lay immobile by the long and difficult birth, Jeremy had been given that wrapped bundle. From the second he held her, a new father was in love.

Without parents of his own to ask and certainly no friends in a similar situation, Jeremy had no idea of fatherhood's implications until the quiet baby landed in his hands. Her eyes held fast, but her mouth opened, and when he stroked her cheek, she turned toward his fingers. She mewed like a kitten, then grew louder until Philippa asked for her. Stirred from his reverie, Jeremy handed the baby to her mother, where Philippa, weak and pale, put the child where she belonged. It wasn't easy and Philippa winced, a minute for Emma to attach properly. Another week would pass before mother and daughter got the feel for what was to be a tandem dance shared until Emma died.

Jeremy remembered Philippa's breasts afterwards; for two weeks she wore her smallest bras and tightest blouses. They had made love frequently in those early, awful days, but he never touched her breasts, not until it was nearly over. By then some of her wounds had healed.

He had forgotten these pictures existed, shots in Harrogate, York, and Leeds when he took his wife and daughter north to visit his aunt. Then one photo had stopped him. Not only was it the last, but the subjects; Craig and Hannah, with Emma on Craig's knee.

Jeremy gripped that picture, ethereal and altering, as if Jo held Emma. Then it was Hannah's smile, so wishing it was her baby. Then Craig Adams' colossal joy, a husband and father forever lost from the two needing him most.

Jo went to bed without responding to Marco or Jeremy, having spoken with her mother for an hour. Jo would leave San Francisco on Wednesday at seven a.m. Hannah had upgraded Jo's ticket to business, an early Christmas present, Hannah had laughed. Jo was grateful and her paper was finished. All she had to do was turn it in, pack, and breathe.

The first two were easy. She would drop off the paper in the morning and laundry was put away. Steady inhalations were arduous; she had nearly written back to Jeremy, but began choking. She wanted to tell him she loved him, that he wasn't like her grandfather, a man she never knew. Jeremy was stronger, the circumstances so different, but were they? Lee had drowned under a barrage of hated and indecision, Jeremy incapable of releasing one so adored, both men strangled by fear.

Jo inhaled with difficulty; how could love be so devastating, crushing? Jeremy had captured her heart, but his dead child had stolen his. Bigoted parents had ripped Lee from his own flesh and blood, reducing their son's wife and children to a race. Genetics were more important than what lay beneath the skin.

Jeremy's heart was squeezed by some odd inability to let go. Why had Emma eaten into him, a question Jo now pondered.

Then she shuddered. Lee's accident that was no accident had caused Jo grief. Jeremy's lost daughter took away her breath.

Unable to sleep, Jo went to her laptop, rereading Jeremy's email: _an unnoticeable chill._ Emma was a ghost; why was he so afraid to release her? Jo's eyes were heavy. Returning to bed, she recalled Jeremy beside her and how close they had been.

As Jo slept, Jeremy stirred. With no alcohol dulling his rest, his dreams had been vivid. He woke to an erection, but no hangover.

In the shower that didn't feel as painful as previously, he endured cool water until he was flaccid. Then he washed, stepping out chilled. It was only a physical sensation and once dressed, he felt better.

The photographs remained in the guest room and he closed the door. No emails waited, but he wasn't surprised. He had made it clear she meant nothing to him, perhaps she had accepted it. Yes, he was an actor, a good one. Jo had called him out, but it was necessary for them both. For her, but mostly for him.

Jeremy started tea, the kitchen still tidy. He was hungry and finished the loaf of bread. Then he made a list, heading for the store.

Jo dreamed of their night in April, walking along her grandmother's street. She dreamed of Belle, happy for a new face when Jo had met her last December. Jo dreamed of driving lessons, lunch at the Farmer's Inn, and meeting Jeremy for the first time in her mother's trailer. Not until that dream did she conjure anything intimate. Just as they were about to make love, Jo woke freezing, all her blankets on the floor.

It was four in the morning, and she would have to wake that early on Wednesday for her flight. She showered, then began to pack; jeans and hoodies, turtlenecks, socks, and underwear. Pajamas and extra shoes, but she omitted her robe, no need for anything more than a nightgown at bedtime. Alta's house was always warm, little unknown between the women.

Jo had spoken about her father, she knew about Lee, had acknowledged Jeremy was over. She was another in a series of women who had loved and lost. Her heart pounded; the dream had been so real, Jeremy's hands resting where their baby waited.

Tears turned to howls. Her breasts had been enormous, a bulge overtaking her abdomen. He had been ready to make love to her, then Jo's mind had allowed some peace. Running hands along her slender torso, Jo's heart burst.

"Mum, you there?"

"Jo, is that you?"

"Oh god Mum. Have you heard from him?"

Jo's voice was less than a croak and Hannah clutched the side of the sofa, glad her mother was asleep. "No lovey. What is it?"

Jo detailed her dream, which made her mother wince. "Mum, oh god I can't do this!"

Hannah nodded, breathing slowly.

"Grandma told him about Lee. And maybe, I don't know. He sent me an email, maybe I should write him back."

"Lovey, do that. See what he says. Maybe's he's trying to reach out. Write him and as soon as you hear anything, let me know."

Jo hung up and Hannah bent over, her heart racing. Alta stepped out, gave a small cough. "Oh Momma, I didn't even hear you."

Alta poured some coffee. "Was that Jo?"

Hannah joined her in the kitchen. "She's in such pain."

Alta squeezed her daughter's hand. "You gonna tell him?"

Hannah stared at her mother. "Tell him what?"

Alta sighed. "Hannah, maybe you should tell him."

A kiss landed atop Hannah's head. She walked to the window, the street clear, but snow lingered in small clumps along the sidewalk. Alta hummed in the kitchen, but Hannah didn't turn around.

To: Jeremy

Subject: (none)

Date: Monday, December 14, 8:05 a.m. PST

Dear Jeremy,

I sat with emails all weekend, yours and this one I had in my head. I finished my last paper, did laundry, and kept you pretty well at bay until last night when I dreamed I was pregnant. Then everything emerged in a big teary mess.

Maybe like giving birth; I have to get you out of my system, but it hurts like hell. Worse, because I'm alone, and at the end, there is nothing for all this work.

I'm sorry it's come to this because god knows I do love you. For how long, who knows? It will hurt like this for longer than it should. But my mother and grandmother survived and so will I. And I hope you will too. Lee didn't. Maybe your stiff upper lip will serve you better.

That was catty, but meant in the best possible way, in that if you feel half of what I do, I can't imagine it. Because this is so awful, and I hope it's not so hard on you.

Love you always, Jo

To: Jo Adams

Subject: (none)

Date: Tuesday, 15 December 7.49 GMT

Jo, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. I do hurt, more than you know, but worse because this is my fault and I NEVER wanted you to know this sort of pain again.

Forgive me for being a waste of a man...

Jo went to bed early on Monday night, finding Jeremy's email the next morning. She was frantic, but didn't call him. Instead she forwarded the note to her mother.

Hannah sat at her computer, reading her daughter's words, then Jeremy's. Alta peered over her shoulder as Hannah sighed deeply.

"Well, what're you gonna do?" Alta asked.

