Page 13 of The Dead Come to Stay

Jo walked along the quay along the banks of the River Tyne. The river flowed beneath the Gateshead Monument Bridge; her side

of the river boasted restaurants and nightlight hot spots. She’d known that Newcastle had once been an enormous commercial

port for shipbuilding, glassmaking and—thanks to Lord Armstrong—munitions. She didn’t know it boasted an art scene. A center

for the arts massed along one side of the quay, and despite MacAdams designating Newcastle as the “cheap” city by comparison

to York, the lofts rising over the Tyne suggested ready money. Hadrian Hall looked positively luxurious.

The main entry resembled a hotel lobby, so much so that Jo almost went out again to check the address. She wished she was

wearing something a bit more flashy; her classic Doc Martens, black jeans and a scoop-neck tee felt a bit like inappropriate

in the present environment. Fargesia, ficus, freesia , she thought to herself—the recent dive into botany having provided a good supply of new words to chew on. Artemesia, asphodel—

“Can I help?” the clerk asked. Jo made her best attempt at a breezy, carefree smile and made her approach.

“I’m Jo Jones. I’m here to see Arthur Alston in Loft 8? He’s expecting me.”

“One moment.” She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed in a code. “Mr. Alston? A Ms. Jones to see you.”

Jo’s palms had begun to sweat. She felt like she was being buzzed in for an interview. Did everyone here get the same treatment?

Or was Mr. Alston special? Breathe , she told herself. Which was terrible advice, as she promptly forgot how to do it properly.

The woman hung up the phone and pointed. “Choose the fourth floor. Loft eight will be to your right.”

Jo repositioned her backpack and hurried past the porter. There were six floors total; she made a reasonable guess that meant

two lofts per level. If so, the apartments inside were utterly huge. In New York calculation, a place like this—on the water,

no less—would be well into the millions. It did nothing to assuage her galloping heart.

The elevator dinged whimsically and opened into a long hall with windows at either end. She approached the right door, but

it opened before she could ring the bell, accompanied by a lot of excited barking.

The man in the doorway looked to be in his fifties, dark hair streaked with iron gray and swept back from the temples like

a silver screen icon. Lean, graceful limbs draped in a silk kimono dressing gown over slacks, dress shirt, neck scarf. If

he wasn’t an avant-garde painter, he was missing his calling. In a moment, he swooped down to capture a Pomeranian attempting

escape, then made a gesture of welcome.

“You must be Aiden’s niece,” he said, backing away to allow her inside. Jo swallowed the interior in a single gulp of extravagance

and nodded as she entered the apartment. “It’s good to meet you. I am Aiden’s widower.”

Jo found her way to a sofa she’d originally taken for an art piece and sat down gingerly. Outside the bank of windows, the

sun was starting to sink.

“I’ll make tea, shall I?” Arthur held up tiny Japanese cups.

The Pomeranian was still circling Jo, and she’d just noticed a sad-looking Boston terrier snoozing on a shag rug.

She ought to be putting a list of useful questions together in her head, but she was still trying to take in the art-laden walls, Persian carpet, squat little Moroccan footstools.

The mantelpiece shone in glorious white marble, with a nested Russian doll curio and vase of orchids in the middle.

“Please, yes,” she said. “I didn’t know Aiden was married.”

“Ah. I should explain,” Arthur said, sitting across from her. “We were not married, in fact—though, for all practical purposes...” He poured tea.“We’d been together eighteen years. That’s before

gay marriage had been legalized, but there were other reasons for keeping things unofficial.”

“What were they?” Jo asked. Then regretted it; probably this was impolite. Arthur sipped tea with engineering precision and

a wry smile.

“So, jumping right in. Perhaps we should start a little further back,” he said. “How much do you know about your uncle?”

“My mother never spoke of him.”

“Never? I see. And what about your grandfather?”

Jo bit her lip. She didn’t even know who her own father was, much less anyone further back on either side.

“Nothing,” she said.

Arthur didn’t look surprised; he nodded his head and stood up, sending the dressing gown into butterfly flutters. He strolled

along the wide windows, stopping at a large square painting on the opposite wall. Mostly red, with streaks of gray and a small

black dot in the center.

“This is an original painting by a local artist: Chen Benton-Li. It’s called Hiding . Aiden bought it at an art auction. It’s where we met.”

“You’re an artist,” Jo said, but he laughed it off.

“No, alas. But I support the arts.”

