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“I love how she looks,” I say.
“I do too,” Dev says. “She looks like you.”
There’s so much I want to say to him, but the combination of his presence and these old photographs is overwhelming. I leaf through them, knowing I’ll look at them more carefully later. They seem like they’re from another era, and I guess they are. Children on a swing, a crowd of kids at a school fair, boys playing by the river. I stop at one of a little girl with blond hair, holding the hand of an older girl.
“That one’s special,” Dev says.
The younger girl is tiny, knock-kneed, a little dirty and with her hair a mess, like she’s been running around outside on a hot day. I could look at her forever. For so long, my only physical connectionto my mother’s childhood was the Melling School book, which I’ve brought with me. Now I can see her when she was young and honest.
“When was this from?” I say.
“It says on the back.”
I flip it over. Someone has scrawled “1978, Sukie and Polly.”
“That’s Polly?”
Dev smiles and nods.
“I still can’t get over that our mothers knew each other,” I say.
“It’s wild, I know.”
The two girls in the photograph seem so happy and carefree, like they’re out on an adventure, enjoying the countryside, the fine weather, each other’s company. Like days like this will be theirs forever. My mom and Dev’s, together. It’s magical.
“Do you think that, somehow, we knew?” I say.
“That our mothers brought us together?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Not in the slightest,” Dev says.
“Oh.” I can’t help being disappointed.
But then Dev takes my hand.
“What I feel for you, Cath, has absolutely nothing to do with our mothers.”
I can’t speak, but it doesn’t matter. Dev leans in and kisses me, and whatever hesitancy I had about seeing him again has vanished. He is not only still here in Willowthrop, he is here in my garden, with me. And this time, I am all in.
When we come up for air, Dev says he wants to ask me something. I kiss him before he can say more. I know what his question is anyway. Finally, I answer.
“I am not going to bolt,” I say. “I promise.”
“Brilliant of you to let me know, but I was going to ask if you’d come down to the bar tonight. I’m trying out a new menu of cocktails.”
“No more Hanky Panky?”
“I’ll make you something better.”
He glances at my bicycle leaning on the fence.
“You can ride down; I’ll drive you home.”
I point to the cottage. “Here? This is my home?”
“How about that?” Dev says. “This is your home.”
Hand in hand, we walk out of the garden. I watch his little car disappear over the hill. I walk into the pasture, where the grass is still low. In the distance, a narrow footpath cuts across the slope. I pick up my pace as I climb the hill, the breeze pushing my hair off my shoulders. I am ready to explore, to roam the countryside that was once my mother’s playground, to walk along the river where she thought she’d be safe. I can follow in her footsteps and forge new paths.
I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here or if I can make this place my own. But I’m getting used to the idea of taking a leap and trusting that I’ll find my way. I may never know what makes someone broken or whole or why someone stays or goes. But I can accept that some things, even important, life-changing things, remain a mystery.