The Last Days of Summer: The best feel-good summer read for 2017. Sophie Pembroke
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the house. However much he denied it, the description of Honeysuckle House in Going Home matched Rosewood to the letter. Not just the honey-coloured brick, symmetrical Georgian design, or the twelve chimneys, or even the white-marble steps leading up to the front door. There was something about the feel of the place – the way he described the sun on the terrace when the gin and tonics were being poured, or the coolness of the middle room when the rain came down outside – that made it feel like home to me.
I flipped a few pages through the book again, pausing at a description of Honeysuckle House:
When the afternoon sun alighted on the windows, the whole house lit up, as if it were night and every light inside had been left on. Inside, the house could be cold – Grace’s mother had decorated it in the latest styles, with lots of white and sharp edges. But she couldn’t cool the natural warmth of the house as I looked upon it, or sharpen the corners of the worn golden brick exterior. And when the house filled with people… Ah, that was when Honeysuckle House came alive. And so did Grace.
I put the book aside. I didn’t need Agnes’s descriptions of Grace’s house – not when I had my own memories of Rosewood. Of the Rose Garden, the Orangery, the sweeping staircase that dominated the main hallway. Of Nathaniel’s study, every inch crammed with books and papers.
And of Nathaniel, most of all. The way his voice boomed and echoed around Rosewood, or how he poured his drinks too strong, or how every meal became story time, somehow. How every little event of his day became a hysterical monologue by the time he’d finished telling it. And how he knew to listen, sometimes, and just be there – a warm, comforting, reassuring presence I’d relied on my whole life.
I’d always have my memories. It was just hard to imagine not knowing when I’d next be there in person. When I’d see my family again.
The phone rang, and I put my book aside, reaching past my empty coffee cup to answer it.
“Saskia? It’s your grandfather.” As if I couldn’t tell from his voice. “Now, tell me, did you see the ridiculous invitations your grandmother picked out for this Golden Wedding thing? You have to come home and help me through it.”
I frowned. “Golden Wedding?”
“Fifty years of wedded bliss and she wants another damned party.” Nathaniel’s voice dropped low, as if he were afraid someone might be listening. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something in mind to fire up the festivities. You really don’t want to miss it, Kia.”
It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to go home for my grandparents’ Golden Wedding anniversary. Isabelle and Nathaniel Drury knew how to throw a party, after all, and this was sure to be a big one. The sort of shindig people talked about for decades to come. In fact, people still told stories about the first ever party they held at Rosewood, back in 1966. There were reports in the society pages. Couples met at Isabelle’s parties, or got engaged – or even pregnant. But they weren’t the sort of parties I imagined when I thought of the sixties – I’d seen photos. Isabelle’s parties required full evening wear, champagne, important people – and enough drama to keep people gossiping for weeks afterwards.
There hadn’t been a party at Rosewood since Ellie’s wedding, as far as I knew. I didn’t want to miss it – and I really didn’t want to be the person at the hypothetical future dinner table saying, “I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” when someone asked, “And do you remember the bit when…”
I just didn’t know how welcome I’d be when I got to Rosewood.
“I didn’t get an invitation,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. “But I take your word for it that they’re awful.”
“Hideous,” Nathaniel said, with an audible shudder. He paused, then asked, “Did you really not get one?”
“Nope.” I ran my hand over the cover of Going Home. Apparently, I wasn’t. Isabelle knew every tiny detail of party etiquette, and obeyed it all, when it suited her. If she’d wanted me there, I’d have received an invitation. The fact that I hadn’t – or even any notice that the party was happening at all – told me exactly how welcome I’d be.
“Well, that’s stupid,” Nathaniel said. “You should have done. Consider this call your invite.”
I gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure that’s quite how it works.”
“It is now. It’s my party too, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” I was pretty sure that, in Isabelle’s head, the man she married was entirely incidental to the party she was throwing to celebrate that aforementioned marriage.
“Then I’m reclaiming it. And you’re invited.” There was a rustle of paper on the other end of the line, and I leapt on the noise as a way to change the subject.
“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to be interested in his answer. It had to be better than thinking about how my own grandmother didn’t want me there for a family party.
“I’ve been thinking about the nature of truth in fiction,” he replied, instantly distracted, as I’d known he would be.
“Truth in fiction?” I echoed, topping up my coffee. That sounded like a fairly epic procrastination exercise. I wondered what Nathaniel was supposed to be writing that required such distraction; he never liked to talk much about his works in progress until they were shiny and published and winning awards.
“Are all stories just reflections of ourselves? Are even the fictions we write based on the truths of our own lives?” I tried and failed to come up with a satisfactory response to what I hoped was a rhetorical question. “Take your work at the paper,” Nathaniel went on, apparently not noticing that I hadn’t responded. “How much do your own life and your life experiences colour the reports you write?”
Since most of what I wrote for the Perth Herald was based entirely on press releases, and my main concern was getting them all in on time, probably not a lot. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want Nathaniel thinking that I wasn’t properly investing in my artistic side, so I said, “Probably more than I know,” in what I hoped was a thoughtful voice.
“Exactly my point! So, the conclusion I’ve reached is that it is only through knowing ourselves, understanding our true selves, that we can hope to create anything meaningful in fiction.”
“That’s… interesting.” Did I have any more bread left for toast, I wondered? Not getting invited to a family party definitely deserved self-pity toast.
“So, you agree, then?”
“Absolutely.” Maybe even chocolate spread.
“Perfect! We can discuss it more when you visit this summer. For the Golden Wedding party.”
I froze, halfway through putting more bread in the toaster. “I can’t come, Nathaniel. Not if I’m not wanted there.”
“I want you there,” he said. “And I’m sure the others do too, even if they don’t know it yet. You wouldn’t let an old man down now, would you? Leave him to face all his wife’s acquaintances while wearing white tails and a bow tie? I’ll probably even have to make a speech…”
“I’m fairly sure you can cope with a party with your friends without me,” I said drily. “Besides, you love making speeches. You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say in this one, yet. Really, Kia. You don’t want to miss it. Trust me.”
There was something in his voice, a hint of mischief and possible magic, something I’d missed so much over the last two years, that it tugged at my heart to hear it again, trying to lead me home.
I wanted to be there. I wanted to go home, more than anything.
And so I said, “Okay. I’ll come.” Even though my brain was screaming that it was a terrible idea. Sometimes you have