I threw my arms around him, startling both of us. “That’s wonderful,” I said and stepped away.
“Yes, I believe it is.”
I smiled at him and jostled his arm. “A new job, by golly.”
“Yes,” he said. “Even this old man can start over.”
“I do believe you can.” I braved another touch to his arm.
Jack took two steps toward me, but no more.
Should I tell him what I’d seen on his desk? Ask him if he was in love with Ruth Pitter? The questions quivered below my throat, wanting escape.
He spoke first, almost as if he could read my mind. “I read another one of your poems last night, ‘One Last Spring.’ Did I tell you that? I meant to if I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t.” A warm blush filled my face.
“‘Out of my heart the bloodroot.’” He clasped his hands behind his back and quoted my words. “It’s no wonder I quit poetry, I have neither ear nor hand for it as you do.”
“Thank you.” I leaned against the windowsill and soaked in the beauty of his voice reciting my poetry. “You can’t know how much that means to me, to have my words praised—especially since Macmillan turned down my Queen Cinderella proposal. I’ll have to write the entire thing to sell it.”
“Then you will.”
“Do you ever think of writing one more Narnian chronicle? Just one more? Because you know it will sell?”
“I think it’s best to put an end to it when the readers are clamoring for more rather than when they’re weary of the whole everlasting thing. There will be seven of them published in seven years. Sometimes you must know when it’s enough.”
Discernment fell down on me with great weight: You must know when it’s enough. I would not ask him about Ruth Pitter or his feelings for her or for anyone else. I must know when it is enough. And I must trust God—again and again I was learning and relearning to trust the Truth who had entered my sons’ nursery. The rusty and decrepit habit of trusting in only myself, only abiding in my own ability to make things happen, died hard and slow.
I glanced up to see outside the opposite window, where groups ambled toward the deer park and riotous flowers blossomed in the gardens.
“Tourists,” I said, pointing out the window at a family with four children running behind. “I was one, and now here I am in your Magdalen rooms. It seems quite miraculous, Jack.”
“They will knock on the door, you’ll see.” He came to my side, and together we looked down at the park. “They expect King Caspian or a man in long black robes with the keys to God’s kingdom, and all they ever find is an old balding man with glasses.” He laughed, and the family below looked up. He waved, and they wandered away.
I rested my head on his shoulder, only for a moment. “Thank you, Jack. Thank you so much.”
He’d leave in the morning, and the boys and I would have the run of the house and gardens, and I of his college rooms.
This was dangerous territory in the land of love—he wasn’t yet gone, and I already missed him.
CHAPTER 41
You are all the gold of all the rocks
Precious in my fingers; brighter things
“SONNET XLII,” JOY DAVIDMAN
October 1954
I opened the front door of Avoco House to see my mother and father standing there in the brisk October day. Mother was prim and proper in her hat and pearls, her buttoned coat and lacquered hair. Father stood in a three-piece suit with his moustache greased to stand out as if at attention. Both looked as if they’d come from a party instead of a long journey across the ocean.
“Mother. Father,” I said and hugged them both. “Welcome to London.”
Their suitcases were propped on the sidewalk where the cab driver in his bowler hat and suit waited to be dismissed. I motioned to bring in their bags. “I’m glad you’re here.” I ushered my parents into my home.
“Oh, darling, this is such a lovely neighborhood.” Mother’s voice grated against my ears for a moment until I realized that I had become so accustomed to the melodic English accents that even my very own accent sounded rough around the edges.
After paying the cab driver and shutting the front door, Father silently roamed around the house. “This is a nice place. Much nicer than I expected, with your financial condition.”
“Yes, it’s been tough, Father. You’re right. But people here are generous—the landlord has given me a fantastic price.” I motioned for them to follow me. “You have the boys’ room, right here.”