I stiffen for a moment before diving down the side street to my right. I can’t face her, not after the way we left it—with me accusing her of betrayal and her begging me to stay. Because the truth is, there was a lot to love about working at Figaro. That feeling of knowing we’d built something pretty great between us. The family vibe, the banter.
I walk a little too swiftly in the opposite direction to Georgia, my ankles wriggling as I navigate the cobblestones. It’s a warm day, and I’ve broken out a cotton skirt and sandals for the occasion. Above my head the sky is a faultless blue, still as a lagoon.
The morning passes as smoothly as I’d hoped—there’s a steady stream of browsers, a few purchasers, but nowhere near enough people to overwhelm me at any point. Ivan’s here anyway, in case I have any teething problems on my first shift. He takes great pleasure in pointingout just how many of the items in stock are unique and handmade. I think about Caleb’s story from last week and smile.
So far, I’ve sold some birthstone jewelry, a few toiletries, a handmade silk scarf, several greetings cards, a pair of bookends, and a box of artisan chocolates. Ivan seems to think that’s a decent morning’s takings, and for a moment I wonder how he ever manages to break even, before reflecting on the staggering markup there is on most of the items I’ve sold.
Things pick up a bit over the course of the afternoon, and by the time I next look up, it’s five o’clock. Checking my phone as I get ready to leave, I smile as I see a message from Caleb.
Thoughts on Shakespeare?
I’m his biggest fan, I respond.
—
We meet at dusk outside the walled garden of Shoreley Hall, where Caleb’s bought tickets for an open-air production ofRomeo and Juliet.
“You can translate,” he says, handing our tickets to the steward. He’s brought a rug with him, plus a picnic in a carrier bag.
“Me?”
“Yeah—you know, being a writer. And apparently Shakespeare’s biggest fan.”
I laugh, prod him gently in the small of his back with my fingertips as we enter the garden and search the grass for a place to sit.
The walled garden looks magical, like something out of a fairy tale. Long lines of bulbs loop between the branches of the trees, the air full with the scent of late-spring dew and thickening grass. The flowerborders are resplendent, bursting with tangerine-toned tulips and wallflowers, blossoms blazing from the plum, cherry, and apple trees.
Beyond the redbrick wall, the sky is suspended indigo, those last rich minutes before it fades to black and a galaxy of stars erupts above our heads. The space is warm, packed tight with bodies and humming with conversation, dappled with laughter.
“This is inspired,” I say, as Caleb lays out the picnic rug.
“Well, I was trying to think of how to persuade you to see me again. And an old friend of mine mentioned he was in this, so...” He spreads his hands to finish the sentence.
I laugh. “Yep, it was Shakespeare that swung it. Would definitely have turned you down otherwise.”
We share a loaded glance, and I wonder if he’s picturing last night, too—the minutes melting away as we kissed, that feeling of having stumbled across something special.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, deadpan.
“So, what part’s your friend playing?”
He flicks through a copy of the program. “Count Paris.”
“Oof.”
“What? Is that bad?”
I keep my face straight. “Couldn’t possibly say.”
He laughs and starts unpacking the food. “Knew there was a reason I should have paid attention in English. Speaking of which, you haven’t sent me your pages.”
I grimace a little. I’d been wavering over hitting send first thing this morning, before being flooded with self-doubt. “I know.”
He smiles. “I probably shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, I want to, I just... I might polish them up a bit first.”
He nods. “If you change your mind, it’s cool. Really. Right—are you hungry? Had to guess what you’d like.”
