by Lucy Hepburn
Was this him? Will looked closely, considering the age and Nina’s description: “gorgeous, just…mmm. Yummy! Unmistakeable! You’ll know, Will, trust me, you’ll just know!!” Was this man yummy? It seemed rude to ask.
“Ah.”
The young man continued to look in embarrassment from Will to the older man. Then he shrugged in what seemed to be good-natured confusion. Will felt his brow furrow and looked down at his placard. Then he glanced to the older man on his right. He, too, was looking down at his placard. They both said ‘Antonio Santori.’
And there was worse to come. By the time Will looked up again, at least five other people had made their way through Arrivals and were clustering around the young man—an entire family, that much was obvious, judging by the strong resemblance.
“Well, this is interesting.” The older man looked at Will and smiled, shuffling a little in embarrassment. “I’m Roger Grace. I work here.” He held out his hand, first to Will and then to the young arrival.
“Will Thompson,” Will replied, returning the handshake.
“Antonio Santori,” the Italian man smiled. “Very nice to meet you both. Where is Annette?”
“She asked me to meet you,” Will explained just as Roger answered,
“On her way! No doubt about it.”
Will was not surprised by these events. With Christy’s super-efficiency and Nina’s super-ditziness, there was bound to be some kind of mix-up. It was amazing that the mix-up turned out as harmless as it had.
Antonio smiled a slow, easygoing smile and slapped both Will and Roger affectionately on their shoulders. “Oh, well, no problem,” he said cheerfully before turning toward the others crowded around him.
“My mother, Maria,” he indicated a plump, middle-aged woman with sparkly eyes and jet black hair drawn back into a tight bun.
“Paulo, my father.” A friendly-looking older gentleman stepped forward, smart in a sharp grey suit and open-necked shirt, his thinning, salt-and-pepper hair oiled back, offering his hand.
Antonio swept his arm before the other three, younger arrivals.
“Anastasia, my little sister; Allegra, my little big sister; and Angelo, my baby brother.”
The younger members of the family preferred double kisses to handshakes, so the greeting process went on for some time. Will submitted to the unaccustomed intimacy with good grace, even when Angelo, a giant bear of a man in his early twenties, pulled him close and kissed him firmly on each cheek, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He greeted them all politely, wondering how Nina could omit the tiny detail about Antonio bringing his entire family with him. Then he glanced at the ceiling, hoping against hope for some sort of divine intervention that would sort everything out and get these people to Annie without any more mishaps. He’d seen and experienced enough of her to suspect she operated on an ‘everything will be just fine’ policy.
Huh, Christy would love that—not! He smiled to himself, then tried to dismiss the train of thought and concentrate on the job in hand. Making judgements—bad habit, he chided himself.
“There seems to be some confusion,” Will said, deciding that, as nobody else was going to, he may as well take control of the situation. He spoke to Antonio when he said, “Excuse us for a second?”
Drawing Roger off to the wall by the arrivals gate, Will was quickly brought up to speed by the older man. He smiled as he listened to Roger describing the lovely, genuine young woman who had gotten herself into such a panic having lost her phone, and his heart went out to him when he learned that he had lent her—a complete stranger—his spare phone.
“That’s great,” Will said when he’d finished, “but I have no idea how I’m going to get five people, plus their luggage, into Dad’s car.”
“Where are you headed?” Roger asked.
“New Brunswick. There’s an engagement party at the Brunswick Park Hotel there this evening—Antonio’s engagement party.”
“Ah, of course!” Roger cried, remembering. “He’s marrying the cute girl’s sister.”
“He is indeed,” Will smiled.
“Well, hello there!” someone called out behind him. “We must stop meeting like this.”
Will hadn’t noticed Laura Davies’s arrival. With not a freshly coiffed hair out of place, she linked her arm through Will’s.
“Well,” she went on, beaming at him. “Who would have thought we’d be meeting again so soon? I take it Annie’s filled you in on all the family details?”
Will hadn’t expected this. What on earth was Christy’s mom doing here? He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Davies. Oh, this is Roger Grace.” Will was glad of his gift for remembering names. It was one of the secrets of his success. But his brain was working overtime. “Roger works here. Roger, this is Laura Davies. She’s Christy’s mother—and the mother of the bride, too.”
“A great pleasure,” Roger said. He seemed only to have eyes for Laura. Will peered closely at them both. Was Laura blushing?
“Likewise,” Laura gushed, making a flustered gesture with her hands. “Now, excuse me, but I believe I have a son-in-law to meet?” She cast an excited gaze around the crowded building. ”Do you know where he is, by any chance?”
Antonio and his family had moved a few paces away and were standing in a huddle organizing their luggage.
Will indicated the group. “Right there, Mrs. Davies. I think you’ll find that you’re gaining more than just a son-in-law.”
“The guy brought a whole posse,” Roger grinned. “They seem like a great bunch.”