Hannah looked up at her mother, then to the mug in Alta's hand. "How long have we been drinking leaded?"

"Since you got back. You just now noticed?"

"I couldn't sleep last night. Who's the wicked one?"

Alta snorted. "I think you should tell him."

"It won't make any difference." Hannah closed the inbox, but didn't move. "Daddy didn't."

Alta shook her head. "Lee loosened the chain, but that boy needs a swift kick up the backside."

"And I'm the horse?"

Alta nodded. "He won't tell her. She'll never know."

Hannah sighed again.

After stewing all morning, Hannah took a walk, enjoying cocoa bread and decaf coffee at Jo's favorite café. As Belle napped, Hannah admired the sleeping toddler, reminiscent of Jo. That sent Hannah on her way.

At two in the afternoon Eastern Standard Time, it was late morning in California, early evening in Britain. Hannah held her phone and hitting Jeremy's name, waited through three rings. After the fourth, she assumed the voice mail would pick up. A low, tired response surprised her. "Oh hello Jeremy."

"Hannah?"

"Are you drunk?"

"Not yet. Soon though. How are you?"

"Not so well. Yourself?"

"Getting better with every bottle."

Hannah plopped into the couch. "Oh well hell!"

"Hannah?" He cleared his throat. "Is she okay?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh shit, I'm sorry, you know? I really am."

"Jeremy, just how much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough."

"Jeremy..." Hannah sighed. "I want to tell you something, but it's a matter Jo can never know about, and I mean never. If you're too drunk to listen, then I can't tell you."

"What?"

She could feel him pull himself together through the receiver. Looking to her mother, Hannah noted Alta's quick nod. A few tears fell as thoughts formed in her head, words Hannah Adams planned to never speak again.

"Hannah, my god, what is it? Are you all right?"

"Jeremy, I'm only going to tell you this once and like I said, Jo can never know, you understand?"

"Yes of course. What is it?"

A deep breath was taken, then released. "Three days before Craig died, we learned I was pregnant."

Chapter 25

Jeremy blinked; had he heard her right? "Hannah, Jesus Christ!"

"It was the only other time I was ever pregnant. We'd tried since Jo was two maybe? Nothing happened, I never even had a miscarriage. But in Yorkshire we found out, probably even made the baby there."

Jeremy had consumed four large bottles of Guinness, having run back to the store after receiving Jo's email. He had fully planned on not drinking, but Jo's words, her pain; he was the cause, which sent him to purchase eight bottles of stout, a newspaper, and a loaf of bread. He had been eating a lot of toast, but with Hannah's words, he only wished to be ill. "Oh my god! And Jo doesn't know?"

"No and you can never tell her. It had nothing to do with her and I just," Hannah paused. "I know that she wouldn't be able to separate what happened."

Jo's words returned: _Mum was in bed for a week when we got to New York._ Jo had thought it was a small breakdown. But no, much worse. "Hannah, I'm so sorry!"

"Craig was so happy, this was all we'd wanted for years, and for those three days it was like heaven." Hannah stopped, catching her breath, tears in the way. "Then he was gone and I thought what kind of sick joke is this? But it wasn't, because Jo was still alive. Quiet, but alive. I'd lost my husband, but I had my daughter, virtually unscathed, and one more."

Moving from the sofa to the kitchen, Jeremy poured a glass of water. "Hannah, who knows?"

"Just Momma, Ellen, and now you. I hadn't even told Momma, not until she got there. It was so early and I just had so much, you know? And Jo was," Hannah's voice broke. "So silent, needy. But it was all right, because inside me, oh my god."

As Alta soothed Hannah, Jeremy drank his water. "Love, listen, you don't need to say any more."

"No Jeremy I do. When Craig died, I had no idea why, no idea at all. Momma had lost Daddy and here I was losing Craig. And to this day, I still have no clue why that man, oh god, why I lost him."

Jeremy heard her catch her breath. She wasn't done.

"But after I lost my baby, I knew why that happened."

Once in New York, Hannah had begun to spot. Having seen her doctor, Hannah was put on bed rest. They had only been in the States for a week when Hannah woke to bloody linens, her body unable to sustain that treasure.

"Afterwards, I just felt gutted. Craig was dead, the baby too, and Jo couldn't talk. Like what in the hell was this all about? I had my whole life for three days. Then it was gone, no more than some wind that blows you off your feet. But cold," she sighed. "Such a cold, cold wind."

"God Hannah, I, I..." He didn't want to know anymore, too much wedged in his head. But she said she knew why she lost that last bit of a man loved beyond knowledge. Jeremy winced, too aware of that sort of love, and that depth of loss.

"I will never know why he died, never. Momma's been back to church, she's trying to get me to go." Hannah had a small laugh. "Like God's gonna whisper in my ear some special secret or mystery. But who knows, maybe someday."

Jeremy's bladder shifted, the stout and water having gone through him. "Hannah maybe, maybe you will." He walked out of the kitchen, easing the urge.

She chuckled. "I doubt it. But as I said, I know why I lost my baby."

He reached the stairs, but didn't go up. "Why?"

"Because of you. Because of you and Emma."

He sat on the steps, drained of all sensation. He didn't need to urinate, nor did he consider Jo. All Jeremy felt was empty.

"When I saw you in 2002, at the awards for _Last Semi-Detached_ , you were carrying Emma all through you. Your face hadn't changed since 1993, the same smile, the same mask. You were wearing that same get-up and I had to lose that baby to understand that, to know that pain."

Jeremy cradled the mobile. "Hannah, oh please, don't."

"No, because you know it's true. And I did too. I'd been writing crap novels, trying to hide, and then I saw you. I couldn't watch the filming of that movie, something kept me from it, but then I couldn't get away from you; you but not. You haven't been yourself since Emma, except with Jo, when you two were sitting together right in this room. For a few minutes she freed you. And I'm sure in Berkeley you were there. But when faced with coming back to where you might be yourself, you couldn't do it. I know that's why you didn't fly."

He said nothing, thinking about Hannah's father, lying dead on a quiet Nebraska highway.

"Jeremy, if I could've hid, I would have. Losing Craig and then the baby, but there was Jo. I still had my child and I was all she had. And I loved her, oh god! I know how much you loved Emma and yet lovey, she's gone. Craig's gone, so many, too many, but you're still here. Not much of you," Hannah clucked. "But enough, and she's here too. Not much of her either, but more now since you came into her life."

Jeremy took a deep breath. "Hannah, oh Christ!"

"I'm not gonna tell you what to do. All I'm saying is that I know what it's like to hold the most precious thing and then it's stolen away. You're left bleeding, one way or the other. And honey, I just don't think it's worth existing without it."

"Without what?" he mumbled.

"Without love. Jeremy, you're living, but it's just a lie."

Hannah said goodbye and didn't move. She could barely breathe as Alta handed her a cup of coffee. "Drink this."

Hannah obeyed, feeling the caffeine's rush.

"Well?" Alta asked.

Hannah stared into her mother's brown eyes. How much love and pain had she accepted? "Well's a deep subject."

Alta patted Hannah's shoulder. "You gonna write to her?"

"In a bit."

"What're you gonna tell her?"

