One Audrey April 5, 2019 Stepping out of the taxi in Langswick, North Yorkshire, it became clear why I had never heard of it. I'd suffered eighteen hours of flights and layovers between Philadelphia and Manchester Airport, only to discover I still had a three-hour train journey and twenty-minute taxi ride ahead of me. My grandmother's birthplace would certainly not be found by anyone who didn't already know about it. My shoulders, sore from toting an oversize backpack, slumped as I watched the taxi rumble down the narrow road, stranding me in the middle of a county in England I had never considered before Gran died. But now, thanks to her generosity, I owned a piece of it. She never spoke to me about her past, and if my mother knew anything, it had died with her when I was a little girl. I only knew Gran was British from the line she repeated each time someone asked about her heritage. My father was a lord, you know. The cool spring air smelled of earth, woodsmoke, and manure. I swayed as I gazed around, trying to get my bearings. There wasn't much to the village but a hodgepodge of stone terraced houses crawling down a gentle hill, where a quaint chapel and village hall rested at the bottom. On my other side, the sun was setting over a wonky white building that was both the village shop and post office, strung with pastel bunting. Straight across the cobbled road was the local pub, gold lettering labeling it the cross keys inn. Overflowing flower baskets hung beside each of the leaded windows, which glowed with dim light. My mouth went dry. Before crossing, I looked down at my phone to check the time. I had arrived in England at 12:40 p.m., and thanks to immigration lines and the time I'd spent figuring out the British railway system, it was already nearing seven o'clock. There were no texts-my phone plan didn't include the UK, so I would continue avoiding calls from my dad and sister. I had taken care of Gran in her final year, and perhaps that was why she left this hitherto unknown property to me, of all people. But that didn't stop the family from voicing their strong opinions on what I should do with it. It would be some time before they could trust me again. Beth, my sister, would have been the obvious choice. She was a top real estate agent in New Jersey, and was married with two kids. If there was anyone who could have handled this quickly and cleanly, ensuring we got the most money from Gran's assets, it was Beth. And she made sure I knew that. An older gentleman in a tweed newsie cap had come up the road, and eyed me curiously before touching his brim in greeting. I supposed they didn't get many strange faces in a place like this-especially ones that looked as swollen as mine. I'd cried on the plane, on the train, and in the taxi, and was feeling the urge again. I missed my grandmother, felt unworthy of her gift, and was directionless without her need of my help. God, I wanted a drink. With a grunt, I heaved my backpack off the ground and slipped my hand into the pocket of my jeans to feel the cool metal of my AA medallion. It hadn't been easy, but with Gran's help, I had earned it after remaining sober one year. Now, I needed the reminder that I was strong enough to have earned it. That I could do it without her. I took a deep breath and headed inside the Cross Keys Inn. The pub was close and dim. Three walls were half-paneled in the same oak the bar was built of, while the fourth was all stone, housing a fireplace big enough to sit in. Candles flickered at each of the four tables and over the mantelpiece. The only electric light came from a small gambling machine in the corner, and lamps used sparingly around the bar, which accommodated four stools. Three of them were empty, the last occupied by a hunched figure. Immediately, my senses filled with the familiar yeasty scent of spilled beer. I told myself it was nothing I hadn't handled before, though after the day I'd had, it was tempting. I tightened my fingers around the strap of my backpack and tried to keep my mind from falling into the familiar spiral of excuses: It's just one beer. You've had a bad day. It'll help you beat the jet lag. If you eat a big meal, you won't even feel it. "'Ow do, love?" It was the barmaid who had spoken, standing with one hand resting on a brass tap. She looked to be about my age, with a silky black bob pushed behind her ears, a septum piercing, and perfect winged eyeliner. She didn't look at all like she belonged in the quiet countryside. "Can we get you summat?" she asked. I warmed to the charming flat vowels of her thick accent, and stepped away from the drafty door, letting my backpack fall to the ground. My fingers found the surface of the bar and began to tap nervously. It'd been a long time since I'd allowed myself to step up to one. "The taxi driver said you would have rooms available?" I said. The barmaid raised her cleanly threaded eyebrows. "Did he now? Well, that were presumptuous of him." I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The man on the stool chuckled. He was young compared to the other patrons, with overgrown dark hair and a short beard. In front of him was a pint of beer still filled to the brim, and a smaller glass of what looked like orange juice. "I'm having you on, love," said the barmaid with a wink. "Only, we don't get many American tourists round here-mostly locals for walking holidays-and unfortunately those locals have filled all four of our rooms." I sighed, slumping against the bar. Already, my throat was tightening, tears threatening for the tenth time that day. I was so tired and hungry, I wanted to collapse to a heap on the floor. Where was I going to find another place to stay, when there was nowhere else for miles? "Not being funny, but you look like you've been through the wars today," said the barmaid, waving me over. "Come, set yourself down. I'm Namita." "Audrey," I said, gratefully taking the stool in front of her. "How 'bout a pint, then, Audrey? First one's on me." "Sure. Uh, no-" I had spoken without thinking, an instinctual answer. I put my hand up to stop Namita at the tap. "No thank you. I don't drink." I found the declaration helped me to refocus. Saying no wasn't enough. Not after how painful it had been to crawl my way back from the depths I'd found myself in a year ago. Namita gave a short laugh and pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "Neither does Leslie there. I keep the orange juice in for him, don't I, Les?" The man on the stool lifted his face to scorn her playfully. "Lucky for me, really; I get to drink that pint once he's through glaring at it." It was strange to see such familiarity between them, when the bars I was used to in Philadelphia were places of anonymity. Here, locals