“You’re a millionaire,” Jo said, not intentionally. Arthur laughed again, and it sounded to Jo a bit more natural.

“Oh goodness, if we were I’d be living in Jesmond, wouldn’t we, boys?” Jo half turned to take in the modern eclectic Vogue shoot behind her, and Arthur went on. “Despite appearance, surprisingly affordable at the time of purchase. I do have somewhat

expensive tastes.”

“This is a Persian Kerman Lavar from Esfahan,” Jo said, mentally adding A Guide to Eastern Rugs, 2014 . It took her two extra weeks to edit because she kept falling down subject interest rabbit holes.

“Very good! Very . And you’ve caught me out; I am a rather uninteresting investment banker.” He winked. “Though a well-paid one.”

“And that’s not a reproduction on the mantel, is it?”

“Antique Russian iconography nesting dolls, tipped in gold. A present from your uncle, in fact.” The darkness outside was

descending, so he turned on the lights, which simultaneously lit up the red painting. Then he returned to his leather club

chair. “I realized you are seeing me at home, where I have the obligatory gay man’s dogs and kimono. But out in the world

I do not cut an especially flamboyant figure. Which certainly appealed to Aiden. Your uncle, you see, was not out , Ms. Jones.”

“Jo, please.” She took a breath. “He didn’t want people to know you were together?”

“He began life not wanting his father to know. Then I think it became a habit with him.”

“But you lived together—here?” Jo said, trying to explain it to herself.

Arthur nodded. “Yes. You see, straight Aiden lived in York, at a flat he sublet most of the time. The real Aiden lived here, with me.” He swept his hand toward the

red painting. “In Hiding .”

Jo stared at the square, this time focused on the small black dot behind a gray streak. A great deal had just clicked into

place.

“My mother kept secrets, too. I was left a crumbling estate that I didn’t even know existed, until she died and I inherited it.”

“I know.” Arthur picked up a newspaper and handed it to her. Jo stared at a headline—and her own face. It was the interview

she’d done before the garden opening.

“Oh.”

“American inherits mystery property, almost gets burned alive inside it, bequeathes a garden to the National Trust. You can

understand why I wanted to meet you. Aiden would have wanted to, as well,” Arthur said.

Jo put the paper down and wet her lips.

“You said there were—letters,” she managed.

Arthur nodded, passed the gas fireplace and headed into the farther stretch of apartment. He returned with several envelopes

and placed them into her hands. One of them had been addressed in Jo’s own handwriting.

“Oh God,” she panted. “This is mine? I sent it when I was twelve—”

“Yes. The other is his answer to you. It was returned unopened.”

“Wh-what do they say?” she whispered.

Arthur gave her a quiet sort of smile. “I only know what I’ve been told. I didn’t pry. Aiden was a very private man. Even

with me.”

Jo was listening. She was also opening envelopes—starting with the response to her own.

Dear Josephine,

I’m so happy you wrote to me about the school trip. I would be delighted to meet you when you arrive. Here is my telephone

number; if you give me the details, I can even meet you at the airport in London. Send love to your mother; my very best,

Uncle Aiden

“He wanted to see me,” Jo said, almost to herself. Arthur was kind enough to say nothing. She picked up the second letter; it had been sent to her aunt in Chicago.

Dearest Aunt Susan,

I know we have not spoken in some time. Not long ago, young Josephine wrote me; I tried to respond. I may not have the correct

address. Can you please direct me?

“That one had been opened—by someone,” Arthur said. “It came back in a new envelope, postage paid. But without a single word.”

Jo understood the message too well. Both her mother and aunt had been silent sentinels as Jo was growing up. We don’t speak of the ugly thing, the hurtful thing. As if that would make it safe. But it was worse that than; Jo knew her mother was a holder of grudges. She knew keeping the

letters secret would hurt Aiden. Apparently it never occurred to her that it would hurt Jo, too.

“And this one?” she asked; a smooth, white envelope, unmarked.

“Unsent,” Arthur said. “He kept it with the others. I feel like it’s for you. Just you.” He handed her a letter opener to

break the seal; Jo’s hands were shaking, but she took it anyway and managed to split the seam.

The paper inside was from a notebook, faint blue lines on a sheet torn from something else. The writing looked the same, but

not the same. A note left for the self, and not for others.

Dear Josephine,

I recognize even as I write this that I’ll probably never send it. I suppose I needed to put the feelings into words, somehow.