More Than This

by Stephanie Taylor

  “I’m here for a few days with my...boyfriend,” Holly says, getting hung up only briefly on how to describe her relationship with River. Is he her boyfriend? They’d parted uncomfortably on Christmas Eve, and the road back from there has been cobbled together with long phone conversations, the rebuilding of trust, and lots of mutual understandings.

  “Is he as gorgeous as you? Because that would really be something,” the woman says as she digs through her leather purse. “Here’s my card. We’ll probably get separated on the train here, as it’s going to be full. Call me. My office is near Buckingham Palace.”

  The express train sweeps through the tunnel with a rush of air, blowing the stray pieces of hair from under Holly’s Yankees cap. She holds the business card tightly. “It was lovely to meet you—what was your name, darling?”

  “Holly.”

  “Yes. Just lovely, Holly.”

  The doors whoosh open and people spill from the train as others fight their way through the crowd with baggage in hand, trying to get on. Holly steps onto the train and turns around, gripping her heavy suitcase with both hands as she yanks it over the ledge.

  “Mind the gap,” warns a recorded female voice with a British accent. “Mind the gap.”

  “I’m minding it,” Holly mutters, giving one final tug on the handle. The suitcase bumps over the lip of the train and she reels backward, nearly bumping into a woman with a baby in her arms. “Sorry,” Holly says, straightening her baseball hat. As promised, the woman she’d followed to the train platform is already gone and Holly is left in the standing room only section of the car, her huge pink suitcase leaning against her thigh as she stares at the business card of a woman who—completely improbably—has mistaken her tired, travel-weary self for a model. As the train pulls away from the platform, she almost laughs out loud.

  The taxi stand at Paddington Station is through a series of long hallways. Holly moves as quickly as she can, following the flow of humans as they make their way to other trains. The air that hits her as she walks out of the station is cooler than she’s used to in May, and the skin on her arms prickles uncomfortably.

  “Join the queue, miss!” a man in a coat and hat says, blowing a whistle and pointing at a line that’s roped off by a guardrail. Holly falls in behind an elderly couple, her big suitcase banging against the metal rails awkwardly.

  “Where to?” A man dressed identically to the man with the whistle looks at Holly with disinterest when she reaches the front of the line.

  “Portobello Road, Notting Hill,” Holly says, consulting an address that she’s saved on her phone.

  A taxi wheels into place at the curb next to her. “Put this in the boot for you, love?” the driver asks, coming around to help Holly. He’s got large, stained front teeth and the friendliest smile Holly’s seen since she got off the plane.

  “Please,” she says, stepping into the back of the black, domed-roof cab as the taxi stand attendant opens the door grandly.

  “Oooh, it opens backwards,” Holly says, nodding at the way the car opens up like it’s got French doors.

  “Suicide doors,” the attendant says with a smirk. He slams the door and moves on to the next person in line.

  “So we’re off to Portobello Road, are we?” The driver slides into the front seat and punches a few buttons on his dash. A thick piece of clear plexiglass divides the front and back of the cab.

  “Yes, please.”

  Holly sinks back against the seat and exhales deeply. She’s made it. London. Three weeks of vacation. No village council meetings, no ringing office phones, no island drama. She spends the fifteen minute ride through the busy city taking in buildings and people, and watching all of the other black taxis speed down the wrong side of the road. A new city, a big adventure, and—best of all—in a few hours, she’ll be with River again.

  4

  “Christmas Key B&B, this is Bonnie.”

  “Hi, Bonnie. Is Holly in?” She doesn’t identify herself, but the demanding, entitled tone of the woman’s voice crackles over the phone line and sends ice shooting through Bonnie’s veins. It’s Holly’s mother.

  “No, I’m afraid she’s out. May I take a message?” Bonnie reaches for a pen and a notepad, trying to keep her voice even. What did Holly say about calls from her mother? Put her through to voicemail? Tell her Holly’s out of the office sick? Hang up on her and unplug the phones for the next three weeks?

