A Gift to Remember

by Melissa Hill

  So much for her day off . . .

  Chapter 22

  I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library. Jorge Luis Borges

  Darcy took her time on her way back to Aidan’s house. The city was alive with lights and music and the threat of fresh snow as the morning stretched on, but in truth, she didn’t mind doing what was necessary to help him out. He was a lovely guy and she guessed they’d formed a friendship of sorts by now. It was nice, as such relationships had never come easy to her, and even as a small child she had tended to seek out books for solace and companionship.

  She was also touched by his insistence that she should make use of the ballet tickets. It was a long time since Darcy had felt appreciated by anyone – not that she expected or wanted praise for any extra shifts her boss automatically assumed she was available for, or any favours she gave to the staff re. time off, etc.

  The fact of the matter was, the more time she spent with Aidan Harris, the more curious she became.

  As she made her way back uptown, she had the fleeting thought that she had not yet done any of her holiday shopping – most pressingly, found a special gift for Katherine. Four days to Christmas and she was knee-deep in someone else’s affairs. The city landscape blurred as she rode by on her bike, a steady stream of coloured Christmas lights and steamy windows and the scent of freshly baked bread making her stomach rumble as she pedalled past the snooty cafés and ritzy bistros on the Upper West Side – all of them brimming with people, in perfectly cut winter coats and hats, displaying manicured nails, whitened smiles and spa-day hair, showcasing New York’s unmistakable winter glamour.

  As she passed, Darcy started to wonder if Aidan had dined in each one, whether he was the kind of regular everyone greeted with a hearty ‘hello’ and a ‘welcome back’. Was he a good tipper? And had he brought the women in the photographs to any of them?

  Soon, five blocks turned into four, four to three, three to two then one, and at last she turned the corner to Aidan’s street. The snow was coming down as she climbed off her bike, her limbs still a little tender from the collision of the other day.

  Reaching Aidan’s house, Darcy rapped twice before unlocking the door, just in case somebody was home this time, but once again there was no reply.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out, still almost expecting someone, a housekeeper even, to be there this time. But the silence remained.

  Stepping into the hallway, she glanced quickly at the Rothko hanging on the wall, checking that no one had since broken into the place and swiped it. She’d hardly slept that night after her first visit, worried that she’d failed to properly lock up the house, and had left all of its treasures exposed.

  Satisfied that no larceny had been committed on her watch, she continued inside, taking a moment to reacquaint herself with the space.

  Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, hoping that when she opened them, she would be able to look upon the contents of the house with fresh eyes.

  She was intent not only on finding something related to Thrill Seeker Holdings, but based on what she’d learned about Aidan in the meantime, discovering something of relevance that might help him, something that had been out of reach the first time she was here, when she was still feeling flustered by what she was supposed to be doing.

  Darcy looked down at the puddle rapidly forming at her feet and on the polished oak flooring. Hurriedly slipping out of her slush-covered boots, she left them beneath a side table in the hallway. Moving stealthily in her socks, she proceeded straight to the kitchen, planning to pick up some more food for Bailey, who had an appetite like Tolkien’s trolls, and had gone through the initial lot in no time.

  She opened the pantry door and extracted the bag of kibble and some more cans and treats, placing them on the counter to take with her when she was ready to leave.

  Then she started opening the other kitchen cabinets, checking to see if anything looked out of order, or if there were any signs that a third party – a friend, housekeeper, Aidan’s lady friend? – had been here in the meantime.

  As expected, the contents of Aidan’s cabinets were pretty standard: plates, mugs, bowls, although far from ordinary, all bearing the Williams Sonoma branding. But there was nothing to indicate that the kitchen had recently been used or indeed held any secrets.

  She opened his refrigerator again and wondered if maybe she should toss some of the items in there that might spoil. She didn’t want to overstep her boundaries – well, any more than she already had, that is – but nor did she want Aidan to come home from the hospital to a nasty-smelling mess either.

  Darcy removed a couple of containers, opened them, sniffed, and decided they would be OK for another day or two. She was about to close the fridge and keep going when she realised how thirsty she was from all the cycling this morning; Aidan would likely not mind if she helped herself to a bottle of water.

  Grabbing a bottle of Fiji and cracking it open, she shut the fridge and walked through to the ornate dining room she’d checked out on her first visit, taking in once again the fixtures; the gleaming walnut dining table, the exquisite chandelier, hanging from the ceiling, the sideboard that displayed elegant crystal glasses and decanters filled with a golden liquid that Darcy assumed was some eye-wateringly expensive scotch.

  She wondered if Aidan had dinner parties often. And she somewhat enviously wondered who helped him plan said dinner parties. Darcy allowed herself to imagine what it would be like playing hostess in this very room. Or having romantic dinners by the beautiful bay window, drinking wine of some fantastic vintage and raising glasses in a toast to each other and their blissful happiness.

  Feeling ridiculous, Darcy banished the thought from her head, even though she could almost hear the sounds of glasses chinking as the imaginary couple celebrated some special occasion.

