This Book Made Me Think of You(50)

“Oh, I’m keeping my surname. We’ve already talked about it. It’s easier for work, plus I like being Matilda Nightingale.”

“Right,” Ellen says stiffly. “Well, tell us everything else. When and where is the wedding?”

“We haven’t been engaged long,” Joe laughs. “We’ve got plenty of time to decide all that.”

“There are lots of other decisions to be made though,” Ellen says. “Like children…” Tilly nearly chokes on her turkey, but Ellen doesn’t flinch. “Do you want children, Tilly? I know you’ve always been focused on your career.”

“Mom, you can’t ask her that,” says Joe’s brother. Under the table Joe nudges Tilly with his knee, silently checking that she’s OK. She reaches for his hand, holding it on the table where everyone can see. So what if her future mother-in-law is being wildly inappropriate? It doesn’t matter. She is going to marry Joe. That’s all that matters.

“We both want a family, yes,” she says with a smile.

“And where do you plan on raising these children?”

“Here in America,” Joe says at the same moment that Tilly says, “London.”

They stare at each other across the table. Everyone else falls silent. Ellen leans back, a smug expression on her face.



* * *



—

Beneath the Tuscan sun, Tilly takes a faltering breath, remembering the rest of that meal. The way Joe had told her that he’d always imagined himself moving back to America eventually, something he thought she knew. But she didn’t know. Yes, he’d talked about missing America, and every couple of months Ellen would send him listings of properties in Connecticut and they’d marvel at how much more they could get for their money than their tiny London apartment. But she’d never seriously considered leaving England. It was where her family were, where she’d worked so hard to build her career. It was home. The realization that they’d both just assumed they were on the same page without ever discussing it hit her as if she’d been dunked in cold water.

“Are you really sure you’ve thought this through?” his mother had said, glancing down at the engagement ring on Tilly’s finger.

“We made it through, though, didn’t we?” Tilly says aloud to the sunflowers. They fought about it, Tilly annoyed that Joe hadn’t thought to ask her if she wanted to move and Joe telling her she didn’t understand how hard it was for him, living so far away from his family and where he grew up. They went around and around the same argument, in the garden at Joe’s parents’ house and again in the weeks and months after they returned to London. They were supposed to be planning a wedding, but they couldn’t move past this huge, fundamental thing to do with their future.

But then Joe got sick, and the subject of where they lived didn’t seem to matter anymore. Instead their lives became focused on hospital appointments, chemotherapy, and a rushed wedding, any talk of the future banished completely.

“I wish I could go back and tell you,” Tilly sniffs, wiping her face. “I wish I could tell you that I would have gone anywhere with you. None of it would have mattered as long as I was with you.”

She takes a deep breath of the morning air, already hot and smelling of earth and pollen. As much as she might want to go back in time, she knows she can’t. So she heaves herself off the wall and begins to jog down the path again, one foot in front of the other. All she can do is go forward.





Thirty-Two




It is only eleven thirty and already Tilly has spilled a bowl of flour and dropped an egg on the floor. She expected Constanza to snap at her, but she’d simply handed Tilly another bowl and another egg. “Non importa. It doesn’t matter. We have plenty more.”

When Tilly returned from her run, Harper had asked if she wanted to talk, but she shook her head. “I just want to focus on cooking.”

She’s already received messages from her parents, Rachel, and the members of the Paris Grief Gang. She will message Joe’s parents later. She tries her best to pour her attention into repetitively kneading the pasta dough—the feel beneath her fingers, the sound as she twists and turns it. But when she drops her second egg of the morning, Constanza takes her to one side.

“Come with me.”

“I’m sorry…” Tilly begins, but Constanza waves a hand.

“We’re going for some herbs,” she shouts to the others. “Keep kneading the pasta gently. Don’t ruin it while we are gone.”

Constanza leads Tilly through the kitchen garden, where the air is heady with the scent of sun-ripened tomatoes and plump, juicy strawberries. A marmalade cat dozes in the herb garden, tucked under the shade of a rosemary bush. But Constanza continues walking, leading them to a terrace at the very end of the garden where an iron bench sits in the dappled shade of a pergola trailing with vines. The garden wall drops away, giving an open view over the Tuscan countryside. There are terra-cotta pots dotted about, overspilling with red geraniums. Even with Tilly’s mood, the view still takes her breath away.

Constanza sits on the bench and pats the spare seat for Tilly to join her.

“Matilda, what is wrong? And don’t try telling me there is nothing wrong. I have three daughters, you know. We will run out of eggs if we are not careful.”