  “You know damn well I don’t want to leave a message for her, Bonnie Lane,” Coco says. “When will she be back?”

  Bonnie arches a penciled eyebrow and purses her lips. Everything about this woman sets her on edge, and the ongoing, unspoken drama between her and Holly’s mother is only exaggerated by the well-known fact that Bonnie is the mother Holly wishes she had.

  “She’s out of the office, Coco. She said she wasn’t feeling well.” Pucci, Holly’s golden retriever, ambles past the desk that Bonnie normally shares with Holly, his thick tail swatting Bonnie’s bare calf. Jake had taken Bonnie up on her offer to drop the dog off at the office, and, to be perfectly honest, Bonnie is enjoying the company.

  “Fine. I’ll call her cell phone. I know she won’t answer when she sees that it’s me, but I need to talk to her immediately.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Bonnie offers mildly. Her heart is racing at the prospect of whatever Coco might need to discuss with Holly urgently, but she keeps her cool.

  “That’ll be between me, my daughter, and Leo,” Coco sniffs. Leo would be Leo Buckhunter, Coco’s half-brother and the third owner of the island and all its assets. Coco’s parents had divided the island three ways between her, the illegitimate half-brother who has always been a thorn in her side, and Holly, and this fact is the only thing standing between Coco and a profitable sale of Christmas Key. She’s made no secret of her desire to have the island off the books and the profits in her bank account, and her willingness to do away with the only home her daughter has ever known is a major point of contention.

  “Well, you can try Buckhunter if you want. I suppose you have his number.”

  “I suppose I probably do. If you hear from Holly, have her call me.” Coco clicks off without saying good-bye and Bonnie ends the call on the office’s cordless phone, setting the handset facedown on the white wicker desk.

  The afternoon is brilliant and blue outside the B&B’s huge picture window, and Bonnie rests her elbows on the desk, folding her plump hands and resting her chin on her fingers. A call from Coco always stirs things up like a violent summer storm, and she doesn’t like the frosty, commanding way that Coco sounded on the phone just now.

  Life is just getting back to normal for Bonnie after an ill-fated romance that pulled her away from the island and into the arms of a swashbuckling weekend pirate, but once she’d realized that life on the mainland with a loud, overbearing beau wasn’t for her, she’d fled back to the safety of Christmas Key and to her happy life with the other islanders. She watches them through the window now, smiling as Maria Agnelli totters down the sidewalk in oversized black sunglasses that make her look like an ancient, Italian Jackie O.

  Cap Duncan steps out of his cigar shop across the street with Marco, his parrot, on one shoulder, a rakish smile on his face as he clamps an unlit Cuban between his lips. Dr. Fiona Potts, Holly’s best friend and the island’s only doctor, opens the door of Poinsettia Plaza on the other side of Main Street, guiding Hal Pillory out by the elbow and settling him into the passenger seat of the golf cart that’s being driven by his middle aged son. It’s a good life—one she won’t make the mistake of trying to change ever again.

  “Hey.” A male voice in the doorway breaks into Bonnie’s thoughts and she pulls her eyes away from the view of Main Street. Buckhunter himself is standing in the doorway, his white t-shirt covered by a stained apron. His bar, Jack Frosty’s, is just a few steps away from the B&B.

  “Oh, hey, sugar. Is the lunch rush over?” Bonnie asks, pulling her laced fingers apa
rt and trying to refocus.

  “Yeah,” Buckhunter says wryly. “All eight of my customers have been served and rung up.”

  “Slow day?”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Usually a small lunch crowd means a bigger turnout for dinner. It all works out in the wash.” Buckhunter shrugs and runs a hand over his recently shorn scalp. He normally wears his sun-bleached hair in loose waves, but he’d lost a friendly bet with Holly and the outcome was that he’d agreed to shave his head. Millie had done the honors across the street at Scissors & Ribbons, the island’s only salon, and Buckhunter’s girlfriend, Dr. Fiona Potts, has grown to love the clean cut look and the short, graying-blonde hair that feels like suede.