  At that thought, she stopped walking and stared at the table, a question forming in her mind.

  Moving out of the dining room, she carried on, up the steps to the next floor, towards the entrance to another room into which she hadn’t ventured the last time she was here.

  Stepping inside, she had to pause and catch her breath.

  The sunlight coming through the window filled the entire space with a kind of austere glow as Darcy stared awestruck, unable to believe what she was seeing, and wondering how on earth she could have missed this before.

  Rows and rows of books were housed in a gigantic wooden bookcase that ran the entire length of the room: it reached so high it needed a ladder like the one they had at Chaucer’s – a series of rollers running across the top and bottom to allow the ladder to move along the length of the entire case.

  On the shelves looked to be classic editions of Austen and Beckett, Hemingway and Molière, Wilde and Woolf, and a complete set of Sherlock Holmes, all richly bound in varnished leather.

  In fact, the entire room smelled like leather, from the buttersoft taupe couches sitting opposite one another, to the oxblood Louis XV wing chairs set in front of a fireplace.

  What an amazing place to curl up in – your own private library. Despite the opulent furnishings, Darcy only had eyes for the books, her gaze moving hungrily over the shelves.

  If Aidan Harris couldn’t remember owning this, there was something seriously wrong with him, she mused.

  A copy of Wuthering Heights that looked like it could well be a first edition caught her eye. Pulling it carefully from its space on the shelf, she confirmed her hunch within seconds, and lovingly ran her hands over the red leather cover.

  Returning the book to the space, she brushed her fingers along the spines of the others, finding titles by so many of her own favourite writers. There was a very old-looking copy of The Prince by Machiavelli, which she actually felt too nervous to touch, as well as Dido, Queen of Carthage by Christopher Marlowe. Dido was attributed as Marlowe’s first work.

  Darcy extracted the tome from its place on the shelf, and delicately opened the cover. Too late, she wo
ndered if she should be wearing gloves, or at least something to keep the natural oil from her hands rubbing off on the treasure. Painstakingly raising the cover, her breath caught in her throat. A scribble of ink dotted the flyleaf – handwritten words. The sentence ended with the name Kit. Gasping in shock, Darcy ran her index finger over the words as if the action allowed her to travel across the centuries and connect with the man who had written them.

  There was little doubt in Darcy’s mind that the book she was holding at the moment had also been held four hundred years ago by the Elizabethan tragedian himself.

  She felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes from the wonder and amazement of it all. Then, though it killed her to do so, she placed it back on the shelf, vowing that she would take a proper look again sometime, ideally with Aidan’s full permission.

  She recalled what Aidan had said earlier about his curious knowledge of books and literature. Well, the explanation for that was right here in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t wait to tell him what she’d found, although she was kicking herself for not checking this room first time out. But she’d been in a hurry, and had been actively looking for personal objects and photographs that might help his memory, rather than taking a full account of every room.

  Darcy guessed that if she owned a collection of books like that, she’d remember them in an instant; if her position and Aidan’s were reversed, it would have been those that stood out in her memory.

  But who knew how these things worked? And the fact that he was obviously such a dog lover said something good about him too.

  Darcy continued to skim through the titles, and back in the A-section soon came across her beloved Pride and Prejudice. The novel had originally been published in 1813 in three separate volumes, and Darcy gasped aloud as she saw the three spines facing her. Scarcely daring to breathe, she lifted out the first volume and set it down on a nearby side table. Leaning over it, she inspected its weathered brown leather cover.

  As she examined the black morocco double spine she couldn’t help but wonder how Aidan had procured this. ‘He must really be a man of means,’ she muttered out loud as she remembered reading what such editions typically went for at auction. Eighty-five grand or so?

  Wow. Never mind Elizabeth Arden. This was something that truly was a million miles outside of her pay grade.

  This particular set of volumes seemed extraordinarily well-preserved. Again, she wondered where Aidan had come across them.

  She traced her fingers over the title page and its simple statement: By a Lady, wondering what Jane Austen would have made of her own current adventure.

  ‘She probably would have considered it too far-fetched for a plot,’ she said with a grin.

  Then, turning to the first page, Darcy began to read out loud the iconic opening sentence. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Certainly sounds like a best-seller to me,’ she added. As her gaze travelled over the text, Darcy remembered a maxim that she’d adhered to all her life: you could tell a lot about a person from simply looking at their bookshelves.

  And if Aidan Harris was anything like his book collection, she sighed, then he was a very special person indeed.

  Chapter 23

  What in the hell has happened to all this time I thought I had?

  Yesterday and today have been a blur. I don’t even know how the time has got so far away from me. Sure, I’ve checked off some of the things on my To Do list. But not the most important things. The big day is looming large now and time is seriously running out.

  When did life become so complicated?

  Now, as I sit at the kitchen counter, laptop in front of me, Bailey at my feet begging, and practically willing me to drop this forkful of noodle on the floor so he can gobble it up, I’m doing my best to not be completely consumed by the fact that 17 December is now less than three days away.

  So I really only have two days, if I want to get everything organised and ready for delivery beforehand.

