Facebook X Email Print Save Story Facebook X Email Print Save Story The guest from America was to arrive in the late afternoon. Ursula, having arranged the welcome platter, waited until she heard a car slowing down in the driveway, its gravel rinsed all day by the rain, before drizzling some honey in broad strokes on the cheese and the nuts. From the kitchen window, she could see the cabdriver—Timothy today—place a suitcase next to the door, heavy, as demonstrated by his eloquent grimace.
Likely he had entertained his fare with one of his two America-related stories: the cousin who’d done life in Sing Sing or the great-granduncle escaping Alcatraz on a stormy night. Visitors from America were rare, or else Timothy would have invented more credible family legends. The woman, Lilian Pang, smiled tiredly as she got out of the car and thanked Timothy.
She was between forty-five and fifty-five, Ursula estimated, a time when some people’s lives come into order while others’ fall out of it. It was mid-January, not the best season for anyone to holiday in the Devon countryside, particularly alone. A reservation of two weeks was long; guests usually stayed for a few days at most.
Ursula had not dwelled too much on this, but she had noticed the facts. And now, assessing the guest through the window, she did not think there were any red flags. People who have taken the trouble to travel seek something they cannot find at home.
Ursula’s job was to provide the possibility, not.