London from My Windows

Books by Mary Carter

SHE'LL TAKE IT
ACCIDENTALLY ENGAGED
SUNNYSIDE BLUES
MY SISTER'S VOICE
THE PUB ACROSS THE POND
THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU
THREE MONTHS IN FLORENCE
MEET ME IN BARCELONA
LONDON FROM MY WINDOWS

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I'd like to thank my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor, John Scognamiglio; my publicist, Vida Engstrand; my production editor, Paula Reedy; and the rest of the staff at Kensington who work behind the scenes on all the aspects of bringing a book to life. Thanks as well to Hellen Candeland for sharing a few pictures of London from her windows with me.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

CHAPTER 1

“May I have this dance, luv?” Ava's father asked her mother.

Oh yes. Please say yes.
In the corner of her living room, Ava Wilder stood on tiptoe, clasped her hands, and held her breath, fearing if she exhaled, her mother would not dance. Ava's father held the record player's needle aloft, waiting for the yes to set it down and let his favorite song play. He had on his dancing shoes, the shiny black ones with the pointed toes, black pants, and the green sweater-vest Ava's mother had bought him for Christmas.

Such a good dancer, oh, he was so good. His glass of Scotch sat untouched on the shelf above the record player, two cubes of ice bobbed at the top, and the day's last beam of sun cut through it, striking it gold. While they waited, he turned his head, winked at Ava, and unleashed his drumroll of a smile. Ava's enthusiasm spilled out into silent applause. This way she could show her full support yet not shatter the moment with useless noise. Her mother loathed useless noise. Whenever she was tortured by useless noise, her face hardened. Then, the magic would be lost.
Oh, please soften; please soften.
Whenever she softened and they danced, the world glowed. Their living room pulsed with life, and Ava danced with joy. Joy, right here in their little town in Iowa.

Gretchen Wilder folded her arms across her chest and shook her head before glancing at Ava. The needle scratched down anyway and bossa nova music enveloped the room. “Tall and tan and young and lovely . . .” Her father lifted his arms up and moved his feet to the music. Yes. Oh, he was such a good dancer. Ava's right foot tapped along too. Someday she was going to be just like him. She would dance with her husband. She would never need to soften because she would never harden. His hips swayed as he sang along with Frank Sinatra. “Tall and tan and young and lovely.” He was slightly off-key and it sounded funny with his British accent. Ava giggled. She wished she had a British accent, but hers was boring like her mother's.

“Come now. Dance with me.”

Ava's mother shook her head again and stared at the tightly drawn curtains. “What will the neighbors think?” Could the neighbors see through the curtains? Ava would have to check next time she was in the yard. Ava's lips moved along with the song, although she didn't dare sing out loud.

“They'll think that we like to dance.” Her father's voice was as upbeat as the music. He strode to the window and swooshed open the curtains. Faint stars were already starting to pop their heads into the sky. He turned to Ava. “Dance with me!”
Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Ava glanced at the windows, then at her mother's pursed lips. Should she? Could she? Her father stood in front of her and planted his feet wide and firm. The tops of his black shoes were so shiny that Ava's nose, lips, and even the ceiling fan were reflected in them.

“Bertrand.” Her mother's voice relaxed slightly. It was there, beneath her tongue, a slight hesitation. She was softening. He always made her soften.

Yes!
The first shot of joy coursed through Ava.
Who cares, nosy neighbors. We're dancing.
Ava kicked off her shoes, grabbed on to her father's outstretched hands, and stepped onto his feet. They danced as the girl from Ipanema walked to the sea. Ava leaned back, stretched her arms as far as they would go, and forced her father to hold her weight. He sped up and the crown molding carouseled by. This was the best day ever. Her father was happy; her mother was softening. Dizzy, getting a little dizzy, but Ava didn't want to stop. Her shrieks filled the air. She straightened her head. The brown recliner, flowered sofa, and RCA television blurred into a mini-tornado of color.

Her mother headed for the kitchen. “She's going to barf on the living room rug.”

