“So, we’re really doing this, huh?” he says, making my heart join my stomach in its acrobatics act as the reality of what we’ve just decided starts to take hold.
Christmas in America. Dad selling the bookstore. Elliot telling his parents he wants to be an author. Everything changing.
It’s absolutely terrifying. But, at the same time, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And if I don’t do it now, I have a feeling it might never happen.
“Yes,” I say firmly, my hand tightening around his as if in a secret handshake. “We’re really doing this.”
“Then that’s settled,” says Elliot, getting to his feet and starting to gather his things. “Come on; we’ve got some plane tickets to buy.”
21
PRESENT
It starts snowing again on the way home from the auction; big old flakes that cover the windscreen of Elliot’s hire car within seconds, and leave me crossing my fingers and hoping he knows how to drive in this weather.
“I can’t believe this,” says Elliot for what must be at least the fifth time since we got back into the car. “Seriously, can you believe the same woman we’ve been trying to find all this time is the person who made our snow globe? Just imagine her making it … maybe showing it to Luke, and then all these years later, his great-grandson happens to be the one to find it on some market stall? It’s crazy.”
He slaps one hand down on the steering wheel, just to underline his point.
“It’s pretty wild,” I agree, trying not to think about the way he keeps talking about us as if we’re still a ‘we’. “If you’d put it into your book, I’d have put a big red line through it and told you coincidences like that just don’t happen in real life. Wait:areyou going to put it into your book? The next one, I mean? Oh, my God, you are, aren’t you?”
I clap my hand over my mouth, pantomiming shock, and Elliot’s hands tighten on the wheel, his shoulders rigid with sudden tension.
“I don’t know what I’m going to put into the next book,” he says at last. “Seriously. If I did, I wouldn’t have my agent hounding me for ideas every few minutes. Or it feels like that, anyway.”
He slams the brakes on to avoid a snow plow that’s just pulled out of a side road in front of us, and I take advantage of the distraction to carefully arrange my face into a more neutral expression than the one it instantly assumed at the mention of his successful-author problems.
Excuse me if I don’t feeltoosorry for the man rumored to have been given one of the biggest advances in his publisher’s history.
“That’s not why I asked you to come with me today, though,” he goes on, pulling in behind the tractor, which is now moving painfully slowly along the little country road. “I wasn’t looking for inspiration, or trying to persuade you to help me again. I got the message about that yesterday. Loud and clear. I was just genuinely excited when I realized there might be a connection between Evie and our snow globe. I thought — well, I hoped — you might be too. Or that you might be interested, at least.”
This time I’mdefinitelygoing to object to the casual reference to “our” snow globe; but then I remember how I lied to him about not knowing what happened to it, and I quickly close my mouth on the words.
“I was interested,” I tell him reluctantly. “Iaminterested. It’s just —”
I’m saved the trouble of figuring out exactly how to finish that sentence by Elliot, who swears loudly as a spray of snow hits the windscreen, thrown up by the snowplow in front of us.
“Um, are you okay over there?” I ask, as the hire car veers dangerously close to the center of the road before righting itself. “You have driven in snow before, haven’t you?”
“Of course I haven’t driven in snow, Holly,” he replies, speaking through gritted teeth. “I’m from Florida. And the last time I washerein the snow, the roads were clearedbeforeI got on them. I’ve driven in torrential rain and hurricane-force winds, though. It’s the same thing.”
“I’m not sure it is, really,” I begin, stopping when I see the look on his face. “D’you want me to drive?” I offer reluctantly, not sure I’d do much better, really — especially considering that it only seems to snow when he’s here; so, once in a decade, basically. It’s not like I have a huge amount of experience with driving in the stuff either.
“No, it’s fine,” he insists, frowning as another solid wall of snow hits the windscreen. “It’s totally fine. I’m in complete control here.”
I stifle a giggle as he attempts to indicate to pass the snowplow, and turns the hazard lights on instead.
“Maybe we should pull over?” I suggest. “Just for a few minutes, to let this thing get far enough ahead that it’s not going to be constantly trying to bury us all the way home?”
“I told you, it’s fine,” he repeats, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
The snow on the windscreen gets thicker, the wiper blades struggling to clear it.
“Elliot, just pull over,” I say firmly, feeling the car start to drift to the center of the road again. “I don’t think this is going to stop anytime soon. Look!”
Up ahead, the sky is pure white, appearing almost to merge into the road, making the surrounding countryside look surreal and other-worldly. It’s not just snowing any more; it’s a full-on blizzard, and I feel a twinge of apprehension as I think of thenarrow, hilly little road we’ll have to navigate to get back to the village.
“Still, I guess it’ll give you more material for your book if we get stuck out here,” I say when Elliot continues driving. “So, at least that’s something.”
