I laughed. “I don’t think so, no.”
He sipped from his cup and made an appreciative grunt. “This is good.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching couples and groups of children skate by.
The drink seemed to have relaxed Phillip. His shoulders had softened. He gave me a lazy smile and took another drink from his cup. There was something endearing about the man, despite his obvious masculinity.
“What was it like growing up at the orphanage?” I asked. “Were you always there?”
“I was sent there when I was four or so. After my parents died from yellow fever within days of each other. There was no other family, so off I went. The sisters were good to us.” The wistful quality in his voice caused goose bumps to spring up on my arms. “I always think of them this time of year. They somehow managed to give each of us a Christmas present. There were thirty or so of us at any one time. Occasionally, a baby or toddler was adopted, but the older children were there for life.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
“A little. Mostly they’re images in my head—certain moments in time forever etched in my consciousness.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper the size of a postcard. Faces of a man and woman were drawn in pen and ink. “I drew this of them one night during the war. I’d suddenly worried that the horror of that time would erase them from my memory. Isn’t that strange? What happened over there—what we saw—it changes a man.”
“My brothers aren’t the same since they got back. Nothing overt, but I can see it in their eyes sometimes when they think no one’s watching.” I took the paper from him to get a better look, holding it up to capture the light from the bulbs overhead. The depictions were detailed and well drawn. I could see he favored his father just from the drawing. His mother had a delicate chin and wide-set eyes. “This is quite good.”
“Not really, but drawing relaxes me. Takes my mind off my troubles.”
“Everyone needs that from time to time.”
“What’s your way?”
“Reading,” I said. “That’s why building a library here was so important to me. I wanted anyone to be able to have what I had when escaping into a book, no matter if they’re rich or poor.”
“It’s quite something—what you did.”
“I had a lot of help from Mama and Papa.” I gave him back the drawing. “Nothing compared to what you boys went through in the war.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it home. I’ve never had much luck in life. When we lost so many of the boys that night…I didn’t think it would be me that survived.” He tucked the drawing away inside the inner pocket of his jacket.
“The night Walter died?”
“That’s right. One day you look around and think, how am I still here when the others are gone? I vowed not to be so satisfied with simple survival. Instead, to live life with boldness. Like your father.”
“How so?”
“In your letters, it was apparent he’s not a man satisfied with complacency simply because he could be. He didn’t do what was expected of him, but what he wanted. Coming here and building this town. Making a community. What could be more important than that?”
I nodded. It was true what he said. Papa had given up his title as the eldest son of English aristocracy to come to America and make his own way. “He always says the first time he stepped off the train in what was then an abandoned mining town he knew this was the exact spot he wanted to live for the rest of his life.”
“It’s extraordinary. Reading about him in your letters made me want to be a better man. I’ve spent too long in the background, letting others take what I wanted.”
“What is it that you want?” I asked.
He shifted on the bench as his gaze looked away from me toward the Christmas tree. “In one of your letters, you described when Delphia was born. Do you remember what you wrote?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Your described how the doctor said your mother might not make it because of an infection. You wrote how your father wouldn’t leave her side for days, alternating between praying on his knees and wiping her brow with a cool cloth. That image stayed with me as if I’d seen it with my own eyes. I want a love like that.”
My throat ached. I wanted that too. I’d thought I had it with Walter. “Mrs. Wu’s tea did its magic.”
“Mrs. Wu’s tea?”
“She makes this concoction with herbs and other plants—we don’t know what exactly, and she won’t give the recipe to anyone but her grandchildren. We all believed it cured her of the infection.”
“You never mentioned that in your letters.”