“I won't barf!” Ava shouted. “Aaaaaaahhhhh.” The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air. Wednesday. It was spaghetti night with the stretchy white cheese. Her mother baked it in the oven. Ava loved, loved, loved the stretchy white cheese. “Aaaaaaaahhh.”

Ava's father gently brought her up, and he began to dance her to the front door. He held on to Ava with one hand and opened the door with the other.

“What are you doing?” Gretchen called from the kitchen.

“It's a beautiful night. Let's dance outside, Ava,” her father said.

“What will the neighbors think?” Ava said.
Where did that come from?

Her father just laughed and opened the screen door. “That we like to dance,” they said in unison. And soon they were twirling on the front porch. Ava laughed and relished the cool breeze on her hot face. The aroma of marinara sauce mingled with the rosebushes below.

“Now, down the path.” Her father danced her down the steps, one-two, one-two, one-two, and even though the music was distant now, deep inside Ava the beat continued to pulse. The sky was trying to hold on to the remaining streaks of blue, but orange streaks cut across it, deeper than any shade in her box of 64 Crayola crayons. “What do you say, little lady?” her father's voice rang out in the yard. “Shall we dance in the street?”

“We shall,” Ava said, putting on her best British accent. They stepped just outside their brown picket fence. Fireflies blinked around them as they danced toward the curb. If only Ava had a jar. When they reached the strip of grass just beyond the sidewalk, Ava's father lost his footing, and stumbled. He dropped her hands and Ava's feet flew out, knocking her backwards. She smacked the ground, barely missing the concrete. Pain roared through the back of her head. “Dad?” Why wasn't he worried about her? Why didn't he cry out to her? Ava sat up. Her father was lying on the sidewalk a few feet away. Inside Ava's head, the music stopped and the needle scratched. And scratched, and scratched, and scratched.

She scrambled to her feet. “Dad?” Her voice came out as a whisper. Was he playing a game? He would never hurt her on purpose. He had never dropped her like that before. “Dad?” She said it louder this time, and her voice cracked. Once more, he did not answer. A strange thudding, like a heartbeat, pulsed through her ears as Ava inched over to her father. His eyes were open, unblinking. Was he having a laugh? Sometimes he liked to have a laugh. “Dad?” This was a scary game. She didn't like it. Did not like it at all. Dead. He looked dead. “Dad? Dad?” He would never do this to her, not when she sounded so terrified. Something was really wrong, terribly wrong. Ava screamed. The kind all the neighbors would hear. She tore up the walk and clamored up to the porch. She threw open the screen door. “MOM. MOM. MOM.”

A clank sounded from the kitchen, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. “God damn it!” her mother yelled. “Ava! God damn it!” Ava knew the spaghetti with the stretchy white cheese smashing on the kitchen floor was the sound she heard, and saw it all in her mind's eye—noodles, red sauce, and the stretchy white cheese smeared all over the floor.

Her mother's heels clacked closer, and closer, and soon she appeared, fists clenched and eyes flashing. “Guess what you made me do?” she said. Who would make her soften now? No one. She would never soften again.

“Dad,” Ava said. “Help.” She whirled around and raced back to the curb, not even caring if her mother was following.

“What in the name of heaven?” her mother called after her, the first sign of worry creeping into her voice. Ava was standing over her father's body when her mother came down the walk, her face as pale as the stretchy white cheese that Ava would never eat again. “What did you do, Ava?” her mother wailed. “What did you do?”

What did she do? “Nothing.” She didn't know. “Nothing.” She really didn't know. “We were dancing.”

“Dancing,” her mother said. The word sounded different coming from her. It sounded evil.

“Dad,” Ava said. “Daddy, wake up.” Ava knelt down on the sidewalk. Pebbles cut into her knees, but she didn't move.

“I told you not to dance,” her mother said. “I told you not to dance.”

“Do something, Mom,” Ava said. “Do something.” She stared helplessly at her father. He was so still, so pale. “CPR,” Ava said. It was a lifesaving skill. Her mother dropped to her knees next to Ava. Did she know CPR? She didn't pinch his nose or breathe into his mouth. She held his face between her palms.

