Table for Two
Page 17
"You know I love you, right?"
"I do," he answered. "As much as I love you."
The barista Tiffany approached, holding their check. "Coffee for two?" she asked, glancing down at it. "And house pastries?"
"That's us," said Logan. He exchanged glances with Danni, both of them smiling.
Maybe Pauline's could make a wedding cake out of filled pastry, with a coffee frosting and whipped cream topping, thought Danni. Anything was possible.
Turn the page for a special excerpt from A Cottage in Cornwall
Excerpt from A COTTAGE IN CORNWALL
I hadn't seen the place my estate agent suggested yet, of course. But when Denise pulled up outside its gate and parked, I felt my heart give a great thump before it seemed to plunge all the way to the bottom of my chest.
It was beautiful. It was charming, small, and exactly how everybody pictures a Cornish cottage. I loved it already, because I had always loved it — ever since Matthew had first invited me inside.
"Isn't it a beauty?" said Denise, as she climbed out of the car. "The owner was quite shocked the previous tenant didn't renew his lease. They're a bit hesitant about renting to just anybody, you see. But I persuaded them that you would be a model tenant."
I crossed the threshold, feeling like I was entering a ghost house. None of Matthew's things were here — his books weren't on the shelves, his pictures gone from the walls. The furniture was still there, everything positioned exactly as it was the last time I was here. Decorating a Christmas tree with Matt, trying to bring back a little of the childhood happiness he had lost all too soon to adversity.
"The place has a name," said Denise, checking the listing on her mobile. "Ah, yes. Rose-"
"-moor Cottage," I finished, at the same time as Denise. "I know."
The room sounded empty and hollow, my footsteps echoing a little as I crossed the wooden floor in my stilettos. I bent down and lifted a silvery piece of tinsel which had fallen behind the shabby old armchair. It was dusty, marring the shiny, silver surface.
"Needs a bit of cleaning, of course," said Denise, referring to the cottage's neglected rooms. "But I'm sure you'll love it once you've made it a bit more personal."
"Why didn't the previous tenant come back?" I asked, softly.
"Haven't the faintest idea, really." Denise dusted her hands after pulling open the worn tartan curtains across the front windows. "She simply said he hadn't renewed. Something about him being overseas — maybe he's staying a bit longer than planned. Either way, the place is available, and it won't be that way for long. It's yours to take or leave, Julianne." She paused. "Shall I bring the papers?"
I gazed at the garden outside. The first spring blossoms had appeared, although the grasses and long-leafed, wild stalks seemed tangled and forlorn. A lump rose in my throat.
"I'll take it," I said.
I didn't want to, yet I did. I wanted to be here, and not have a stranger pulling up the plants and putting the old armchair out by the curb — as if that would actually happen, given the owner's feelings on tenants. Even though the last thing I needed was to be surrounded by memories of Matthew, I felt at home here. The coziness of this room, of this view, meant too much to me to let it go yet.
After the papers were signed, Denise drove away and I was alone in the cottage. It felt strange, with only my presence in these rooms. I'd never been here before without Matthew. I walked through each one, finding dust and empty shelves and the wrought-iron bed frame I hadn't realized was in the bedroom. I opened a narrow door which led to a closet, and saw a flannel shirt lying crumpled on the floor. One of Matt's, which he had obviously forgotten.
In my mind, I still pictured his books and his glossy brown tea pot on the table. But the teapot wasn't in the kitchen's glass-door cupboards when I opened them, one by one in my exploration. Only the chipped plates I remembered fondly from having a takeaway lunch here with Matt a time or two, when we were still in the 'will we?/won't we?' stage of our relationship.
Out the kitchen door, to the little hothouse Matt had loved. I stepped inside, standing beneath its glass ceilings choked with overgrown sweat peas, climbing roses, and other flowering vines that had crept up the frame and filtered the sunlight. The glass panes around me were grimy with pollen and dirt, making it hard to see the little green leaves budding out on the vines; the space around me was empty, except for a few vacant clay pots. Matt had found someone to care for all his plants before he left.
I took a deep breath. It smelled like him, earthy and green — but also like leaf mold and manure, which made me sneeze, then wrinkle my nose after a second breath. I moved aside, and felt a broken piece of ceramic beneath my shoe. I caught sight of a hole near the corner, where Matt had dug up an impressive climbing pink rose that had always seemed to be in bloom.
Oh, Matt. I wish you were here. I sighed. It would be a very long time before I didn't wish that, I was certain. I wondered if he was in Boston, missing me and wishing things between us were different. I wondered if I should try one more time to write him an email, to be the first one to break my pride and offer an olive branch.
Maybe it wasn't too late. But I thought of the black hole into which my last three letters had vanished as I stepped outside the greenhouse and closed the door.