  Christ.

  And even worse, my new buddy Nate has not called, despite his promises.

  Today I ended up getting nothing done except fielding enquiries from LA and making follow-up calls to the names on George’s list. I had to cancel a planned outing with Mel, something I know she was terribly disappointed about but I just have to hope she understands. She gets how things can be and how busy I am sometimes, yet I know that she doesn’t completely understand why she has to suffer because of it. It makes me feel so guilty to have to let her down like that but there’s really nothing I can do.

  I’ll make it up to her though, and I already have an idea how, but for the moment, I need to concentrate all my energies on getting this thing done.

  At least this morning I managed to get Bailey out for a good amble in the Park, and he enjoyed sniffing around and meeting up with his buddies, some of the other regulars around the Great Lawn.

  But realising I hadn’t actually eaten anything since our hot dogs mid-morning (I’m not really a fan but Bailey has a thing for Gray’s) I took the easy option and microwaved some noodles for lunch.

  I have to admit, this readymade stuff from Whole Foods was pretty good. That Californian Petite Syrah from the rack was good too. So good, in fact, that I might just drink the whole bottle – I am starting to feel that desperate.

  ‘How about that idea, Bailey? Maybe getting drunk will give some answers. It worked for Hemingway.’

  Bailey stared up at me with those incisive blue eyes of his, perhaps mulling over the idea that if I got drunk, I would be much more likely to drop food on the floor.

  I rubbed my forehead, refilling my glass while I offered Bailey a small piece of chicken from the plate.

  He gobbled it up as if it was the finest Kobe steak.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ I asked him. He licked his chops and stared at me intently, looking for more and giving me my answer.

  Feeding him again, I finished off the last few bites myself and pushed the plate away. Then I pulled the laptop close and started half-heartedly typing in some search terms, just on the offchance that Google would feel sorry for me today and answer, ‘Here you go, Aidan. Right here, at this location, is exactly what you want, ready and waiting to be sold to you.’ The search engine would show me a big map with an ‘X’ on it and I would put on my coat and rush off, chequebook in hand.

  But Google didn’t work that way, did it? And so I lost yet another hour’s worth of time, still hoping I might get lucky.

  Remind me not to head to Atlantic City anytime soon; I would probably lose my shorts.

  I got up from the stainless-steel kitchen counter, picked up my wine glass and meandered into the library. Flicking a switch, I turned on the Christmas tree and stared at the glittering lights and twinkling orbs, making me all too aware that the holidays were approaching and time was almost up.

  Turning my gaze from the tree, I walked slowly along the bookshelves, lightly caressing the spines. They comforted me as books always do.

  Many people would kill for a collection like this, I knew, and no doubt for a house like this. In a place as perfect as this you’d expect to have a perfect life, and that everything would be easy.

  But I knew better. I knew that you could spend a fortune filling shelves with rare books, travel all over the world and take pictures of exotic locations that most people could only ever dream about visiting, but at the end of the day, if the books remained unread and the journeys were mostly taken alone, then there was something missing.

  And really, I guess that’s the saddest thing in the world. I know for sure that I would rather have memories with another person in some cheap, out-of-the-way place on the map, than travel to Paris alone, stay in the finest hotel and take a picture of the Eiffel Tower that I could get from any stock photo website.

  I sat down in one of the big wing chairs next to the fireplace and took another sip of wine. A moment later, Bailey came in and
joined me, sitting down next to the chair and balancing his big warm head on my knee. I put a hand on his head and petted him.

  ‘Good boy. You’re a good boy.’ I scratched his ears and he leaned into my hand as if wanting to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get this sorted,’ perhaps reassuring myself more than him. ‘Something will come up; I’m sure of it.’

  Chapter 24

  Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Very reluctantly replacing volume one of Pride and Prejudice back on the shelf next to its sister volumes, Darcy managed to tear herself away from Aidan’s library and began to move further along into the house, trying other rooms that she hadn’t ventured into previously.

  Next she encountered another bedroom – smaller than the one she’d seen on her last visit – and while it was well-appointed just like the rest of the house, it also looked relatively lived in, or at least recently used, unlike other areas that seemed pristine in their appearance.

  A remote control for the plasma TV on the wall was haphazardly thrown on the bed, which was made, but it also appeared somewhat rumpled, as if someone had been watching TV while lying on top of the covers.

  Curious, Darcy moved to the antique rosewood closet and opened it. Inside were men’s clothes: shirts, trousers, and a couple of folded-up sweaters.

  Granted, Aidan probably had a lot of clothes, but she wondered why he kept them in here instead of his own bedroom. Then she reminded herself of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words about the rich being ‘different’, and guessed that this closet was used as an overflow, or to store away his wardrobe depending on season.

  She would have given anything for a closet that was big enough to store what few clothes she had, let alone have the luxury of a separate room altogether. As it was, she sometimes had to use the kitchen cupboards to put away seasonal stuff. If she wasn’t careful she could soon end up storing T-shirts in the freezer and socks in her cutlery drawer.