But Laura had shot across to where the Italian family stood and within seconds, she and Antonio were locked in a tight hug. Will could hear Laura talking, nineteen to the dozen, in what, to his inexperienced ear, seemed like fluent Italian. Then Antonio was introducing his family to her, his face filled with pride, as one by one they embraced. He and Roger exchanged glances.
“Yeah, a nice bunch,” Roger murmured.
Will’s heart was pounding. Christy ought to be here, with his papers, to see him…but right now her mother was standing just a few feet away…and Christy and her mother had been together just a short time ago…
A grim realization was beginning to creep over him. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t coming.
“Oh, my, what a surprise!” Laura was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes as she broke away from her knot of future relatives and returned to where Will and Roger stood. “This is wonderful—but I have no idea how I’m going to—”
“I’m going to help transport everyone to your daughter’s party,” Roger cut in. “If that’s okay with you?”
One look at Laura’s overwhelmed face told Will that it most definitely was.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Davies, but, well, where’s Christy?”
Even though Laura Davies’s appearance had supplied the answer already, still, deflated beyond belief, he forced himself to ask the question.
Laura looked up at him and paused for a tiny moment before replying. “Oh, Will,” she began, “I’m afraid Christy couldn’t make it—”
“Okay, that’s fine, I just wondered…” Will cut in, trying his best to feign nonchalance.
“There was somewhere else she really needed to be,” Laura went on.
“I completely understand. It’s fine.” Will smiled. “It’s just that I have her phone and she has the contracts, I thought…”
He knew he had to hold it together, but the sensation of disappointment made him want to turn around and run away, as fast and as far as he could.
“She wanted to come but something that was important to her came up—”
“Mr. Simpson…Clint’s.”
“Yes,” said Laura, “exactly. So I volunteered myself as her envoy.”
Reaching into her bag, Laura drew out a thick brown envelope and held it out toward him. “I believe this is for you.”
>
Okay, so she really isn’t coming, Will thought as he reached out to take the envelope. The opulent ‘Anderssen Goldstein’ logo in the corner was a little tattered, but there was no doubting what the package contained.
“Thank you.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He tucked the envelope under his arm, wondering who would break the slightly awkward silence. Laura was looking at him, almost expectantly.
And then he remembered. “Oh, the phone!” He summoned a weak laugh. “Can’t forget to give you that.”
“Oh my goodness, yes,” Laura gushed. “She’d kill me.”
He drew it out from his pocket for the last time and handed it over to Christy’s mother, feeling as he did so that he was relinquishing his last link with Christy. His one connection to her…gone.
Laura smiled when she saw the phone and quickly slipped it into her bag. “Christy’s useless without this old thing. Thank you so much for all you did today, Will,” Laura said quietly. “I only got the barest details from Christy, but it sounds like you were a great help.”
A great help? So that was the sum total of Christy’s opinion of him.
“Glad to hear it,” Will replied.
Laura glanced around at Antonio and his family. “Do you think we might…”
“Get going?” Will guessed. “Yes, of course, we’re done here after all—Roger?”
“Ready and waiting!” Roger smiled, jingling a set of car keys and buttoning his blazer. “Vehicle’s parked out front.”
“I’ll go get Dad to bring the car around,” Will said, turning to face the direction of the coffee stand, where his dad would no doubt be engrossed in his book. “See you in a few minutes.”
It was only as he walked briskly across the floor of the cavernous building that he realized something. There was no need for him to get back in the car with his dad, no need for him to head back to New Brunswick, no need for him to take up useless space when he wasn’t wanted back there anyhow.
He could just head on down to the station, jump on a train, and be back in Manhattan, home, in under an hour.
Or…
Chapter Twenty-Two
CHRISTY
6:58 p.m.
6:30 p.m. Meet Mr. Simpson at Clint’s – Twenty-eight minutes late.
It was almost seven o’clock when Christy pushed open the door of Clint’s restaurant and made her way inside, grateful for the welcome surge of heat and the escape from the rain but still, since most of her senses were in shut-down due to exhaustion, she suspected it wouldn’t really matter where she was.
As she had trudged through the rainy streets back toward Clint’s, Christy had had time to reflect upon her decision. Had she made the right one?
They were both long shots: one, Will, and the possibility of romance; the other, Mr. Simpson and the possibility of the apartment. She couldn’t have both. Should she have abandoned hope of Mr. Simpson changing his mind about the apartment and gone instead to meet Will face to face? Or should she have done what she was doing—come to Clint’s to fight for her dream home? The fact that she still thought of it as ‘her home’ was the only thing that convinced her. But if she’d made the right choice, what was that gnawing sensation in her heart?
Really and truly, though, what would she have been thinking of, chasing a guy who was only doing her a favor? She wasn’t a lovesick kid anymore—fairytales were just that: tales. Fantasy.
But she and Will had shared a connection, she was sure of that. And she found that she missed him—huh, how mad was that? How can I miss a guy I’ve never spoken to face to face?
Brushing raindrops off her jacket, she scanned the restaurant. There was the bar, where she’d spoken to Duncan and fixed up that fish order for Aaron. Aaron wasn’t there. The place was busy, full of pleasant-looking, middle-aged diners. A comfortable buzz made the place welcoming and appealing, and the food smelled delicious.