Hannah looked to the window, snow starting to fall. "Oh, that he's full of news." Hannah gazed at her mother. "Your news. But I think she already told me. Momma, is that why you wrote him about Daddy?"

Swirling flakes hit the window as Alta stroked her daughter's cheek. "I'll start a pot of decaf. You go call Jo."

An hour later Hannah had shared Jeremy's few beers with Jo, confirming they had spoken of Lee. Jo seemed detached, only mentioning her flight the next morning. Hannah didn't press and said goodbye, wishing her daughter a safe trip. Jo spent the afternoon cleaning, all her thoughts on a white, East Coast Christmas.

When the phone rang, she was clearing her inbox. Hearing Jeremy drunk and aching, Jo nearly dropped the cell. "Oh my god! Are you all right?"

"Jo, oh love."

She moved to the couch, grabbing a blanket. "Baby, I love you. Are you okay?"

"Jo, I'm sorry, so sorry. You all right?"

"I miss you." She paused. "I love you. What've you been drinking?"

"Just Guinness, but not enough in the world to stop this. Jo, I miss you too. I, I need you."

"Oh baby, I need you too. Please don't drink anymore, please?"

"I can't, just finished the last bottle. Jo, you there?"

Her heart skipped beats. "I'm here. What can I do?"

"Sweetheart, just go home. Go to your mum. Will you do that?"

"Jeremy, I'm flying tomorrow. But what about you?"

"I'm just gonna sleep this off. But Jo, I love you. I really really love you."

"Oh Jeremy, I love you too." She shivered under the blanket. "Listen, just hang tight. I'll ring Philippa and Griff."

"Jo," his speech growing softer. "I'll always love you. Don't forget that."

She headed to her computer. "Baby, I won't. Don't worry."

Jeremy woke to the incessant buzz of the mobile within his dream. He answered, Hannah's voice stirring him from sleep. "Yeah?"

"Jeremy? You okay?"

"Oh god Hannah. What time is it?"

"Well here it's ten."

"Morning or night?"

"Morning. Jo just left California. She wanted me to check on you."

"I'm here."

"Just barely."

"Hannah, ring me when she gets there, okay? I just want to know that she gets there."

"I will. Jeremy?"

"What?"

"Don't drink anything today."

He stared at empty bottles and Jo's letters. "No promises."

At nine in the evening Greenwich Mean Time, Jo arrived in New York. During her flight, Jeremy had driven back to the store, buying six more bottles of Guinness and one of scotch. All day impressions haunted him, Jo and their baby clashing with Craig's bleeding body in a field, Hannah's beside him. That night Jeremy didn't want to dream of anything.

Aware she had landed, he tried her phone. Leaving a message, he began to worry; had the plane gone down? He turned on the news, nothing to substantiate his fears. Jeremy began drinking at nine thirty. By midnight he was unconscious, Jo's last letter slipping from his hand.

When he woke, it was light and he was almost ill. The clock read ten and he decided it must be morning. Jeremy staggered from bed, a hangover pounding his brain into meek submission. He would walk slowly. He would take deep breaths. He would never again drink Guinness and scotch unless he was hoping to die. If Jo hadn't answered one of the many notes he'd sent over the last thirty-some hours, then he would know how to kill himself.

Taking a shower, Jeremy edged toward humanity. Making his slow, aching way downstairs, he went to the study, pictures of his daughter scattered all over. Unsure how they had traveled from the guest room, he stepped around them. He sat at the laptop, the inbox open and empty. He needed to ring Hannah, confirm that Jo had arrived in New York where she would be cared for, wrapped in the snow she loved and women stronger than himself. He might not need to be so drunk later aware she was no longer alone.

He picked up a few photographs, like collecting fragments of the broken mug, shards of bone china ready to slip through his skin. Jeremy set them near the laptop and went to the kitchen. He needed tea, toast, and loads of paracetamol. He had bought another packet last night, along with the Guinness and more bread. Three loaves waited on the counter, all an Englishmen required. He would give Hannah a few more hours, still early in New York, only five thirty. Jeremy needed Jo's presence verified. He knew she was there. She had to be.

At a small table in the kitchen, he nibbled on the toast. The tea was easier and he sipped it. Going for another, he saw someone approach the door. The post lady he assumed, and hearing the knock, he was glad he'd showered. He felt miserable, but hoped to not look that bad.

Jeremy opened the door. "Good morning," he croaked.

He looked up and did a double take. There in front of him stood Jo.

Chapter 26

First Jo noticed Jeremy's bloodshot eyes. "Oh god baby, look at you!"

Jeremy blinked repeatedly. "Jo?"

She stepped into the kitchen, their arms around each other. "Yeah, it's okay. I'm here now."

As Jeremy gripped her, no other time existed. He smelled her hair, felt her warmth, then he laughed. "This better not be a dream or my post lady will have me arrested."

Jo pulled back, stroking his beard. "Oh, I like this. You look really cute."

His hands went to her face. "How'd you get here?"

"I flew to Manchester after New York." Her smile was wide. "There was no way I could be away from you." Her tone returned to that of wonder and worry. He looked horrible; red eyes, pale skin, the beard not masking his gaunt appearance.

"But I mean, is the taxi still here?" Jeremy gazed out the window.

"Oh no. I drove."

"You what?"

Jo giggled. "I rented a car and drove from the airport. Actually, I should get my laptop."

Jeremy took her by the arm, staring at her. "You drove here? When did you, I mean, you have a license?"

Her face lit revealing the surprise. "Yeah, I do."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Jo, Jesus! When did you get a license?"

She explained as he went for shoes; having earned a permit in New York, she passed the test in California. They retrieved her bags, but Jeremy didn't let her leave the kitchen. "But do you have an international license?" his voice still stunned.

"Yeah, I mean, you never know."

They sat at the table and he held her hands. She had driven from Manchester, was within his reach. Her voice wasn't over a phone, not cloaked in emails. "Jo, I uh, my god. I just, well," and he smiled.

She stroked his face. The beard appealed, but he needed to eat, sleep, and not drink. "I'm here until the twenty-third. I uh, I didn't know how my arrival'd be taken, so I booked a return for next Wednesday. But baby," her voice calm, "I love you. All I wanna do is whatever you need."

He lost a few tears. "Are you hungry? Did you sleep?"

"I'm hungry and exhausted. I had a great seat to New York, but was in economy to Manchester. I'd love some tea and," she smiled, loaves of bread covering the counter. "Toast."

He grinned and got to work.

"Oh, I'd love to use the loo too."

"The one down here's fine."

She popped around the corner as he made the tea, and when she emerged, he kept her from the rest of the house.

"Jeremy, what? You got a girl hidden back there?"

He led her into the kitchen where breakfast waited. "Love, it's a mess. I uh, haven't been the best housekeeper lately."

"I'm not here to judge your cleaning skills. I love you."

"Listen, you eat and I'll just pick up a few bits."

As Jo drank her tea, he disappeared, returning with two heaving bags of empty bottles.

"Oh my god baby!"

He set them outside the door. "Jo, it's over. You're here. God, I can't believe you're here!"

She went into his arms, lessening his tremors. "I'm not going anywhere."

