“Something like that,” I answer hesitantly. I don’t know what that Victoria woman even wants with me.
“I always believed you and Isabella to be more than we all knew,” she says.
“Oh,” I say defensively, “No, no. We’re not—we’re just?—“
“No worries, child,” she says, setting a teacup in front of me. “When I was young, I could not tell anyone, even married a man for cover. You young ladies have all the options, go for it.”
My cheeks flush. What am I doing here? Discussing things like this with my neighbour, but my mouth won’t shut up.
“So, you never followed your heart?” I ask.
“On the contrary, love. Many, many times. My husband, you see, was gay. By marrying, we entered freedom.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s fortunate.” I shift slightly in my chair. I don’t like to talk about romance or intimacy.
“Why don’t you open the mysterious box?” she asks.
“Because I intend to throw it away,” I say. “I don’t want any gifts, let alone from—um—her.”
“The lady with the Rolls-Royce,” she says, and I need a black hole to vanish in, right now.
“Don’t you worry,” she says and grasps my arm. “Who knows what will come of it?”
“I don’t want anything to come off it,” I say, take a sip of tea and add, “Mess is what’s coming off it, disruption, chaos.” Words just fall out of my mouth. Why am I like this? Divulging all my secrets to a stranger.
“I am eighty-seven, darling, allow me to tell you, the one thing I have learned in life. The most beautiful mornings are the ones after a heavy storm.”
I rub over my eyes with my free hand, and the other one keeps Pebbles on my lap. She sits there very interested in exploring the new territory with her eyes, and only waits for the millisecond I am distracted enough for her to launch off.
“Why don’t I open it?” says the old lady cheerfully.
“Sure,” I say.
She grabs her glasses from her head, slips them on, and slides open the box, revealing a book lying on satin.
“The Gifts of Imperfection,” she reads aloud. “Brené Brown. Oh, and it’s signed by the author with a personal note,” she says and holds it for me to read.
I grab the book, Pebbles takes her chance, and gone she is, but I don’t care right now.
Dear Victoria, thank you for our friendship. With love, Brené.I read it in my mind and stare blankly at the words. Of all the books she could have gifted me, it had to be this. A book by the woman I admire, the only book of hers I have yet to read.
My eyes wander to the envelope, and I reach for it hesitantly.
I pull out the card with a very playful, cursive handwriting, written in ink.
An ordinary life does not equal insignificance.
— Victoria
PS. Borrowed, not gifted.
Such well-chosen words. A smile hushes over my face. How considerate. This is not a gift to throw at me for the sake of giving; it's to give me something I can actually enjoy.
Does it frighten me a bit how much she knows or suspects about me? Absolutely. But she gave me a book I dearly wanted to read, and she entrusted me with the version from her personal collection.
“Not so bad, huh?” says the old lady, and rips me from my thoughts. I have completely forgotten where I am.
“Very considerate,” I say carefully, and the old lady smiles as she turns to fumble something in a drawer. Meanwhile, I turn the card, only to find a phone number written on it.
