My head was spinning, but I steadied myself and answered as calmly as I could, ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
His tone changed for the briefest time. ‘Please, Rosie? There are things I want…we need to discuss.’
Though I hated it, he was right. Better to get it over with as soon as possible. ‘Fine. See you then.’ I ended the call before he could reply.
‘You OK?’ Marnie was once again behind the counter, looking concerned.
I managed a smile. ‘Yes, mate. I’m just fine.’
Once, when I was about fourteen years old, I met an explorer. He had recently returned from a successful Arctic expedition and my school invited him to talk to us about it. He brought photos of snowfields and polar bears, arctic scientists muffled up against the cold in bright orange snowsuits and nightscapes illuminated by the Northern Lights.
He was asked what made him want to do what he did: his answer was surprising. ‘I was a fearful child,’ he said. ‘My mother was terrified of spiders and I inherited her fear. My grandmother used to hide under the stairs during thunderstorms, so I would hide there with her until I got scared of them too. I soon became scared of everything that was new and different, and anything I didn’t understand. Then I began to be interested in science—especially biology and meteorology. As I studied the things I feared, I realised what I was missing out on—the wonders of this world, the intricate beauty of its varied environments. I became an explorer to make up for lost time. Anything I’ve previously feared I now actively pursue.’
Maybe that’s what I was doing now.
I stood outside Rochelle’s on West 70th Street and looked up at the entrance that rose magnificently from the tree-lined avenue. Time to make up for lost time, I told myself as I walked up the marble steps.
The maître d’ smiled as I approached. ‘Ah, Ms Duncan, how delightful to see you again.’
I smiled. ‘Hello, Cecil. How’s your wife?’
Cecil’s bushy black moustache rose as he smiled. ‘She’s very well, Ms Duncan. She adored the bouquet you put together for her birthday.’ He gestured towards the dining area. ‘I believe Mr Lithgow is already here. Follow me, please.’
David stood as I approached the table. ‘Rosie.’ He offered his hand—then withdrew it quickly when I didn’t accept. As we sat down, I noticed he was rubbing one thumb erratically across the knuckle of the other—a thing he always did when he was nervous. I frowned. He had appeared so confident when he’d called earlier, and I had expected him to be the same now. But to see him not in control empowered me slightly. A waiter brought menus and we ordered. Once the necessary business was complete we were left alone. As it was early, the restaurant was only a quarter full, with most of the diners seated on the other side of the room. Consequently, we were more alone than I had anticipated we would be.
David took a long sip of water and then looked at me. In the soft light I could clearly see a faint purple shadow around his right eye. It was obvious that Celia’s trusty sources had triumphed once again.
He spoke at last. ‘I didn’t think you’d come. I didn’t think you’d take the job.’
My guard in place, I answered coolly. ‘I’m still not sure why I did.’
His stone-grey eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I’m so glad you accepted. Honestly I am. You don’t know how good it is to see you.’
His warmth threw me and I reached for my water glass to avoid his stare.
‘I can’t tell you what a relief it was to finally find you,’ he continued, leaning towards me, his voice like velvet trade winds. ‘I needed to find you, Rosie. I—uh—I wanted to—make things right…’
He was interrupted by the arrival of our wine, providing a brief respite. He straightened up to talk to the wine waiter and I grabbed the few precious seconds it provided to gather myself together. When the waiter left I seized the initiative and changed the subject.
‘Nate said this was a large commission,’ I began, intrigued to see David momentarily touch his wounded eye at the mention of Nate’s name. He tried to reply, but I continued, ‘so it’s important at this meeting that we discuss numbers of pieces required so I can prepare my staff well in advance. I need to know roughly how many table pieces and large displays will be needed; which areas of the venue are to feature flowers; numbers of buttonholes required for guests and bridal party; plus, of course, requirements for the bridal bouquet.’
‘Naturally,’ David replied, producing an envelope from his jacket. ‘I’ve detailed everything here for you.’ He handed it over. As I reached out to take it, his hand brushed lightly against mine. The touch was softer than fine silk. I flinched, but he continued, apparently unaware, ‘Would it be beneficial for your team to see the venue at any time?’
‘Yes it’s…our…normal procedure,’ I was struggling and now he saw it. He leaned closer.