They spoke of her travel, the last flight long and uncomfortable, the drive from Manchester initially nerve racking. Away from the M62, she felt settled in a British vehicle, her left hand shifting with ease. They laughed about how he'd had no idea she owned a car in Berkeley; another Mini, identical to the one outside, save the location of the steering wheel. Hannah had bought it, pleased to encourage Jo's independence.

Jeremy led her upstairs, then turned around. "That night you went to San Jose for the box. Did you drive?"

She smiled. "I tend to go out when no one's on the road."

Jeremy stopped as they reached the landing. "Love, that fog was miserable."

"Yeah, but further south it lifted. It's okay."

He took her in his arms again, recalling that dark, hazy morning; if he had known she'd been driving...

Jeremy had carried her bags to the landing when he went for the bottles. Luggage sat in between his room and the guest room, which had been inspected as well, no pictures of Emma lying about, reminding him the study needed a once over. "So you probably want to have a nap." He looked toward the guest room door.

"Oh yeah, but just for a few hours. I'd like to turn around, so maybe let me sleep till two."

He nodded, pointing to the spare room. "There're clean sheets on the bed."

Jo took his hands and smiled. "I'd prefer yours."

He hadn't kissed her, too many distractions. Taking her hand, he set his lips to the back of it. "Jo, oh god. I've missed you so much!"

She kissed his cheek where the beard began. Then she found his mouth as hands grasped something desired, now obtained. Both had suffered from dreams and Jeremy took her into his room, stripping his clothes, then hers. Standing naked, he felt the length of her.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

"Oh yes," he said, pulling back the duvet. "Of course."

Feeling somewhat calm, Jeremy watched Jo fall into slumber. They had come quickly the first time, almost as soon as he was inside her. With eyes closed, it was slight movements, skin on flesh, and she had cried afterwards, clinging to him. He'd blinked back tears, clutching her.

Then they had laughed at her motorway skills. That still astounded, and he had asked questions, her answers in a sleepy tone. She had decided to continue driving, but adjusting to the right side of the road had set her back. New York was much like Yorkshire, a free for all, wider American lanes compensating for the madness of New York motorists. Once she reached California, it was a breeze.

Jeremy noted her exhaustion, kissing her face. She had almost been asleep, but her body responded, still needy. In the dim light, Jeremy ran his fingers along her skin, his mouth over her breasts, to her hips, and only when she asked for him did he move to her. Then it had been slower, making him shudder as she wept, sharing her feelings.

In a sing-song voice, phrases flowed from a freed place in her head, words about loving him, needing him, waiting for him; she would wait, would remain. Except for her flight next week, she was his, whether he wanted her or not. That sentence sent him over, Jeremy with no place to escape, physically or emotionally.

Once she was unconscious, he dressed, then stole downstairs, cleaning the study. He walked the bottles to the Oak Tree, finding her hired Mini parked behind his. He touched it, more proof of her arrival. Returning to the kitchen, he thought about her family; had she rung her mother?

Jeremy called Hannah, leaving a message; how long was Hannah planning to keep her daughter's driver's license a secret? He had laughed with that, his heart lighter than it had been in ages. He rinsed their few cups, setting Jo's to the side. That one would be hers, he thought with a small pang for the broken mug. His mobile rang and he wiped his hands. It was Hannah.

"Hey, she's here. God, I don't know what to say."

"Just tell her we love her. And that we will see her next week."

He laughed. "Don't worry. She'll be on that flight. Hannah," he paused.

"What?"

"Thanks for getting her here."

"Jeremy, just remember life's for living."

He hung up, then stared at Jo's mug. He handled it with care, setting it in the drainer.

At two, Jo was still sleeping and he didn't have the heart to wake her. By four he considered it and at six Jeremy gently shook her. "Jo, love, time to wake up."

She stirred to darkness. "What time is it?"

"Uh, it's six."

She opened her eyes. "Oh honey, I'll never sleep tonight!"

He touched her cheek. "I know how to pass the time."

She smiled, stroking his beard. "I really like this."

"Well, until I'm forced to shave, it's all yours. I rang your mum, she sends her love."

Jo nodded, then sat up, but the room was cool, and blankets stayed around her. "C'mere."

Jeremy got under the duvet and she snuggled into him. "All I wanna do is be with you. And go to lunch and see that bridge, the one you wrote about, where the daffodils come up in spring."

Cradling her, a warm, blissful surge ran through him. "You can come during the term break, see them for yourself."

"I'd like that. Jeremy, maybe this is way premature, but Mum's gonna want me to finish the year."

"I know."

"But except for whatever you need to do for work, I don't want you away from me." Jo turned on the side light and looked at his face. His eyes were clearer, but still a mess. "I wanna take care of you, like you took care of me."

She traced his beard, down to his neck, but Jeremy was still.

"Nothing has to happen. I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.

"Except home next week. Hannah made that plain," he chuckled.

Jo smiled. "Yeah well, you'll be in LA next month for the Golden Globes."

"Yeah, that."

She sat up and kissed him. "Baby, whether we live in Helperby or Berkeley or Podunk, all my life is here with you."

Jeremy grasped her hands. "Oh Jo, oh my god!" Then he began to cry.

She held him for over an hour but he spoke no words, huge sobs ringing through the room. Once he was empty, she got them into the shower. In that familiar place, water raining down, she made love to him. After dressing, he lay on the bed. "Jo?"

"Yeah?"

"I know about your grandfather."

She sat down, setting her hand on his leg. "Mum told me Grandma'd filled you in."

Jeremy sat up. It would be about Lee, for Hannah was right. Jo could never know about the miscarriage. He leaned into her, taking her hands.

"It's pretty awful," Jo sighed. "She told me some of it last spring when I was there, how he left, about his grandmother being in love with a black man, all that. But she only told me he killed himself when I was there at Thanksgiving."

Jeremy wondered if that had made her drink. That thought only lasted a second, as words from earlier wafted in his head; how much she loved him, couldn't live without him. He had offered spiteful lies, but Jo had set that aside.

"And you know, I just couldn't believe it," Jo continued. "To think of the things Lee's mother called her own grandchildren. Good god, how can people be so blind?"

"Colored's a pretty demeaning way to refer to your own flesh and blood."

Jo looked at him. "Is that what she told you?"

Jeremy touched her face, shaking his head.

"I see." She squeezed his hand and sighed, then returned to his gaze. It didn't touch her, which she had found odd once aware of what that word meant. As a child, she accepted her heritage with a sense of one so loved, her skin tone was irrelevant. As she aged, a few complications had arisen. Jo allowed that at times her birthright was complicated.

"When I was living with Grandma, maybe she and Mum assumed I was deaf and mute both. When Grandma told me about Lee at Thanksgiving, she specifically used the word _colored_ , but I know that wasn't what Lee's parents said."

Jeremy took her in his arms, beyond him to fathom what it actually meant. He was English, white, and other than feeling awful for Alta, Hannah, and Ellen, that level of prejudice lay far from his realm. "Love, she thinks you don't know. And she doesn't want you to either." Then he wondered; if Jo knew of that, was she aware of Hannah's miscarriage?

"That's fine. To me, it's a word, which might sound shallow. Maybe it's having an English father, maybe having been loved always just for being me. I know I'm lucky, oh god, I do!" She breathed deeply. "Mason and Aitkin will hear it, but I doubt it would be from someone using it for such an evil purpose."

