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Alexia shrugged. “Rumors. Westminster gossip. Who knows? I certainly never had the slightest intention of shopping him.”
“So he never made contact, not even after Daddy died?”
“I never expected him to, darling. Word is he’s angling to become the next UN secretary-general. With friends like me he won’t need enemies.”
Her mother seemed sanguine about it, but Roxie was aggrieved on her behalf. “Surely there must be someone from Westminster who keeps in touch? All those years . . .”
“I did get a sweet letter from Sir Edward Manning,” Alexia said wistfully.
“What did he say?”
“Oh, this and that. Political gossip mostly. He offered to visit, but it wouldn’t have felt right. He did send me a copy of Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, though. Have you read them? They’re terrific.”
“I haven’t.”
An awkward silence fell across the table. Both women longed to reconnect with each other. But after so many years of estrangement, conversation didn’t flow easily. They had so little in common. Roxie was artistic and creative, Alexia pragmatic and ambitious. The one thing they shared was their family bond. But after everything that had happened, family was the one topic they both struggled to avoid.
“How’s Summer?” Alexia asked eventually. “Do you two see much of each other these days?”
Roxie brightened. “We do. We try to. She still visits Michael every day, you know.”
Both women marveled at Summer Meyer’s loyalty. Lucy’s affair with Michael was public knowledge now. The letter that Lucy had written to Summer, before she and Alexia set out to the beach that fateful day, was made public at her trial. Lucy Meyer had been posthumously convicted of the killings of Milo Bates and Jennifer Hamlin, as well as the attempted murder of Michael De Vere. She was buried in the family plot in Martha’s Vineyard, where Arnie apparently visited her daily. Still in love, still grieving, still unable to process the revelations that had surrounded his wife’s death. Poor man.
Lucy’s letter made it clear that she had always intended to kill herself once she’d “disposed” of Alexia. Like Alexia, Lucy had wanted justice, closure, and for the truth to be known. The only difference was that Lucy Meyer’s view of justice, of right and wrong, had been so skewed and poisoned by decades of hatred that it bore no relation to Alexia’s, or to any thinking person’s. There was no hint of apology in her note to her daughter, not for what she’d done to Michael or for anything else.
Summer and Arnie had both witnessed Lucy’s gruesome death. The police told Alexia afterward that Summer had been just feet away when Lucy blew her brains out. You never got over something like that. Arnie coped by denial, but Summer was too rational for such a strategy. Instead she’d fled to England and to Michael, burying her feelings as best she could. It was a wonder she wasn’t a total basket case.
“Give her my love when you see her,” said Alexia.
“I will.”
“And your brother, of course.”
“Of course,” Roxie mumbled guiltily. The truth was, Roxie no longer visited Michael. There was no point. His body might be there in the bed, but he was gone. But it would only upset her mother to tell her that. Better to focus on the future, on happy things.
“By the way, it’s not a big deal or anything. But I’m seeing someone.” She blushed endearingly.
Alexia’s face lit up.
“That’s wonderful, darling! Who?”
“His name’s William. William Carruthers.”
Alexia dimly recognized the name.
“He’s an estate agent,” Roxie went on. “Actually, he’s the chap who sold Kingsmere for us after Daddy died.”
Alexia frowned. She was about to say, So he knows exactly how much money you’re worth and he’s moved in for the main chance. But with an effort she bit her tongue. It wasn’t her place to try to manage Roxie’s life, romantic or otherwise. At some point she had to trust her daughter’s judgment. After all, how much worse could it be than her own?
“It’s early days,” said Roxie. “But I’m very happy.”
“Then so am I.” Alexia squeezed her hand. “I’d like to meet him sometime.”
“Sometime.” Roxie blushed again. “Let’s see how it goes.”
The two women talked for a few more minutes. Then the inevitable buzzer sounded to indicate that visiting time was over. Around the room, prisoners embraced family and friends. Some stoically, others in a flood of emotion, particularly the mothers with young children. Alexia felt for them. Those precious childhood years, once gone, could never be recaptured. Roxie and Michael had happy childhoods, I think. Teddy and I gave them that much at least.
She watched her daughter push her wheelchair through the double doors and out of sight, and she tried to feel hopeful for her future. Would this William Carruth
