He hands her a piece of paper torn from his notebook, on which he’s scribbled down his great-grandfather’s name and regiment, along with the approximate dates he arrived in and left England.
“Oh, I love a good mystery,” says Maisie, scanning the note greedily. “I’ve read all the Hercule Poirot books in the library, you know. The Miss Marples, too. Although I always manage to figure out whodunnit before the end, which spoils it a bit.”
“This should be no problem for you then,” replies Elliot kindly. “I’m sure you’ll have the case solved in no time.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” replies Maisie, blushing slightly. “He’s a proper charmer, this one,” she says, giving me a glance of approval before turning to go. “Young Martin better watch out; it looks like he’s got himself some competition.”
“Martin?” asks Elliot, smiling uncertainly as Maisie sweeps off importantly to scare some children who are loitering near the computer terminals. “Who’s Martin, and why is he my competition?”
“He isn’t,” I assure him, taking his arm as we head back into the street. “Martin Baxter is the boy next door. Literally, I mean. His parents own the bakers; you know the shop next to ours?”
“Right. So you guys grew up together, then?”
“Not really. We grew up next to each other,” I correct him. “Martin and I never really had anything in common, but he was convinced we did, what with the whole ‘parents beingshopkeepers’ thing. He’s … well, he’s always had a bit of a thing for me, I guess. He thinks that us living next door is a sign that we were meant to be together.”
“But it never happened?” Elliot asks. “You two never got together? Sorry,” he adds quickly, “I know it’s none of my business, I just … well, I guess I’m just worried about the competition now.”
He gives a low chuckle, and I squeeze his arm reassuringly.
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” I tell him firmly. “Martin’s not my type. Never has been, never will be. I like tall, handsome Americans, you know. Ones who write books about dead grandfathers, and like to start wild goose chases over mystery women.”
“That’s very specific of you,” Elliot replies, laughing properly now.
“Oh, my requirements are very specific,” I assure him. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one man who can fill them, actually. I — “
I manage to stop myself from speaking right before I go on to tell him even more clearly that he’s the only man for me, even though we’re only supposed to be having a fling.
“Speaking of mystery women,” I say, abruptly changing the subject. “I really wish we’d been able to find out at leastsomethingabout her today.”
“Patience, my angel,” Elliot replies, giving me one of those melt-your-heart smiles of his. “Give Maisie a little bit of time. I have a feeling she’s a woman who won’t give up until she’s found out every last little thing.”
“That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?” I reply, the words bursting out of me without my permission. “We don’thavetime. Not even a little bit. Because you’re going home.”
At first I think Elliot hasn’t heard me. He keeps on walking, my hand still tucked into his, and my heart growing heavy as I realize I’ve done the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do;I’ve broken the unspoken code by referencing the fact that he’s leaving. I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to get it closed again.
“Come with me, then,” Elliot says, stopping so suddenly I almost walk into him. “Not forever,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on my face. “Not if you don’t want to. But come for … for a vacation. Come for Christmas. Florida’s still warm in December; you’d love it. And my mom makes a mean roast turkey.”
I stand there gaping at him in the street as the snow starts to fall, thick and fast, as if to underline his point about the Florida sunshine.
“Okay, you don’t have to have the turkey,” Elliot says when I still haven’t said anything. “I know you don’t like Christmas. Forget Christmas. We’ll go to the beach. We’ll go to Disney. We’ll go anywhere you like. Just… say you’ll come with me.”
His eyes find mine through the falling snow, and I have to look away to protect myself from the hope I can see in them.
“It’s not the turkey,” I say at last, feeling like I’m in a movie. “It’s… it’s everything, Elliot. Dad. The store. I can’t just leave. It’s not that easy.”
I say it, but in my mind I see sunlight glittering on water, and white sandy beaches stretching down to the sea. I see the possibility of something other than a small town and a life lived through other people’s words. I see the start of a story of my own.
“I know it’s not,” Elliot says, crestfallen. “But, like I say, it doesn’t have to be forever. You could just come for the holidays. Hell, your dad could come too, if he wants.”
“He won’t.” I smile at the thought of Dad standing on a tropical beach in his sensible cardi, looking like someone’s filed him on the wrong shelf. “He wouldn’t leave the store.”
ButIcould.
The thought starts as a whisper, but it quickly worms its way right to the back of my mind and makes itself at home there.
I have some money saved up from my wages at the store. I could use it to buy a plane ticket. I could visit Elliot in the States, and I could spend Christmas somewhere that wouldn’t remind me of Mum every single moment.
“Maybe you could think about it?” Elliot says, somehow sensing me wavering in my decision not to go. “You don’t have to decide right away. We have plenty of time.”