Jeremy noted her use of evil, as Alta had. He couldn't conjure any epithet that someone might say to him that would be as malicious or depraved. Then he choked.

"Jeremy, what? What is it?"

He stood, then bent over, sucking in air as best he could.

Jo was at his side. "Baby breathe, just breathe."

Jeremy stood straight, taking in one great gulp of air. Then, after a few seconds, another. As Jo held his hand, he waved to her. "Some water?"

Jo fled, returning with a glass which he drank slowly. They stepped to the landing, his room stale. In the open space, he caught his breath, staring at the guest room. Emma had been held in there for years. Now she sat at the base of his throat.

"Jeremy, you okay?"

"Love, when you were going to talk about your dad, what did that feel like?"

She took the empty cup and held his hands. "Like my whole heart was ready to come out of my mouth."

He nodded. "Let's go down. I want to show you something."

The study was much improved from earlier and Jeremy built a fire as Jo made tea and toast. After eating, he stood in front of the sparking rocks, then rejoined Jo on the sofa. Taking her hand, he traced her bare fingers and ran his own along her veins. "I love you."

"I love you too." Jo glanced to the blaze. "I remember these fires from the Farmer's Inn."

He smiled. "We'll go tomorrow if we're awake."

She nodded. "Jeremy, it's hard, I know."

"Mmmhmm. I looked through pictures of her, photos I haven't seen since, oh god, more than fifteen years."

She clenched his hand. "How was it?"

"Oh my." He gave a small chuckle. "Miserable. She was so cute, so precious." He leaned against Jo's shoulder. "I'd forgotten how she looked, you know, exactly. She's been a fuzzy image for a long time."

"Like a face, but you can't see the eyes or the nose. The mouth is just this hole that used to make words, but I guess Emma wasn't quite up to that."

He nodded. "That's it, I mean, she wasn't at all talking, but her sounds. Oh god, I remember them. Her laughter was so bloody sweet."

"I remember Daddy singing "Michelle" to me and for years every time I heard that song, it was his voice. Sometimes it was from the accident and sometimes it was how he used to sing. He'd try to imitate Paul McCartney, but Dad's accent wasn't from Liverpool."

They laughed, then Jeremy stood. Adding a few pieces of coal with the tongs, he then stepped to the far side of the room. Along the bookshelf was a box, and he brought it to Jo.

She took it, staring at him. "Shall I?"

He nodded.

Lifting the lid, she gasped; her parents with Emma. Jo didn't touch it, holding the box as Jeremy sat beside her. He removed the photo. "This's everything."

"They always wanted another. But Mum never got pregnant again."

Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. "No, I guess not."

Jo fingered her father's smile. "He was so happy." She found Jeremy's eyes. "That's how I remember him, so happy."

"I never saw him any other way."

"She looks pretty pleased too." But Emma's smile caused Jeremy to tremble. "Honey? You okay?"

He stood, clutching the photo. "I couldn't let her go. They told me she was gone and now I was free." He glanced at the fire, then turned back to her.

She stood, allowing him space. "Who baby?"

Jeremy went to the far wall, pointing to a school photograph. Picking himself out, he was surrounded by other young men. "They did."

Chapter 27

Jo heard Jeremy's teenage frustration, surrounded by other youths who scorned what they didn't understand. Then she noted a young man trying to comprehend a dead baby in his arms.

Then Jo heard that awful, slashing sound. Not Jeremy's tears or her own, not fire or rain or wind, not her father's accent or Emma's small laughter. Jo wanted to run, but as she and Jeremy clung to one another, neither could deny it. The silence had returned.

"Jo, you know how quiet it gets and then, oh god, you just want something, anything to make any sound. Any little peep, but nothing comes."

"It's this blankness, so thick. You can't get away from it, you can't move. I couldn't move."

"I know." He grasped her like he'd held his daughter after finding her motionless in the cot. Jeremy and Philippa had stirred early, no noise from the nursery meaning the couple had time. After making love, Philippa took a shower, and Jeremy went to fetch Emma.

He remembered standing at her door, noting the stillness. She must be deeply sleeping was his first thought. Entering the room, his footsteps made the last thump. Once he stood over her, he heard nothing. Saw no movement. Touching her, he noticed she was cold.

"I thought, poor thing, she needs an extra blanket. But then she didn't respond. I called for her, I know I did. I know I said something, but I never heard anything, not from her or me."

He had rolled her over, the lower half of her face purple. Her eyes were closed and the stillness she exhibited took him by surprise. Emma wasn't a fussy baby, but was never that stationary, not that without motion. He set his hand upon her chest and she didn't flinch. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"I picked her up, just a dead weight. I think it was then I realized she was gone, and all I heard was this quiet. She would giggle or gurgle, make some kind of commotion. I held her, just like always, but she was so heavy and her head. Her neck was like jelly." Jeremy burrowed into Jo's side. "That sound, so loud. I heard it for days. For ages. I still hear it."

"Me too. But honey," Jo lifted his eyes to hers. "It does fade. Now I hear something else." Setting his hand on his chest, she placed hers on top. "You're still here."

They moved from the study into the lounge, Jo waiting on the couch while Jeremy started a fire. They didn't speak until he was seated next to her.

"I took her into our room, laid her on the bed. Philly was still in the shower and even with that noise, there was this silence, all in Emma. Nothing came from her, like she absorbed all the noise, all the air. All the purpose." He caressed Jo's face. "I had no purpose until I met you."

"Oh Jeremy!"

"Really. Oh my god, she took everything. But she had to. She had to mean something. They said she meant nothing, but that wasn't true."

"Who honey? Who said that?"

"Friends from school, the same ones who'd told George Schaffer that his dead parents meant nothing. They told me that too, but I told them to fuck off!" Jeremy stood, clenching his fists. "That's why he killed himself. They told him he was better off with dead parents, what assholes! Told him he could do as he pleased, no one to tie him down, hold him back. Told me she was only a noose, she and Philly both."

"Oh baby, my god!" Jo joined him, recalling the details from one of his rare letters while in Darfur.

Jeremy held her, then pulled back to see her face. "They told me I was free, like George. They tried to tell me that when my parents died, but someone told them to be quiet, to shut up. And they did, they said nothing more to me. But they'd said it to George and it drove him mad. And then when Emma..." Jeremy stopped, gazing at the fire. The warmth struck him, along with Jo's presence, easing the memory loose. "When it made the rounds that my daughter died, all I heard in phone call after phone call was, 'Hey Stewart, got rid of the monster, now just dump the wife. You're free mate, home free!' Can you imagine? What bastards! What in the fuck did they know?"

Jeremy released Jo, then stood next to the grate, adding more coal, dust stirring a great flame. "How in the hell could they be so goddamned insensitive, so fucking thick? My baby, my daughter was dead, and all they could think of was I was free!"

"Like Lee," Jo said. "Just like Lee."

Jeremy turned around. "Jo, oh my god!"

They stared at each other as soft whispers churned the stillness, rising to biting waves as Lee's parents and Jeremy's friends stirred a bitter and aching cacophony.