‘Would you like to see it soon? I could arrange for you to come out before Christmas, if you wish. Maybe you could make a preliminary visit before you bring your team?’
‘No.’ My answer was strained. I cleared my throat and started again. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Sometime in January will be fine. So, the next consideration is your specifications for colour and variety of the flowers required.’
David’s gaze remained unmoved. ‘That’s all on the list. I thought it best not to go through it here…now…’
We ate our meal quickly, although I sensed David was no hungrier than I was. He explained a little more about the layout of his parents’ new house in the Hamptons and I answered his questions about the type of weddings Kowalski’s had catered for in the past. Throughout the meal we maintained a wellpractised professional composure, much like we had assumed when we first met in London. A warm recollection eased itself slowly into my mind of the first week we worked together: our carefully constructed conversations from behind purpose-built defences. We were two people locked in a subtle game: each determined to retain the upper hand, yet both secretly fascinated with the other. Now, for the smallest moment, we were back there once more. Though guarded on both sides, tiny glimpses of that same sparkling energy fizzed through our conversation. It was devastatingly smooth warfare: utterly uncomfortable yet morbidly satisfying with its onslaught on my senses. I wondered if he felt it too.
At the end of the meal, David smiled. ‘You’re as adept a businesswoman as you always were, Rosie. Exactly like you were when I met you.’ The vivid memory sent a diamond-edged shard of pain through my heart. His eyes flashed and the corners of his wide mouth lifted slightly. I looked away. I caught the faintest sound of a sigh and he spoke again. ‘I’ll get the bill.’
Once it was settled, we rose to leave and Cecil escorted us to the door. ‘I hope to see you again, very soon, Ms Duncan, Mr Lithgow,’ he smiled as we collected our coats and wrapped up ready for the cold outside. ‘Now, you have our order for seasonal flowers?’
‘It’ll be with you on Christmas Eve, as arranged.’
Cecil’s moustache jumped into a smile. ‘Wonderful. Merry Christmas, Ms Duncan.’
‘Merry Christmas, Cecil,’ I replied as David and I walked outside. I turned to hail a cab, then froze when I felt David’s hand on my shoulder.
‘Rosie, before you go—can we walk a little?’
I slowly turned back. ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.’
His eyes were wide as they met mine; all of a sudden, he looked lost. ‘Please?’
A thought flickered in my mind. He might be as hurt as you. Angrily, I dismissed it. But something in his expression struck an ancient, long-forgotten chord. ‘OK. You’ve got ten minutes. Then I must go.’
We walked until we reached a diminutive community garden dwarfed and overshadowed by an imposing 1920s building. Most of its former glory had faded, but it proudly retained a dustily majestic air of what it had once been. David walked a little way into the garden until he reached a small wooden bench. He sat down and looked up at me.
‘Please sit with me?’
I wrapped my coat defensively around myself. ‘No, thanks. I’m fine here.’
David let out a sharp breath, which rose in the frosty night air like steam from city drains. ‘Look, Rosie, I know this is hard for you, but—’
Instantly I snapped back. ‘Pardon me? I’m sorry, I think I misheard you, David. For a moment there I thought you said you knew how I felt…’
He opened his mouth to reply but I got there first.
‘…Because, let me tell you, you have no idea how I feel. No idea at all. So don’t even think you know how hard this is for me. Because you wouldn’t even come close.’
‘OK, OK, I understand. I’m sorry.’ His voice softened and he held out his hand. ‘Just…please…it would be better if you’d sit down, OK? That’s all I meant. Please?’ That lost look was all over his face again. I hesitated for a moment before relenting, sitting as far from him as I could. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed. I checked my watch. He spoke again, more softly this time. ‘Look at me, Rosie.’
‘No, look, I’m sitting down and—and—I’m here in the first place, all right? So don’t push it. Just say what you want to say and then let me go home.’ My eyes kept their defiant vigil on the floor.
He swore under his breath. ‘OK. Sure. On your terms it is, then.’
On my terms? my mind screamed silently. The last six and a half years have been on your terms…
With great effort, I kept my expression steady and my inner disgust hidden as David continued, ‘Man, this is hard…OK…I realise I have no idea what you’ve been through on my account. I’m well aware that—before I start—nothing I say right now is going to sound worthy enough to compensate for what happened…what I did to you…I know that, Rosie. But I have to try, surely?’
