CHAPTER 12
I drove around aimlessly in my car for a while, weaving up and down the four streets that constituted this little town on the hill. It really was beautiful here, though. It was quaint and looked completely untouched by the modern world. This was confirmed when I saw a small video store that also masqueraded as a photocopying shop that also provided internet services. The shop was squeezed between a small art gallery and a pottery studio with a coffee shop. Colorful tables spilled out on to the pavement and were filled with people sipping coffee and eating home-made cakes. I made a mental note to stop there and grab one. I drove up to the highest part of the tortoise’s back, where the old church on the hill was perched. I parked my car and climbed out. I tied my jersey around my waist—to cover the giant hole in my crotch area—and walked up to the church, straight to the brass plaque by the door.
In memory of Father James McMillan. Hero and man of God.
Resting below the plaque were the remains of an old burnt cross, clearly put here to remember the fire and the original church that had once stood on this spot. I turned around and looked out over the sea and the river, just like Edith had done, so many years ago. The river was calm and so was the sea; it hadn’t been calm the day she’d stood here and decided to run away. Something caught my eye and I started moving towards it. I opened the little rusty gate to the small cemetery and walked in. The cemetery looked old, some of the headstones were completely covered in a tangle of weeds, their brown stone turned green from the moss growing on them. I crouched and looked at the small, broken headstone in front of me; the name was worn off, but there was a date there: 1874.
God, this place was old. I walked up to the huge oak tree that was growing straight out of the middle of the cemetery and seemed to be the highest point here. Its leaves were beginning to fall; a golden, orange carpet has started to form on the graves closest to it. I stood under its dappled light and looked around. The small town spread out below me: little houses, colorful gardens and beach cottages. It was strange being here, looking down at the town that I knew held such a secret story. An untold story.
I sat down on the ground with my back pressed into the tree and closed my eyes to listen to the soft sounds of the wind and birds. I let out a long, slow breath and my shoulders started to relax. While most people were afraid of cemeteries, I had found them to be a kind of sanctuary—well, one in particular. The graveyard where my dad was buried was one of the only constants in my life, growing up. And, when I was feeling lost, as I did a lot, I used to go there and sit by his grave and tell him stories about my life. They were all completely made up, of course, but I used to love doing it. In winter, I would take a flask of hot chocolate and a blanket and sit there telling him all about my exotic ski trips and about all my amazing friends at school and my latest award for sport or schoolwork. With him, I could be anyone I wanted. I could imagine my life to be better than it was. Imagine that I was a better person, too. The person I wanted to be.
I’ve never really missed my dad or mourned him. How can you miss something that you never knew and was never yours to begin with? But I have always felt an angry injustice at having him taken away from me like that. I think I might have quite liked having a dad. Oh well, what can one do . . . ?
I opened my eyes again and looked around. I felt at home, here, at peace. I pulled a letter out of my bag at random and started to read it.
15 February, 1948
I loved spending time with you yesterday, on Valentine’s Day, and I’m missing you more that I can put into words. I can’t wait to see you again. The truth is, I’m still so overwhelmed by this, by us. I can’t believe this is truly happening—that we are happening. You are, by far, the best thing that has ever happened to me. You. You. You. I don’t know how I can express enough how much I love you and how much you mean to me. I have never felt this way before, I have never been a part of something so big, so good and this full of beautiful possibilities. You have filled my heart and soul with love and I am forever changed and forever yours. I will love and care for you as if I have been tasked with caring for the most rare and precious thing in the universe. Words aren’t really doing this justice. I just wish I could express how important you are to me. You are everything and more. I can’t believe you even exist. You are a dream come true and I’ve found everything that I’ve been looking for. I cannot wait to spend more time with you. I’m loving every second of getting to know you, Edith, and I cannot wait for what lies ahead.
You, me, forever.
Wow! I lowered the letter and stared straight ahead of me at the graves. Was Edith here? Could I have just walked past her? Or was she still alive? A noise made me look up, and, as soon as I saw what made it, I scrambled to my feet and worked my way around to the other side of the tree.
“Shit!” I hissed under my breath as I heard the car park and the door slam. I peered around the tree, careful not to let him see me—again. I watched as he stood there for a while with a confused look on his face. He looked at my car and then looked around the parking lot. He walked over to my car and my heart started beating a little faster when he took a small notebook out of his pocket and scribbled my license plate down. Then he walked up to the church and tried the door. It was locked. He turned again and I saw his eyes widen in acknowledgment.What was he looking at?I followed his gaze . . . I’d left the gate open! I really wasn’t good at this criminal stuff, was I?
He started walking towards the cemetery and I knew he was going to find me here, and what would I tell him I was doing?Just chilling here because I like cemeteries.Well, that just made me sound odd. And I was sure he already thought I was odd. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I reached down and picked up a flower from the nearest grave—God, I was going straight to hell for this—and I casually walked towards one of the gravestones.
“Becca.”
I heard my name and I swung around in pretend-surprise. I gasped for authenticity.
“Mike. Detecti . . . uh . . . Officer . . . uh . . . Captain . . . ?”
He smiled. “Mike is fine,” he said, as he walked towards me. He stopped when he was a few meters away and then folded his arms and looked me straight in the eyes.
A thump in my chest.
A punch in my gut.
A palpitation.
Strange queasiness.
A fuzzy buzz washing over me.
A flutter.
What was happening . . . ? AGAIN!
I quickly looked away.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, a strange tone in his voice.
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumbled nonchalantly, trying to act natural and normal once more.
“You really seem to be getting around,” he said.
I nodded. “That’s me. Get-around-town Becca,” I said, without thinking, and then I realized what that had sounded like when I saw him smile.
