“That’s just it,” he says in a strained voice. “I don’t think I can, Holly. Not without you to help me, like you did withThe Snow Globe. That’s what I wanted to ask you. That’s why I really came here. Will you help me?”
He scans my face for a reaction, his expression suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes me want to reassure him. At the same time, though, I can’t quite believe the audacity of the man — to come here and ask me to help him write the sequel to the book that’s been the bane of my life ever since it came out.
“Are you for real?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low enough not to be overheard by all the passers-by, out doing their Christmas shopping. “Do you know what it was like for me when your first book came out, and everyone figured out who it was based on? Do you seriously think I’d want to have anythingat allto do with the next one?”
Elliot takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him.
“No,” he says. “No, I should’ve … it was stupid of me. I’m sorry. You’ve been … very clear how you feel about my book.”
His shoulders sag with defeat and I once again find myself fighting the impulse to comfort him, which is ridiculous, really. I know Elliot doesn’t need comforting. Elliot’s a rich, famousauthor, whose biggest problem in life is a mild case of writer’s block.
All the same, as I stand there in the crowded village square where we first met, I can’t quite bring myself to walk away from him.
“What happened to her?” I ask suddenly. “Evie, I mean? You must know that much, if your detective tracked her down?”
“Yeah,” he says, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “Yeah, I know that much. I know she survived the war — well, obviously, given that she has great-grand kids. And I know she moved away from here, and got married, and settled down. She had a nice life, from what I can gather.”
“Nice?” I reply, raising my eyebrows. “You must hate that for her.”
He chuckles softly.
“I’m going to an auction tomorrow,” he says. “Katie told me about it. Her parents just finished clearing out some stuff from her grandparents’ house, and they’re selling it off. She thinks some of Evie’s things might be among it.”
“Right,” I reply, not really sure what to make of this sudden change of subject. “That’ll be … fun.”
I imagine a serious-faced Elliot rifling through a pile of old-lady clothes and random pieces of bric-à-brac, and stifle a smile.
“I suspect ‘weird’ is the word you were going for there.” He grins ruefully. “Look, I know I’m not going to find anything significant,” he adds. “I’m nottotallyobsessed.”
He waits for me to agree with him, but I’m not sure spending years of your life obsessing over a random old photo is a good way to demonstrate hownot obsessedyou are, so I just wait for him to continue.
“I’m really not,” he insists, as if he’s read my mind. “I haven’t spent the last ten years thinking about this, you know. I hadn’t been thinking about it at all, actually, until my publisher startedleaning on me for a sequel. But once it was back at the front of my mind again it became … oh, it’s just a loose end, I guess. And I figured now was as good a time as any to tie it up.”
He shrugs again, and I wonder if he’s thought aboutmein the last ten years, or if it’s just his return to Bramblebury that’s brought me back to the front of his mind, too.
Quite the trip for him, if so.
“Well, I know how much you hate loose ends,” I tell him, wondering if I’m one, too, but somehow managing not to ask.
“You could come with me?” Elliot says, proving there’s apparently no end to the way he can surprise me. “To the auction? It’s not far from here, actually. It’s in this big old country house. It looks pretty cool, from the website. I think you’d like it.”
I really want to point out that he has no idea what I’d like any more; and no right to be acting like he still knows me. I want to tell him that he has no business asking me to do anything anymore — not helping him write his books, and definitely not tracking down long-lost mystery women, who may or may not have had a role in one of his ancestor's lives.
I want to tell him all of this, but right at that moment, something cold and wet falls out of the sky and flutters past my nose. It’s followed by another, then another, and when I tilt my head back to look up at the sky, I realize two things in quick succession.
The first is that it’s snowing in Bramblebury, for the first time in almost a decade.
And the second is that, even though I know it’s quite possibly the worst idea ever, I want to know how Evie’s story ends, too.
18
PAST
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
The shock that follows my declaration that I want to spend Christmas with Elliot in the States is so intense that even Elsie Poole is rendered momentarily speechless by it, which is something I can’t remember ever happening before.
Martin mumbles an awkward goodbye, and heads for the door, pausing to hold it open for Elsie, who goes hurrying after him, uncharacteristically keen to leave the scene of a crime. Elliot closes his book and replaces it on the shelf, his eyes still trained on me.