“Mr. Simpson!” There he was! Sitting alone, at a small table in a corner near the window. Christy waved to him across the restaurant, forgetting her good manners in a rush of relief. Without waiting for an invitation, she rushed across the room.
He had finished eating, paid his bill, and was shrugging his arms back into his jacket in preparation to leave. She had only just made it. Silently she glanced skyward and thanked the powers of fate.
His expression when he saw her steaming toward his table switched from surprise to recognition to slight discomfort.
“Ms. Davies, how are you?” By the time she reached him, he had collected himself, fixed his face into a smile, stood up, and extended his hand.
Christy shook his hand overeagerly. “Oh, Mr. Simpson, you remember me. I need you to know that I did show up at the apartment block this morning before the deadline, but you’d already gone.”
“My niece told me,” he interrupted, steering her gently toward the empty chair opposite his and urging her to sit. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, thank you.” Relief flooded through her. “And I’m sorry, too. But no harm done, I can give you the deposit now and—”
“Hold on a second,” he cut in. “I’m afraid what I mean is, I’m sorry that you have had to be disappointed. Ms. Davies, I filed all of the sale paperwork this afternoon.”
“You did?” Christy’s voice sounded to her like it was coming from far, far away.
He nodded, giving her a regretful smile. “See, it may have been a little harsh of me to leave before the deadline I set, but to be honest, there is such high demand for this block, and I thought you were so keen—”
“I am keen!”
“…that I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone doing other than getting to me first thing with their check—you didn’t tell me you’d leave it until the last minute.”
“I…I had to help my sister, and I lost my phone,” Christy mumbled, realizing how feeble her words sounded. “Is there nothing you can do? Please?”
He shook his head. “Ms. Davies, I really am sorry.” And he looked like he meant it, but he also looked like his decision was final. “You would, of course, be more than welcome to come along to the auction tomorrow and bid alongside everyone else. I will make sure your name is added to the list of bidders.”
Christy was shaking her head before he had finished speaking. “Your niece has sweetly done that for me already. But your initial offer was my only chance.” The sensation of that last glimmer of hope trickling away was almost more than she could bear. It was as though the entire day had been set up just to knock her down.
“Best I can do, I’m afraid, Christy.”
“Are you sure?” She was pleading now. “You see, there’s no way I could afford…and I…I really so, so wanted…”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But any other option would be unethical now. I will double check that Brigitte put your name on the list, though.” He put his hand on Christy’s shoulder. “You never know, you might win the lottery tonight.”
With a sigh, Christy finally heaved herself to her feet. She was finished. For a moment she longed for her mother to come charging in and fight her corner—or at least hold her tightly so that she could finally give in and cry like a toddler.
But she knew what her mother would do right now. She would remember her manners. Forcing a weak smile, she looked up at Mr. Simpson for the last time. “Thank you for all you did for me,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Davies—and I’m truly sorry I couldn’t do more.”
Christy hung her head. She couldn’t speak. She’d lost everything. She’d lost the apartment that she’d dreamed about since she first saw it existed—the apartment she had played near when she was a child and it was still a disused storage house, before it had been converted. The apartment she’d seen herself living in for the rest of her life.
And what hurt just as much was that she’d given up her one chance to meet Will to get
it. She’d chosen the apartment over Will, and it was the wrong choice because she lost them both. Deep inside Christy’s chest, something broke.
“Christy!”
She whipped around to see Aaron, the restaurant manager, bounding over to her.
“We were just talking about you. Your name is Christy, isn’t it?” he gushed, taking her arm and parading her off toward the bar before she could refuse. “Let me get you a drink. I owe you big time, after all.”
“Oh! No, yes, well, it is Christy, and thank you, but I don’t have—” she stopped herself, suddenly tempted. “Actually, a soda water would be great—thank you! Wait, no, scratch that, I’d like a glass of chardonnay.” She felt she deserved it after the day she had.
Aaron swiftly fixed her a cold white wine, condensation dripping down the glass, and she took a sip. It helped. A little.
Aaron poured himself one from the same bottle. “Your very good health,” he smiled and raised his glass to her. “And thank you, again.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “Cheers.”
It was as delicious as the orange juice he’d fixed her earlier. Fresh and zingy and everything Christy wasn’t, right at this moment.
“Actually,” Aaron went on, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning toward her, “I was hoping to see you again.”
“You were?” Christy glanced at his hands, spied his thick gold wedding band, and wondered what he meant.
He nodded. “Your friend, Duncan—the fish guy from upstate?”
“Yes, I know Duncan,” Christy smiled fondly at the thought of him.
“He tried not to give me your number when I asked for it—can you believe it? I think he thought I was trying to hit on you.”
Now Christy was wondering if she had been wise to accept the drink, even though it was wonderful. What, exactly, was this guy getting at?
“See this?” He pushed a menu card toward her. “Would you look on the back, please?”