  “So what’s up?” Bonnie asks, pushing back her chair. She stands and tugs at the legs of her pink capri pants to loosen them around her pillowy thighs.

  “Coco. That’s what’s up.” Buckhunter makes a slow-blinking, deep-inhaling-for-patience face that reveals his true feelings about his half-sister. “She just called.”

  “Yeah, she called here, too. I told her Holly was out—I’m not supposed to tell her that the boss is off the island for three weeks.”

  “And see, I didn’t get those same instructions,” Buckhunter says, putting his hands on his hips over the apron. Underneath the cooking attire, he’s wearing cut-off Levi’s and a pair of Birkenstocks. “I guess Holly figured that Coco almost never calls, and she might get away with a little vacation with her mother being none the wiser.”

  “Oh, no.” Bonnie puts both hands over her face and shakes her head.

  “Yeah,” Buckhunter says, making a smacking sound with his lips and pulling a guilty face. “I kind of told her Holly was in Europe.”

  “Oh, no,” Bonnie wails. “What did she say?” Her hands fall from her face and she looks at Buckhunter, who is staring at the floor in front of him.

  “That she’s on her way down.”

  They stand in silence for a moment, pondering the implications of a visit from Coco.

  “When?” Bonnie asks. Her brow is furrowed as she tries to figure out the best way to break this to Holly.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So much for giving fair warning.” Bonnie shakes her head. “Can we stop her?”

  “Have we ever been able to stop her?” Buckhunter tips his chin down and looks at Bonnie from under his brow.

  “That woman,” Bonnie says, her chest huffing as she starts to get worked up. “She’s meaner’n a wet panther, in’t she?” Her Georgia accent is always thick and entertaining, but when Bonnie gets herself worked up in a lather, the colloquialisms and overall Southernness get cranked up several notches.

  “Mmhmm, she is,” Buckhunter agrees. “But there’s more.”

  “More what?” Bonnie slaps the back of her wicker desk chair with one hand. “I’m not sure I can take any more, doll.” She picks up a file on her desk and uses it to fan her face dramatically. “I’m about to overheat like a ’57 Ford on a dusty country road in Joo-lahh,” Bonnie adds, making ‘July’ sound like a distant relative of a mint julep.

  Buckhunter exhales and rips off the band-aid. “She’s bringing a group of investors. And they’re staying at the B&B.”

  “Soooo…” Bonnie runs through the scenario in her head, her eyes focused on the ceiling as she takes it in. “Starting tomorrow, we’ve got to provide maid service, meals, and general boot-lickin’ to a group of people who want to come in and buy us up like we’re property for sale?”

  “So it seems.” Buckhunter moves his apron aside and jams his weathered hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Do you want to call Holly, or should I?”

  “Now there’s a fine question,” Bonnie says, walking over to the white board on the wall where she’s written out Holly’s planned whereabouts. “She’s in London for a couple of days, and then they’re moving on to Amsterdam and Paris. That’s the most romantic city in the world!” She turns to Buckhunter. “Right?”

  “So they say,” Buckhunter agrees.

  “We don’t want to ruin her good time, do we?”

  “I don’t,” he says.

  “But we have to tell her, right?” Bonnie asks, clearly hoping that the answer is no.

  “Seems like the right thing to do.”

  Bonnie sighs and turns her head to the window and the bright blue sky beyond. “Okay,” she says with deep resignation, “I’ll tell her.”

  5

  The cab ride to Notting Hill is quick and Holly is utterly charmed by the area. Busy streets are filled with people sitting at outdoor cafés; florists have sidewalk displays of rainbow-hued bunches of hydrangea, tulips, sweet peas, and peonies; and the buildings are a wash of bright colors and cheerful front doors. There’s a huge mural on Ledbury Road of a man reading a book on a park bench, and Holly cranes her neck as they pass, taking in the details of his painted on shoelaces, pink socks, and bowler hat.

  “Here we are, miss,” the cab driver says, coming to a stop in front of a tall, narrow building the color of butter. It’s sandwiched between pink and baby blue buildings. The whole street reminds Holly of Easter.