gathered around the tables, leaned over to speak and joke with those sitting on the other end of the room. I turned back to Namita, hoping she would show me the same kindness. "Do you have a phone I could use? Mine doesn't work here." Leslie pushed his iPhone across the bar toward me, keeping his gaze on that full pint. He looked up only when I hesitated, deep, rich brown eyes reflecting the warmth of the dim light. "Go on," he said, "it won't bite ya." I gave him a quick smile of gratitude and picked up the phone to open the map. I needed to find a bed and stay in it until the walls stopped spinning around me. Gran's house had apparently been shut since the 1940s, so wasn't inhabitable. It was already dark outside, and it had been over twenty-four hours since I'd slept properly. "You won't have any luck looking nearby," said Namita as she pulled a fresh pint for one of the older patrons. "There's a food festival on this weekend in the next market town-brings holidaymakers in droves. Why I'm full up. Is that not the reason you've come?" I let my head fall into my hand, staring down at the bright screen of Leslie's phone. I opened the map application and tried a quick search for hotels. She was right-everything within a short drive was full, and there were no more buses running tonight. I set the phone down and squeezed my eyes shut, thinking of Gran in her final days, looking so fragile in the hospice bed. In that moment, I would have done anything to speak to her again and ask her why she had planned this for me. Why she trusted me when I was such a disaster. Why she had kept this massive secret from me at all. "You might try York." This was Leslie, still facing front. "You can get there in forty-five minutes by taxi." "York, Les?" said Namita. "At an hour? The taxi will charge her up the nose, and besides, it's Friday-it'll be nowt but stag dos and tourists." I put the phone back down, and finally losing all my composure, let my head follow it. The scuffed bar was sticky and cool under my forehead, smelling of a thousand pints. I wondered, briefly, if Gran had ever found herself inside of this pub as a girl, if she had ever sat on this stool. If this was what she had in mind for me when she put me in her will. But it couldn't have been. She knew I struggled with alcohol; it was the reason I had moved into her house a year ago. After rehab, there was no job to return to, no apartment, no going back to the city that had broken me. My dad was tired of my antics after a turbulent adolescence, and I couldn't stand to be under Beth's judgmental glare. So Gran had taken me in, given me the unconditional love I was craving. In return, I took care of her after her stroke, returned as much of the love as I could until we ran out of time. She had left me her family home, trusted me to do the right thing with their legacy. True to form, I was already screwing up. I hadn't even made a plan. I had taken the first flight available, with its crappy timing and two layovers. After Gran's funeral, I had needed to get far away from my mess of a life and figure out what to do next. "I can give you a lift wherever you need to go," Leslie said. I almost didn't hear him, as the small space was beginning to hum with voices loosened by alcohol. When I lifted my head, he was looking straight at me for perhaps the first time, waiting with a look of mild annoyance, as if he regretted coming to the pub on the one night a helpless American decided to walk in. "You don't have to do that," I said. "Thank you, though." "He can do you one better," said Namita. "Leslie has got a guest room. I've just finished telling him he ought to be letting it out in tourist season." Again, Leslie turned his eyes on her, lips pressed together in a line, and again, she found the look on his face to be giggle-worthy. She must have been joking. Using his phone was one thing. Shacking up with a foreign male stranger was another. "I'll just call a taxi to York," I said, "or go back to Manchester if I have to." Namita's eyes widened. "Oh no, don't do that, love. What about Whitby?" "Where's that?" "Just up the coast. Lovely seaside town, is Whitby. Spent summer holidays there as a girl. Best fish and chips in the country." Leslie's mouth quirked at Namita. "You missed your calling as a travel agent." "Not really the corporate type, am I? Much prefer drinking on the job." I felt another rush of grief. Sleep deprivation was a lot like being drunk-it smashed inhibitions, made you brave, sharpened every emotion. "I need to be here," I said, pointedly enough that I got both of their attention. "I came all this way to be here, in this village. It's where my grandmother was born and it might be all that's left of her now . . ." That seemed to touch them both. Namita slid her hand across the bar to lay atop mine, bracelets rattling against the wood. "Don't you fret, love," she said. "Surely there's someone in this place who can get you sorted." She gave Leslie a pointed look. He put his hand in front of me, palm open. I took it as an invitation to return his phone, and set it in his grasp. I expected he was ready to get out of there before he got roped into helping me any further. Instead, he stood, shuffled to the stool nearest me, and sat again with the gentlest sigh. "Look; I have got a spare room," he said. I blinked up at him, at the tightness in his brow. He was certainly rough around the edges, but there was a softness to his face that made me comfortable-made me want to trust him. "That's really kind, but I couldn't inconvenience you like that." "Oh, you've got to," Namita said. "Leslie's is swish. Trust me, the roll-top tub is an absolute dream." So they were dating-or had dated. I didn't think his current girlfriend would be encouraging another woman to bunk at his place. In that case, could I trust her judgment? They had been nothing but kind to me. And the last thing I wanted to do was get into another taxi . . . I looked at Leslie, his kind eyes, his hair that was long enough that he had to push a lock of it behind his ear when it fell forward. There was something about him. Maybe it was that he was sober, too. Maybe it was because he lived here, where Gran's life began. "Maybe just for tonight," I said. "And I could pay for the room." He shook his head. "There's no need. I'm up early for work; I'll hardly know you're there, and I won't be under your feet. And I'm not a murderer, if that's what you're thinking. Namita has known me since I was small; she can keep me honest. In fact, ask anyone. Bernard isn't here to tell you I used to piss in his hedges when I was seventeen. That's true, I'm afraid." Excerpted from The Forgotten Cottage by Courtney Ellis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.