Chapter 22: Mine, Both

Geoffrey was already in the room when we arrived.

He sat in the visitor's chair, close to the bed, with his father's left hand in both of his.

He had driven up before dawn and hadn't changed his shirt.

Richard Willoughby lay propped on three pillows by the window, thin and white-haired, in a gray cardigan.

His eyes went past Geoffrey to the door.

They found Rowan.

Rowan stopped just inside the room.

For a moment he didn't seem able to walk, and I did not touch him, because I thought he would not want me to.

Then he crossed to the bed and stood at the foot of it with his hands at his sides.

"Mr. Willoughby," he said.

Richard shook his head.

His mouth worked.

"Son," he said.

It came out thick and slow, and it was clear.

Rowan's face moved, and he looked at the floor.

"I read your letter," he said. "I read it out loud on the roof, with Eleanor listening, because I couldn't do it by myself."

Richard's good hand reached out.

Rowan took it.

The two of them held on, awkward, the old man on his pillows and the younger one bent at the waist.

"Sorry," Richard said.

"For what, exactly?"

"Mother." He pressed his lips together and tried again. "Your mother."

"She died four years ago."