“You have heard of it?”
“Iloveit. I thought your name sounded familiar. And the movie—it’s like the newTwilight.” He smiles, revealing nice straight teeth.
“You’re not exactly the target audience.”
“I’m not young, cool,hip,as you Americans say?” Rakishly, he raises an eyebrow.
“I didn’t say that,” I mutter, blushing.
“I do a bit of writing myself.”
“Really?”
“Really. I write murder mysteries. Have you heard of A.D. Hemmings?”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” Guiltily, I glance over at Heathcliff, but he’s concentrating on shaping an origami piece of poop. “Iloveyour books. I just finishedBlood Oath. I’ll say—you had me on the Cardiff Strangler. I didn’t see that end coming.”
He beams. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. He’d been wearing tortoiseshell glasses in the black-and-white headshot at the end of the book. That must have thrown me off.
He scoots a little closer. He smells nice—like cider and floral aftershave. “What a fortuitous meeting, then. Right?”
“Ummm... yeah.”
I’m a little lightheaded, like I’m back on the couch with Henry Lawton. What’swrongwith me?
I straighten my back. Time to sound professional. This is fine, actually. We’re two writers. It’s just a business meeting. Networking. Nothing more.
“So does your writing research bring you often to the museum?”
He points outside. “I live just around the corner, in a flat near Bedford Gardens. When the writer’s block hits, I take a stroll through the galleries.”
“Sorry my son interrupted your creative flow.”
He smiles at me over his pint rim. “No, not at all. I love all the galler...”
“I have topotty!!!”
“Oh god,” I murmur, scrambling to get myself and Heathcliff out of the booth. In my rush, I knock over my satchel.
The bird urn propels out across the pub floor.
“No, no,no...” I whimper, horrified as a server almost trips over the urn, accidentally kicking it farther away. Customers stare as I dive out of the booth and scramble on all fours across the sticky floor. The urn slides straight toward a large intake chute.
Then August is suddenly beside me, deftly catching the urn just before it falls through the grate.
“Thank you,” I whisper through tears of relief as we stand. My heart pounds, and my fingers tremble as I take the urn from August. Philip’s ashes were almost lost for good in the bowels of this stupid crowded pub.
August watches me quizzically.
I carry the little urn like an actual baby bird back to the table where Heathcliff waits.
“Special paperweight?” August’s blue eyes search mine as we slide back into the booth.
“Yes.” I wipe the dust off the urn with my black cardigan sleeve.
“It’s Daddy’s ashes,” Heathcliff says. “Mama says I can hold it and think of Daddy.”
August stares at me as he sips his cider, his expression both horrified and (possibly?) turned-on. He might be a bit of a flirt, but I’m drawn to him. He’s like a Pandora’s box of wit and delight rather than curses and woe.