Frightened, ignorant language reverberated, feeding off itself, chilling and spiteful. Holding back the onslaught, Jo set her head against Jeremy's chest, his face bent into her as a brutal fury wailed, wishing to tear them apart, rip them open, bleed them to death. Jo heard the roaring collision of metal against cement, hurling a man through the windshield, slamming him into the ground. Jeremy noted a boy hanging loose and broken from a balcony on the east side of school as a barrage of screams celebrated cold, malicious victories.

Jeremy set his mouth to Jo's ear. "I love you Jo, I love you. You hear me Jo?"

She nodded, her eyes shut tight.

"Sweetheart, I'm here, I'm right here." He didn't yell as the din swirled.

"I love you," she whispered, as if a clear, loud shout.

Their voices remained only for each other in steady, even cadences. Jeremy set his lips along Jo's face, then returned to her ear. "Forever love, forever."

"Forever Jeremy." She gripped him. "I will love you forever."

Flames crackled as rocks broke open, balmy, healing tenderness spreading into the room. The couple remained entwined as gentle warmth swirled from floor to ceiling, flooding through them, dissolving those battering tones.

Jo peeked, lively flutters of light dancing along the walls. A warm glow still shone and she smiled. "Jeremy, it's gone. They're all gone!"

Her words roused him from where he was still buried against her neck. He inhaled, finding only their shadows. Jeremy brushed her cheek with his hand, then stared at the fire. It needed more coal.

Together they threw in two large rocks. Within a minute, both had split, consumed in the blaze.

She retrieved the box of photographs and they inspected each one. At times Jeremy wept as Jo carefully placed each picture back in the box; once they looked at the last photo, she affixed the lid, returning them to the guest room. Jeremy met her on the landing, then they lay down in his bed, making a long, slow love. Quickly he was asleep. Then Jo heard her father's voice: _My belle..._ Closing her eyes, she joined Jeremy in peaceful slumber.

During the week, they explored the village, bantered with Paul and Hailey at the Farmer's Inn, and tried to stay dry. No snow appeared, but rain fell daily, and the couple didn't reach the river until the day before Jo's departure. Jeremy held her hand as they walked the muddy path separating the meadow, the footbridge in front of them.

"I bet it's really lovely in spring," Jo said. "I can't wait to see it."

He smiled. "When's your break?"

"March, I think. I'll have to check." They crossed the bridge, the River Swale rushing beneath them. Jo looked out, blue sky losing the battle with white-gray clouds. "You think it's gonna rain again?"

"Of course," Jeremy smiled. "It always does."

He brought her close, placing hands on her hips. Then he moved inward, but Jo was silent. They had made love frequently, purging dreadful thoughts and memories, replacing instead their great affection. She hated thinking of leaving, and he had said nothing about accompanying her.

"And what are we going to do about this?" Jeremy pressed his hands against her skin.

"I don't know."

"I love you."

She nodded. "So tomorrow, I need to be in Manchester for eight o'clock."

"Eight, right. You want some company?"

She smiled. "How will you get back?"

"A taxi. I'd love to see you drive."

She giggled, then sighed. "Whatever you like." She pulled away, leaning over the side of the bridge.

He gave her a few seconds. "Jo?"

A dark cloud approached. "I think it's gonna rain."

"I know it is." He stood next to her, returning his hands to where they had been. "I love you."

She smiled. "I love you too."

"I want to have a baby with you."

She choked and tried to turn from him. The past had been slotted away and she could leave it behind. But his words; a baby, their baby. That was the straw.

She moved, but he caught her. "Sweetheart, I still want that, oh love, that's not changed!" He took her face in his hands. "Did you think it had?"

Jo shook her head, then shrugged. "I don't know what I think, not about that."

"Do you still, I mean, want to?"

"Oh god, yes! Of course I do." She fell into his arms and sobbed.

In the quiet of a Yorkshire meadow, with only the birds overhead, Jeremy held her. "Oh love, it's all right. We'll make a baby, I promise."

"You have everything?" he asked.

She nodded. Her luggage waited in the Mini. Just her laptop case remained, sitting on the counter, her ticket and passport inside, the key for the car in her hand.

"I'll use the loo, then lock up." Jeremy kissed her, but Jo said nothing, grabbing the laptop, heading to the car.

He ran upstairs and relieved himself. Before exiting the bedroom, Jeremy opened his upper drawer. Then he was down the stairs.

Over the Pennines the drive was uneventful. The traffic slowed in Manchester, but Jo had allowed enough time for the stoppages. Impressed with her skills, Jeremy mentioned his next job would be that of a driving instructor. That made her laugh until they reached the rental lot, where she grew hushed.

"Love, I'll be in LA in a few weeks." He squeezed her left hand as she changed gears.

She nodded, pulling into the lot. They walked to the shuttle and within a few minutes both stepped from the bus, Jeremy toting her bags.

The lines weren't long and Jo needed the bathroom. "I'll be right back," she said, leaving the cases with Jeremy.

Due to the beard, he hadn't been spotted, but a woman behind the counter stared. Stepping that way, he smiled. "Love, I need a favor."

"Do I know you?"

He grinned. "Maybe."

She laughed. "You look better with whiskers. What do you need love?"

"Well, my friend's on this flight." He offered Jo's ticket. "I want to send her back in either business or first class. Anything available?"

The woman smiled, checking her computer. "I've got two in first, one left in business."

Jeremy looked back, but didn't see Jo. "That'll be fine," he chuckled.

As Jo opened Alta's front door, she smelled black eyed peas. "I'm here!"

Hannah rushed to the entryway, wrapping her daughter close. "Oh lovey, I am so glad you're home! That snow's been falling all damned day."

Alta joined them. "What happened? They lose your luggage?"

Jo headed to her grandmother. "No, just having my porter do the grunt work."

"Oh good lord! What are you doing here?" Hannah asked.

Jeremy lugged Jo's bags. "Happy Christmas to you too." He set down the cases, then took Hannah in his arms. "It's okay," he whispered. "Everything's fine."

Hannah cried as Jo clutched her grandmother. "He bumped me up to first class," Jo smiled, "so I figured I'd let him come along."

Alta chuckled. "Hannah let go of that boy before you squeeze what's left of him to pieces."

As Jeremy kissed her cheek, Hannah pulled away. She then took Jo in her arms, while Alta took her turn.

By the end of the night, the beans had been consumed, the tree admired. Jo's suitcases had been opened, those gifts placed with the others, waiting for Christmas morning. Now Jo's luggage sat at the door, she and Jeremy staying at a hotel not far away. "I'm gonna take him to meet Belle, Merlene, and Jack in the morning," Jo said.

"So shall I make rice?" Alta asked.

Jeremy laughed, shaking his head. "Oh please don't."

"What, don't you like rice and ice cream?"

Jo smiled. "Grandma, you're mixing your sweets and your savories."

Jeremy shuddered in mock horror and Alta clucked her disapproval. "Well, I don't know anything about that."

"We'll get some of that nice cocoa bread if they're open," Hannah said.

"And if not, Jeremy can just have beans with his rice." Jo ached, her period starting on the plane. All she wanted was to collapse next to the man who had surprised her not only with first class travel, but his passport in hand. Jeremy had slipped some clothing into one of her bags. When the gifts emerged, his shirts, trousers, and socks had too, none of the women aware he had planned to accompany. "Listen," she began, "I don't mean to break up the party, but I'm pooped. Why don't you get us a cab and we'll head out?"

