Per the journal’s instructions, Nelle has free rein of the library. She beams as she vanishes into the bookshelves.
James closes out of the messages tab, leaving an empty search bar. A blinking, taunting cursor. Without thinking, he typesNew York City.He scans through apartment listings, jumping through street views, noting cafés and bars and bookstores he wants to visit.
Another search.New York University. He scours the university’s website for the creative writing program. The deadline for undergraduate transfer applications isn’t until the end of September. He has the rest of the month to decide.
James starts an application.
An hour later, he has submitted his SAT scores, resumé, and impromptu essay responses. He feels guilty for not telling Nelle, but he doesn’t have to talk to her yet about the possibility of returning to New York. He can bring it up after they find the cottage.I’m thinking too far ahead.Right now, he doesn’t even know if he will be admitted. And if he is, he might not evenenroll.
He closes out of the New York tabs. The damage is done. Application sent.
He opens the previous message board and freezes. There is a tiny red dot.
How’s tomorrow at noon? I’ll message you café details in the morning. Cheers. —Terry.
Every thought of New York drops out of James’s head. He opens his mouth to yell out Nelle’s name, remembers where he is, and stops himself short. He retreats to the keyboard.
Sounds great! See you there. —James.
Chapter 21
Walking to the café, the butterflies in Nelle’s stomach turn into hawks, growing talons that yank her intestines like loose threads. The red nylon hood of her new coat is pulled over her head, halving her view of the rain-soaked street. Cars slosh water onto the curbs, steam floats off the concrete, heavy-duty rain boots shuffle on the sidewalk. Finding Quill’s childhood cottage could easily be a fool’s journey, but she’s not ready to face that possibility. If this lead ends up a dead end, who is to say she will find another?
“It should be around here somewhere.” James holds up a map of Edinburgh, wet from the rain and crumpled from his back pocket. “He said it was called the Underground Café.”
Nelle squints through the misty drizzle. In this part of New Town, every building is tan and rectangular and smooshed up to the others in rows. Picturesque, with window boxes full of wet flowers and ivy hanging off trellises.
“Let me see the map,” she says. “You probably took us down a wrong—”
“No, it’s right here.” He pauses beside a building with a hot-pink sign on the window that saysEye Care.
Nelle peers up. “I don’t think this is it.”
He points. “Down there.”
She follows his finger to a descending staircase at the base of the building.
Hence the name, genius.
James takes out the journal and scribbles, and Nelle follows him down into the belly of the building, steadying herself on the cold iron railing. At the bottom of the staircase, yellow light glows through the window of a blue door.
The Underground Café is all wood tables and warm, cushiony booths. A few patrons are scattered across the establishment, though most of the tables are empty. Along the back wall is a long, lacquered coffee bar with a silver espresso machine atop it. Behind the bar, hundreds of mugs hang on hooks. The walls are exposed brick, decorated with colorful surrealist art. Nelle is captivated by a painting of a red sky over a glass tower. It reminds her of New York.
They find a back corner booth, the lantern over the table catching them in its honey glow.
A waitress comes by. “How can I help you today?”
James taps the table absentmindedly. “We’re meeting a friend. Any chance you know a Terry Nolan?”
The waitress’s smile vanishes and she screams, “Terry!”
A head pops up behind the coffee bar. A wiry man with a thick red beard holds an espresso shot with his long fingers.
His brows twitch. “Yes, dear?”
“Visitors,” the waitress says in a knife-sharp tone. She plasters back on her smile. “I’ll bring your menus.”
Nelle reaches under the table for James’s hand, grateful to be sitting on the same side of the booth.