  With the instructions that River has sent her, Holly punches in a code next to a shiny, navy blue front door with a brass knocker. The lock clicks, letting her in. The foyer is all hard wood and white walls covered in matted and framed artwork. A tall bookshelf stuffed with hardcover books sits next to a curving staircase and an opulent crystal chandelier. Holly looks down at the floor: she’s standing on a rug that’s a reproduction of Andy Warhol’s self-portraits in a rainbow of neon colors. It’s so bright and artsy, so inviting that she actually laughs out loud. She kicks off her Converse and drops everything right there in the entryway.

  The stairs lead to a landing with three doors and Holly peers into one with wide eyes; it’s a master bedroom with a painted white brick fireplace and an enormous bed. There’s a second bedroom with a desk and a view of the busy street below, and a huge bathroom with a clawfoot tub and white subway tiles on the walls. Several potted orchids line the windowsill, each flower craning its neck to eagerly pull in the indirect sunlight from the southern exposure.

  Without thinking, Holly puts the stopper in the tub and turns on the hot water. Her clothes land in a pile on the black and white tiled floor, and she sinks into the bathtub gratefully, ready to soak away the long trip before River arrives.

  “Honey, I’m home!” comes a voice from downstairs.

  Holly wraps herself in the plush white robe that’s hanging from a hook in the bathroom. “Oh my God—you’re here!” she shouts back. Her feet are still damp from the bath, and she takes the stairs gingerly, holding onto the banister as she rushes down to greet River.

  He’s standing in the doorway, two small suitcases at his feet, watching her with a lopsided grin. “You look clean,” he says. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks down at her. Holly pauses at the bottom of the stairs and touches her wet hair self-consciously.

  “I guess I could have run a brush through my hair or put on some clothes,” she says. There’s a weird moment where she feels shy and awkward, and she isn’t sure whether to run to him or hurry back upstairs and change.

  “Get over here,” River says, letting the backpack he’s still wearing on one shoulder slip to the floor with a thud. A grin spreads across Holly’s face and she takes the five steps that separate them, throwing her arms around his neck happily.

  River picks her up off the ground and holds her tight. “I was just going to mess up your hair and take off your clothes anyway,” he says in her ear. Holly’s laugh catches in her throat.

  “You look good,” River says, setting Holly’s feet on the floor again. He gazes into her eyes as they both process the past four months and the way they’d parted on Christmas Eve. There was a lot said that day and a lot left unsaid, and the time that’s passed between then and now has been filled with texts and calls. There are words on the tip of Holly’s tongue as she thinks about how to apologize in person for pushin
g River away over the holidays. Looking into his eyes now, she remembers his sadness as he’d stared at her Christmas tree mournfully, the realization that she wasn’t really over Jake yet hanging between them both like a heavy curtain that morning in her bungalow.

  “River,” she says, putting her hands on the sides of his stomach.

  “Hey. No.” River sets his big hands on both of her cheeks, his fingertips touching her earlobes. “Let’s just start from here,” he whispers, moving his head down so that his lips meet hers. It’s the first time Holly’s been kissed since Christmas, and a tingling sensation starts on her scalp, prickling its way down her neck and spine.

  “Or we could start upstairs,” she suggests, pulling her lips from his reluctantly.

  River bends and lifts Holly in his arms easily, scooping her up like a damsel he’s about to carry across a puddle. “I like the way you think, Mayor,” he says, carrying her up the stairs and leaving his bags in the entryway. “I really like the way you think.”

  Holly wakes up and reaches for her phone in the unfamiliar room. It’s three in the morning. They’d fallen asleep tangled in the sheets of the master bedroom, the early summer sun still hanging over the buildings of Notting Hill, and River is still snoring softly in the dark.

  By the light of her cell phone, Holly tiptoes through the bedroom and into the bathroom where she’d discarded her clothes so many hours earlier. She digs her toothbrush and toothpaste out of her toiletries case and holds the brush under the faucet.

  “You’re awake, too?” River materializes in the doorway to the bathroom.