Jeremy only wanted to lie next to her and sleep. In a moment with Hannah alone, he had offered his condolences, affirming Jo had no idea about her mother's miscarriage. "I'm on it, a taxi for my lady," he smiled.

Alta gave him the number as Hannah helped Jo off the couch. "Lovey, you okay?"

"Just tired and cramping. It was so bad on the plane, I actually had a few glasses of wine. Slept well though," she smiled.

Hannah nodded, taking Jo's hand. "But everything else is all right?"

"Oh yeah, I have so much to tell you." Jo's smile clashed with her slight agony. "He's coming with me to Berkeley. And then we'll see you at the Golden Globes."

"Oh honey!" Hannah hugged her gently.

Alta and her daughter walked them to the door. As Hannah turned off lights, Alta watched the street. The snow lay in heaps, but the roads were clear.

"She'll text me when they get in," Hannah said.

"Good. He looks nice with that beard. He's still too thin though."

"Jo said all they did was talk and eat. Said it rained the whole time."

Alta chuckled. "Well, maybe we'll get a nice surprise in a few weeks."

Hannah sighed. "Momma, she's on her period. Not going to be for a while."

"Well, they'd better hurry up. I don't have forever," Alta huffed, heading to her room.

Chapter 28

Jeremy paced the living room of Hannah's suite. They were staying in the same hotel, Jo with him, Hannah in a room to herself. But Jo had wanted to dress with her mother and Jeremy sighed, giggles floating behind the bedroom door.

The Academy Awards was the final prize. If he lost here, the previous wins at the Golden Globes and BAFTAs would appear diminished. Completing the hat trick was down to one evening, one envelope. The words _And the Oscar goes to..._ would only sound sweet if his name ended the sentence.

Hannah had won for adapted screenplay at the previous ceremonies, but did an Oscar mean the same to her as it did to him? Her charitable nature was far above his insecurity, what Jeremy had confessed to Jo only last night. In bed, fooling around, he finally admitted how much he wanted to win.

"You better win," she had said. "If you don't, I'll just look for someone else to go home with, maybe that nice Jon Stewart. One Stewart or another, what's the difference?"

Jeremy had sat stunned until she unleashed a teasing smile. To Jo, it wasn't just an evening with her mother and boyfriend. Then he'd been glad she had mocked him, reminding him what really mattered.

They had been trying since Christmas, but hadn't been successful. Yet, she was chipper, noting his attendance at the BAFTAs precluded any baby making. Jo had stayed behind with school as Jeremy and Hannah flew to London after their tandem good fortune from the Hollywood Foreign Press, again treated by the British Academy of Film, along with Portia Jones, who won for Best Supporting Actress. Charles Wyler had been snubbed by both film boards, and Jeremy hadn't concealed his delight. But his joy was tempered when Jo rang that she wasn't pregnant.

He hadn't returned with Hannah, instead checking on the house in Helperby. The only thing Jeremy had packed besides more clothes was Jo's mug. He wanted her to have that in Berkeley and she had been touched, easing the small sadness of her continuing cycle.

Now the awards season focused on one last ceremony. As giggles ceased, Jeremy wondered if they were done. The door knob moved, then a sight stopped his breath; Jo in an apricot cream dress, her hair swept back, save a few ringlets dangling along her face and down her neck. The dress dipped to her bust, lacy three-quarter length sleeves appropriate for the unexpected cool weather.

"Well," Hannah barked, "say something."

Jeremy stepped toward Jo. "My god but you're beautiful."

"You clean up pretty well yourself," she smiled.

"Not as nicely as you love." Kissing her, he then flashed his trademark grin, heading out the door. "I'll be right back!"

"What?" Jo asked.

"You'll see," Hannah smiled.

Jeremy returned, presenting Jo with a long velvet box. "Because I love you."

A string of pearls greeted Jo. "Oh my god you didn't! Oh Jeremy!"

He placed it around her neck as Jo wept. "If I win tonight, I'll buy you a diamond tiara."

"I want a tiara," Hannah said.

"I'll get you both one, Alta and Ellen too," he said with a tense laugh.

Jo's tears increased as he took her in his arms. "Oh baby, thank you!"

"Let's get going," Hannah smiled. "Mr. Stewart might miss a photo op if we're late."

Jeremy grasped Jo as they left the room.

Once seated, he considered how he'd introduced her as his girlfriend to various reporters, to fellow actors, to Portia and Elizabeth. Portia Jones had laughed, but Elizabeth Watson only gave a weak nod. She was even more nervous than Jeremy, having lost at the previous two ceremonies. Portia had edged her in London, both losing at the Golden Globes. That night was between on-screen mother and daughter, and Jeremy hoped Elizabeth would win.

_There Is Something Here_ was nominated in several categories, and won early, for makeup, which seemed daft to Jeremy, the only exceptional disguise being his gray hair and that bad mullet. But it was a start and when Elizabeth Watson was called as Best Supporting Actress, he stood, prodding Portia to her feet. Elizabeth was gracious, noting Portia's contribution, then thanking Jeremy for being the best rotten husband a woman could have.

As Jo squeezed his hands, Jeremy kissed her, his stomach churning. Hannah reached over and the threesome took a collective breath as the nominees for Best Adapted Screenplay were read.

Kathy Bates revealed the winner. "And the Oscar goes to Hannah Adams for _There Is Something Here_!"

Hannah's hands flew to her face while the film's theme song wafted. Wearing a turquoise dress, she hugged her daughter as Jeremy urged Hannah to the stage.

"Oh good lord!" Hannah gripped the award, then looked at the camera. "I want to thank the Academy for this incredible honor. Momma, Ellen, you can go to bed now." A huge laugh rose from the audience, more awards waiting.

Hannah smiled, pointing at Jeremy, who shook his finger at her. "I know, so wicked. No Momma, stay up because something good's coming. I know I'm running out of time. I need to thank Charles Wyler and the producers, but mostly I want to thank my daughter for giving me such gifts year after year."

Jo nodded, but couldn't stop crying, turning into Jeremy's arms.

"And finally, 'cause if I don't thank him he'll hound me later, Jeremy Stewart for being a real kick in the pants."

Hannah walked off with Kathy Bates, both in stitches, and Jeremy and Jo sat down, Portia over her snit, smiling back at them.

Three more awards had been announced by the time Hannah regained her seat. Jo held her mother's Oscar, then handed it to Portia, who admired it, wistfully returning it to Hannah.

Jo grasped Jeremy's hands, his palms sweaty. "It'll be okay," she whispered during the commercial break.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," he said, half in jest.

"You'll be fine." Jo kissed him as the music started.

Jon Stewart introduced Nicole Kidman to present the award for Best Actor. Jeremy swallowed; as his clip was shown, where Portia learns the truth, he considered the day they shot that scene. Preparing for those lines, Jeremy had spent that morning reliving the moment he told his wife about Emma.

Philippa had stepped from the shower still wet, her smile fading as she stared at the bed. Jeremy's tears flowed, the baby beside him unmoving.

