His smile looked sad and full of nostalgia. ‘Caroline was my wife. We were married for thirty-three years.’
My eyes were darting everywhere as though searching for hidden cameras, because it certainly felt as though I had just been pranked. Big time.
‘Then who is—?’ I broke off as my eyes travelled past something on an ornate dresser and were then yanked back towards it.
‘Why the hell do you have a photograph of my mother? What is going on here?’
The picture frame was still in my hands. Henry hadn’t asked for it back. He might have had a tug of war on his hands if he had. Beside me on a side table was an empty glass of whiskey. It was a spirit I never drank, but I’d knocked it back when he’d pressed it into my hand. It had burnt all the way down, searing the questions in my throat. At least for now.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the picture in my hands. It was one I’d never seen before. Mum couldn’t have been much older than her early twenties when it was taken. But her youth wasn’t the thing that shocked me the most. It was the dancing laughter in her eyes and the unmistakable expression of love that was solely for the person who’d taken the photograph.
‘That’s the only one I have of her,’ Henry said sadly. ‘But it captures her perfectly.’
My eyes scoured the image, trying to see any trace of the person I’d known in the features of the carefree young woman. I could find none.
I had so many questions; there was so much that made absolutely no sense, I had no idea where to begin.
‘So, if your wife was called Caroline, and you have a photograph of my mother in your possession, where the hell does Bee come into this?’
I didn’t apologise for cursing, and I could see he hadn’t expected me to.
‘That is Bee in your hands,’ Henry said, his features softening as his eyes went to the photograph I was holding. ‘The only woman I have ever truly loved.’
I doubted that was something his late wife would ever have wanted to hear.
‘Bee?’ I said, grappling with the first of a thousand questions. ‘Why do you call her that?’
His smile wasn’t that of an old man, it was that of a man who was so in love – was still so in love – that just the mention of her name could warm his heart.
‘She introduced herself as Beth, the very first time we met,’ he said, his eyes faraway as though that first meeting was a video that played on a loop through his memories. ‘That’s what she used to call herself. “Elizabeth isn’t me at all,” she said. “There’s no fun in that name.” But in the end, I never called her Beth. She was always Bee to me. It was my nickname for her, and she loved it.’
I had no idea who the person he was describing might be, but she certainly didn’t sound like the woman I knew.
‘Mum hated nicknames. She never let anyone shorten her name. She said it was lazy; it made her angry.’
Henry looked sad enough to cry. ‘I think a great many of the things you’ve told me about her, the sharp edges, the anger, and the bitterness weren’t really her fault.’ A single tear escaped, running down his lined cheek. ‘They were down to me. There’s a place in hell for people like me. I found an angel and then broke her wings. I’m the one who made her the way she was.’
The glass of whiskey had been replaced by a cup of sweet tea that I told him I didn’t want, but which, curiously, I appeared to have drained.
‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice not entirely steady. ‘Tell me everything.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Let’s walk,’ said Henry, already getting to his feet and reaching for his stick before I could reply. ‘This may take some time, and I think the fresh air will do us both good.’
We rode the lift down to the ground floor in silence while I replayed every single conversation Henry and I had ever had in my head. I was searching for missed clues or dropped hints that this man had known my mother and effectively spent months fooling me into believing a lie.
I wanted to be angry with him. I was angry with him. But there was a new level of sadness in his eyes, as though I’d ripped off a vital protective layer and left him exposed and vulnerable to the power of his memories. He looked like a man facing a firing squad.
There were double doors that led out to the home’s expansive grounds and Henry went through them, leaning a little on his stick.
‘Are you up to this?’ I asked, meaning the walk. The ground was still damp from the rain, and the grass was certain to be slippery.
‘Probably not,’ he said, deliberately misreading me. We stepped off the paved walkway and onto the damp lawn.
The rain had cleared the air. It felt fresh and cleansing and Henry breathed it in deeply, as though stockpiling its restorative powers.
‘Before I say anything, and before you ask the many questions you have every right to do, it’s important you know the one thing I have never misled you about is my fondness for you, Ellie. Your friendship has been a highlight I never expected to find this late in my life and if I have damaged that, if I have made you mistrust me, then it will be the second biggest regret in my life.’