23
The next twodays pass quickly.
Harriet’s in a flurry of activity, trying to relay another decade of research before I leave. We work eighteen-hour days and I barely have any time at all to think about could have beens or would have beens.
When we got back from Declan’s estate I wrestled with myself over whether or not to send him an email. The coldness of his expression, the way he said goodbye, and what he might think of me all swayed me toward not emailing. But the way he told me that he believed in love at first sight swayed me toward emailing.
There’s a saying my grandma had, “If you keep waiting for the perfect conditions to plant, you’ll never have a garden.”
I decided to write.
I sent him a short note, it said, “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. I misjudged you. If I could take my words back, I would. I do like you. Very much.”
I left it at that. I hit the send button on sheer nerve before I could chicken out and erase everything.
He hasn’t replied.
It’s lunch now, nearly forty-eight hours since I last saw him. We’re leaving England tomorrow.
Arya has a notebook opened next to her plate. “Did you know that puffins breed for life?” She draws a curved bill on the puffin she’s sketching. To me, it looks a mix between a parrot and a penguin.
“Huh. Just like the booby,” I say.
I take a bite of my ploughman’s sandwich. The cheddar is tangy and the pickle has a nice bite.
Harriet made them for us before heading out to the shops on a chocolate and tea run.
“I’ll be happy to get home,” Arya says. She drops her pencil and gives me a wry smile. “Not that there weren’t plenty of birds to keep me occupied. Ever since Percy mentioned the Farne Islands and all the puffins I wanted to come.”
I reach over and squeeze her arm.
She shrugs. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t.” To lighten the mood I say, “You’ve got your kumquats.”
She snorts and then after a minute she frowns down at her half-eaten sandwich. “What do you think Kate’s doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But when I see her I’m going to—”
The doorbell rings.
I lean back in my chair and look from the solarium to the front of the house. In the front window I see an Italian sports car in the drive and Michael and Kate on the stoop.
The front legs of my chair smack back to the ground. I’m stunned and jarred. Kate’s here. I shove my chair back and jump up.
“It’s Kate.”
“What?” Arya hops up and runs toward the front door.
“And Michael,” I call after her.
My stomach feels queasy as I hurry out of the solarium. Are they married? Do I have time to tell her the truth about Michael?
I get to the front right when Arya swings open the door. I stop short. Michael has his arm around Kate and she’s snuggled into his side. He has a bashful, amicable, aww shucks sort of look on his face. Kate looks deliriously happy. Yes. That happy.
At her look I readjust everything I was about to say.
“Kate!” Arya rushes forward and throws her arms around Kate. She pulls her away from Michael and hugs her tight. While Arya hugs her and Kate laughs, Michael and I look at each other.
That look tells me everything I need to know.
He’s a smiling, amiable, friendly rat. And he knows it.
He strides over to me and takes my hand. “We were friends before, now that I’ve married your best friend, I hope we can be even better friends.”
My stomach sinks. That’s it then. They’ve married.
I never noticed it before, but his charm, the careful sweep of his walnut-colored hair, his casual yet still cultured clothing, everything about him is perfectly suited to putting people at ease.
It worked on me. I completely fell for the outward appearance he presented and missed everything happening beneath the surface.
“Perhaps,” I say to him. I pull my hand away and step back.
Michael’s eyebrows lower and he gives a slight frown, as if my less than warm reception is unexpected.
Before he can respond Kate rushes over.
“La-La!” She pulls me into a hug.
I squeeze her and say, “You’re happy?”
She pulls back from me and I get a good look at her. She’s in an elegant ice-blue lace dress, her hair is glossy and flowing, and her cheeks are pink. She looks radiant. Like a new bride.
“Happier than I’ve been in years,” she says.
Then she loops her arm through mine and says, “Do you have any coffee here? I’m dying for a cup.”
Arya snorts and then covers her mouth with her hand.
We make a pot of tea in the kitchen and I pull out a tin of chocolate biscuits and chocolate and orange teacakes. Michael regales us with the story of their elopement.
“When I saw Kate at the gala, my heart was hers,” he says, making moon-eyes at Kate. “I knew a woman like her could have any man. A prince, a billionaire, a celebrity, there was no reason for her to choose me above all others.”
Arya leans over and whispers, “Suave, isn’t he?”
I nod and then carry the teapot over to the kitchen table.
“Michael is friends with my brother,” Kate says. She leans into him and he squeezes her close. “He played golf with my father, not three months ago.”
Ah. So that’s how he heard about Kate. I give them both a bright smile and go to retrieve the biscuits and cake.
“That’s quite fortunate,” I say.
Arya turns away from Michael and Kate and gives me a pointed look.
We sit around the table. I pour myself a huge cup of tea and grab three biscuits.
“After you fell off the sailboat, Kate and I became closer. Shortly after the beach cleanup I was able to convince her to elope.”
Arya’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
“That long ago?” I say.