"Emma, oh my god!" Screams emerged as Philippa fell to the floor. Jeremy went to his knees, using the towel to wipe her tears. She had started shaking and he tried to talk, tried to speak. But like Jo, in those initial moments he was mute.

It lasted as long as it took for Philippa to stand. Unable to touch her baby, she rang her mother. Jeremy returned to the bed, brushing light brown hairs from a face forever stilled. He wouldn't see his daughter's eyes again, as blue as Hannah's dress. Looking at that gown, Jeremy returned to the present, Jo squeezing his hands. "It's time honey."

Jeremy inhaled, listening to Nicole Kidman. "And the Oscar goes to Jeremy Stewart for _There Is Something Here_!"

He embraced Jo, then sprinted up the carpet, gracefully accepting the statue. Kissing Nicole, he then apologized for the beard and she smiled as he stepped to the mic. A standing ovation met his gaze, Jo, Hannah, and the audience in full cheer. He nodded, gripping the award, feeling a thrill only matched by making love to Jo that morning.

"I'd like to thank the Academy first off, and uh, just a moment." Stepping to the left of the stage, Jeremy whispered to the host. Jon Stewart offered a sly nod and Jeremy returned to Nicole, handing her his Oscar.

"If you could, please bear with me for just another few seconds," Jeremy grinned.

Whispers abounded as Jo gazed to her mother. Hannah had known about the pearls, but these exploits were a mystery.

Jeremy reached his seat, took something from his pocket, then went to one knee. As he slipped a diamond on Jo's finger, those close began applauding.

"Oh my god, what are you doing?" she cried.

"What do you think? Will you marry me?"

"Oh good lord," Hannah muttered.

Jo smiled. "You know I will." She took his left hand, placing it on her stomach.

Jeremy trembled. "Oh Jesus, are you?"

"Yeah. Congratulations."

As the music began, he glanced at Hannah, a sneaky grin offering confirmation. Jeremy ran back to the stage where Nicole returned his Oscar.

"Well right," he chuckled, the music fading. "Had I lost, I doubted she'd have said yes. This way she can't change her mind, televised and all." He looked out; Jo sobbed in her mother's arms, Portia gleefully possessing both Hannah's Oscar and Jeremy's seat.

He smiled. "I just need to thank one person and that's Hannah Adams for writing this part and introducing me to the most beautiful woman here tonight. Love, dinner's on me."

With acclaim ringing in his ears, Jeremy had far exceeded his forty-five seconds. Nicole spoke, but he didn't hear her, nor any of the questions posed to him backstage. All he could think of were Jo's eyes, her smile, that news; they were having a baby!

Returning to his seat, Portia still gripped Hannah's Oscar and Jeremy handed his to Hannah, taking Jo in his arms. "Sweetheart, are you sure?"

"I found out day before yesterday. I wanted to tell you tonight because if you lost then there'd been something good." She fingered her ring. "But I guess you had that covered."

"Not like you," he laughed, looking to Hannah. "Well, what do you think?"

Hannah smiled, shaking her head. "What is Momma gonna say!"

As _There Is Something Here_ took Best Picture, they stood, Jeremy noting Charles Wyler clapping glumly. He hadn't won, but quickly joined the producers on stage. Jeremy nudged Portia and she ran up with Elizabeth arm in arm, but Jeremy and Jo stayed where they were.

Hannah stepped past them, elbowing Jeremy as she reached the aisle. "Come on," she whispered. "They're waiting for you."

He smiled. "I don't need any more than I have right here."

Hannah kissed his cheek, giving her daughter one too. Jo hugged her mother, returning to Jeremy's side.

He nuzzled Jo as Hannah reached the podium. Speeches rang through the auditorium and Jeremy's heart rang with a hush of thankfulness and release.

"I love you," Jo whispered to him, stroking his face.

"Forever," Jeremy said as the crowd cheered around them.

_______________

### Liner Notes

This novel was borne of an experiment; in August 2008, I wanted to write slowly, not in my usual NaNoWriMo rush. For three days I metered my output, then dove headlong into my usual frenetic pace, unaware of what this tale really meant.

I'm still discovering, three and a half years later; this novel concerns more than hidden love and racism. While I'm not the first writer to interlace truth into the fiction, I can't prevent what I have lived from merging into the narrative. This novel is dedicated to my brother Joe, who took his life. It's for our parents, who weathered that loss, and other incidents. It's for my husband, my surviving siblings; it's for a family united by deep, abiding love.

I wanted to convey two interlaced tales of love strangled by fear. Set initially in my beloved Yorkshire, _September Story_ traverses America; I've not been to New York, but Alta McIntyre's fictitious brownstone recalls my maternal grandmother's cozy home, where like Jo's familial nest, security permeated. Jeremy's stately English country manner eases Jo's cluttered past, but more is required than a vacant landscape to unburden one's heart. Eighteen months after returning to California, I wrote this novel, Britain still fresh in my mind. I savored those days while describing Jo's driving lesson and the walk to the River Swale, easier to exhume my memories when set alongside picturesque backdrops.

During revisions, it became clear this was more than just a romantic melodrama, perhaps as Jeremy's role in _There Is Something Here_ affected him. I entered a rough version of this manuscript in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award competition; to my immense surprise, it placed in the semi-finals, where I received encouraging comments and critiques, gaining necessary self-confidence. After the contest ended, instead of querying this novel, I buckled down and wrote; a prodigious number of first drafts emerged, some of those I have already published. But this novel slipped away; maybe I wasn't ready to accept its significance. After I published _The War On Emily Dickinson_ , I reclaimed this tale. Months later, I write these notes, wondering what else I have to learn.

With every book, my skills sharpen, my heart widens. I have many to thank for that blessing; The Usual Suspects, especially The Office of Letters and Light's Lindsay Grant for spotlighting NaNoWriMo entrants during ABNA 2009. Fellow ABNA participants Kathleen Maher, Kerry Dunn, and Megan Bostic provided stirring feedback, as did Julie K. Rose.

I need to further my appreciation to Julie Rose; if not for her, the paperback version of this novel would not exist. She designed the cover and formatted the print copy, and also provided notable editorial assistance. I met Julie during ABNA 2009, a fellow semi-finalist, and I can't imagine my career as an indie author without her enthusiasm, sharp revising eyes, and immense generosity. To her this novel is also dedicated, with warm affection.

Jenn Sandoval and Miss Cindy offered valuable support and Suzy Stewart Dubot confirmed my British spellings and adages; my sincere gratitude for their time and kindnesses.

Noting this novel's history, I would be remiss if I didn't again thank my husband. The weeks I spent preparing for the contest were full on work, short on recreation, which he bore with great patience. The days leading up to publication weren't as lop-sided, but again I was offered uninterrupted hours and his faithful love, which not only makes writing and publishing possible, but healing too. I set out to tell Jeremy, Jo, Hannah, and Alta's stories. I never realized how much of my own resounds, and if not for my better half, it would remain bottled and bubbling.

I thank God for my husband, for these words. Nothing would occur without Christ.

### About the author

Anna Scott Graham was born in 1966 in Northern California. A mother to several, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, and many hummingbirds.

Other ebooks by  Anna Scott Graham are available at Smashwords

The print version of this novel can be found at Lulu.com.