“Bertie, Bertie, Bertie.” Ava had never heard her mother call him Bertie. “Wake up; come on, wake up now.” Ava wanted to tell her to blow into his mouth and press down on his chest. She wasn't quite sure how that would help.
Please, God, make him better. I will do anything you ask. Anything.
“Ava, go inside. Call nine-one-one. Then turn off the stove.” Ava moved, somehow, up the path, the steps, and once again she burst through the screen door. She didn't stop until she reached the kitchen, where she darted in and slipped in a pool of marinara sauce. She hit the floor face-first this time. Noodles clung to her, and sauce covered her chest. She grabbed on to the counter and hauled herself up, then turned off the stove and snatched up the phone. Her fingers trembled as she hit the buttons, and she was smearing red sauce on everything she touched.

CPR. It's a lifesaving skill
.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“My father,” Ava said. “Help.”

“What's your address, sweetie?” Ava recited it. There were so many questions, she wanted to get back outside. “Where is your father? Is he with you?”

“He's on the sidewalk. We were dancing. Outside.” She leaked out each word like a confession, a plea for forgiveness. She wiped noodles from her, and as much sauce as she could. It looked like blood.

“How old are you? What is your name, sweetie?”

“Ten. Ava.” Why was she asking her that? What did that matter?

“Are you alone?”

“My mother is outside. She's with him.”

“Is he breathing?”

“I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. We were dancing outside. He's lying on the sidewalk. It's my fault! It's my fault!”

“It's not your fault.”

“Help.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Help.”

“Can you bring the phone to your mommy, sweetie?” Ava never called her mommy. She was too old for that. Ava ran outside. Her mother was crouched over, sobbing, rocking.

“Mom. Nine-one-one wants you.”

“You're too late,” her mother said. “You're too late.”

Too late.
What did she mean? Too late. He was dead? Did she mean he was dead? That man on the sidewalk was not her father. Her father was alive. He could brighten a room just by walking into it. He was her dad. He was supposed to be there for her, watch her grow up. He was going to take her to London to see the Queen. He promised. He never broke his promises, so he couldn't be dead. They were going to visit her aunt Beverly. She was an actress in London and they were going to stay with her, and drink tea in rose-petal china cups with their pinkies sticking out, and eat something her father called trumpets. Ava's father laughed when she said it. “I wouldn't want to chomp on a trumpet.” He winked. “Crumpet” was the word he said: It was more similar to an American pancake than a musical instrument. How could he be dead when she could still hear his laugh in her ear? Maybe she needed to beg.

No, please no, God. Please, God, please. Please
. When that didn't work, Ava thought of everything she could have, should have, done that day instead. Ava should have run faster. No, she ran too fast; that's why she slipped. She should have been more careful around the sauce. She turned off the stove first. How could she be so stupid? She should have called 911 first. She was too late, too slow, too stupid. “I'm sorry. I slipped. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” She was too. Sorrier than she had ever been. Hot stabs of guilt assaulted her on an endless loop.
Make this stop. Please, make it stop.
Miracles existed, didn't they? Could she get a miracle, please? Just one.
Take me, God. Take me. I'm not even a good dancer.

Her mother's wails echoed in the night. Up and down the block, neighbors flung open their doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, watching. Her mother was right. The neighbors watched. They saw. But for once, her mother didn't seem to care. “My husband. My love. My only love. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone. Why? Why? Why? Why?” Ava thought her mother was pleading with God. “Why, Ava, why?” She was wrong. Her mother wasn't pleading with God; she was pleading with her. This was Ava's fault. Her father was dead, and it was all her fault.

A fireman came into their class just last week to talk about CPR. He said it was never too early to learn because you could do CPR on animals too. That's why Ava really wanted to learn CPR. In case she had to save a dog one day. Maybe a poodle, or a beagle. She prayed she wouldn't have to put her mouth on something big and mean like a Rottweiler, or slobbery like an English bulldog. But she would. She would save any breed of dying dog. The fireman was going to teach it at the firehouse on Saturday. Ava had signed up. Her father was going to take her. But this was only Wednesday. It was never too early. But it was too late.
She
was too late.