“Well, you were right about the Scrabble,” Jasper says, finally pulling away. I make a humming laugh noise and berate myself for thinking about salmon and dill paté for most of the time I was kissing him.
Jasper stands up, then helps me up from the rug and leads me over to a small wooden bookshelf built into a corner of the cabin.
“What I love most about coming out here is no TV, no Wi-Fi. My parents used to ban us from bringing phones. We’d just read and eat and swim. I credit this place with why I’ve read most of the classics.” He pauses. “Tell me again about why you love To Kill a Mockingbird so much.”
The bookshelf is filled with beautiful worn editions of Penguin Classics. Most of the men I’ve dated in the last few years didn’t read much, or if they did, it was crime novels or nonfiction. I bet Ted reads crime novels. I pause at Jasper’s question, unsure how truthful to be, not wanting to upset the fun, flirty tone of the date by talking about anything too serious. But then, I do want to see if there is a deeper side to Jasper; that’s a box that needs ticking too.
“My dad died when I was three, and my mum kept a few of his favorite books for me, the ones he reread again and again,” I say, running my finger along the spines on the shelf. “Reading the books he loved, the stories he valued enough to hold on to—Robinson Crusoe, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Catcher in the Rye—felt like learning something new about him.”
Jasper nods, encouraging me to keep talking.
“Even though I don’t remember my dad, Scout and Atticus feel like mutual friends. I know that sounds silly.”
“It doesn’t at all,” says Jasper, pulling a book from the shelf and showing me the cover: P. G. Wodehouse. “I lost my father too, several years ago. He was a lot older than my mother.” My mind jumps to Maude. She is a widow, she’s not cheating on anyone; at least that’s something off my conscience. “I remember him reading us Jeeves and Wooster books on car journeys through France. It’s my favorite memory of him: his voice, reading those stories. I certainly consider Jeeves and Wooster to be friends of the family.”
He looks across at me and our eyes meet, and for the first time I see a glimpse of the more serious, contemplative side of Jasper, beyond the boyish humor.
“I don’t want to wait as long as he did to have children. I’d like to be a young dad—to have the energy to kick a ball around with my kids.”
He reaches out and starts circling a finger down my back. It tickles slightly, and I arch my spine in response. Then my phone starts ringing, and I immediately look around for my bag.
It’s Gran.
“Jasper, do you mind if I get this? I’m sorry, my gran’s been trying to get hold of me all weekend, and I just want to check she’s OK.”
“Of course.” He smiles.
I answer the phone and ask Gran to give me a second, pressing the phone to my chest.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” says Jasper, grabbing a towel from a basket by the door. “I’m going to go for a swim, join me on the beach when you’re ready.”
He kisses me on the cheek, then I watch as he bounds away down the cabin steps.
“Sorry about that, Gran, I’m here now,” I say, putting the phone back to my ear.
“Don’t let me interrupt if are you busy, Laurie,” Gran says.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
Sitting down on the green checked sofa, I tell Gran where I am, then I explain about my strange meeting with great-aunt Monica yesterday, how confused she was about Mum and Dad’s story.
Gran makes quiet hmmmming and ahhhhing sounds as I recount the conversation, then eventually she says with a sigh, “Laura, I’m afraid she’s not entirely mad—well, not on this topic anyway. I don’t know where the notion about Annie having all these phobias came from, but she’s right about the rest.” I hear her take a long, deep breath.
“What?” I’d been expecting Gran to laugh, to agree that Monica’s bizarre version of events was all nonsense.
“Annie didn’t want me to tell you,” Gran says, making a tutting sound. “But I suppose it will all come out now you’re there, talking to them all. It never sat right with me, you not knowing the truth.”
“What truth?” I say, standing up to pace the short length of the cabin.
“Your parents were never married, Laura. They had that summer together, and then you were on the way but”—she pauses—“the relationship didn’t last.”