I knew he was looking straight at me, in the way he used to.
‘Yeah, sure, you’ve every right to be silent. After all, I guess I’ve been silent towards you for all this time. But being silent doesn’t mean you have nothing to say, Rosie. Though we never spoke, I always had things I wanted to say to you—you have to believe that. I’ve often thought about you: how you were doing, where you were…I thought you would have gone back to England…And I know I never tried to contact you but I didn’t know where to look…No, uh—no, that isn’t true: I was too scared to look for you. I couldn’t face talking to Ben, or Rosemary, both of whom I knew would be gunning for me. And then it got too late and too many things got in the way, like…like Rachel…But, hey, you don’t want to hear about her. No, of course you don’t. Hell, I’m making such a mess of this. I thought I’d never have to say this stuff. I thought I’d never find you, but, well, here you are…Here we are…’
I shifted uneasily as pain intensified in my gut.
‘And now I’m struggling, because all the fine words I’d planned to say seem totally inadequate now. Nate was right: I don’t deserve to receive anything from you ever again, let alone your time to hear me out.’
‘Did he hit you?’ I meant to keep my curiosity locked up but the question escaped.
Surprised, David laughed. ‘Yeah, he totally slammed me. I didn’t know he had it in him. We used to joke at Yale that he was the only guy who could win a boxing tournament with persuasive argument.’ The smile left his voice. ‘But I was wrong, obviously. It seems there are some subjects he’ll make an exception for. Like you.’ His words caught me offside and I was suddenly face to face with him before I had chance to think better of it. As though celebrating a goal achieved, triumph lit my opponent’s eyes and broadened his smile. ‘Well, that got you looking at me, Ms Duncan.’
Incensed, I stood. ‘I’m going home. I shouldn’t have come here. Good night.’
Without looking back, I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and began to walk briskly from the garden. I heard him call my name and his footsteps quickening behind me. Shaking my head, I stepped up the pace, breaking into a halfrun as I rounded the block and headed for the light of the metro station entrance a little way ahead of me. He called my name again, this time much nearer.
‘Leave me alone!’ I shouted back. I was almost at the subway—just a little further…My pursuer’s steps came closer—now I could hear his heavy bursts of breath behind me. I tried increasing my speed but it was too late. My right arm jolted back as he pulled me to a halt, spinning me round to face him.
‘Hit me,’ he growled, between large gasps for breath.
‘What?’ I shot back, trying unsuccessfully to break free from his grip that imprisoned both arms now. ‘Let me go.’
‘Hit me…’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘Just damn well hit me, Rosie. Let the anger out and then we can be civil. What are you waiting for? Come on, give me your best shot!’
White-hot anger made my answer colder than ice. ‘No, I won’t. And how dare you trivialise everything? What, you think that’s going to solve the situation between us? So I lash out to get it out of my system, is that it? That would be just great for you, wouldn’t it: one confrontation and it’s all over. Just like one decision solved your problem with me last time. Is that all you think it takes?’
Genuine shock painted his face. ‘I—I…’
‘I will work with you on your wedding, David, as agreed. You will receive the best service that Kowalski’s can offer. Like we offer all our customers. Because that is all you are to me, OK? Just—another—client.’ I paused for breath and silence fell as we faced each other. I felt the anger leave, but steel-cold defiance remain. ‘I’m going home now. Please let me go.’
Still stunned, David’s hands fell away. ‘Can I call you?’
My eyes bore straight into his. ‘Why?’
His lips moved without resulting sound, unable to offer an answer.
‘Good night, David.’ I turned and walked slowly away.
Chapter Eighteen
Every season in New York City has its own unique delights, but I have to admit that Christmas time is my favourite. As soon as Thanksgiving approaches and the store windows begin to feature festive themes I get a sparkly sense of excitement all through me. I’ve had it ever since I was a child—even though many of my childhood Christmases were tinged with sadness after Dad’s betrayal of our family. Mum always managed to keep the season light for us, which I think also helped her to cope with the time of year. She would spend weeks preparing, baking cakes and biscuits and then, the week before Christmas, she would busy herself filling the house with roses and poinsettias, winding holly and ivy garlands around every flat surface in the house.
I remain such a fan of the season that I even enjoy the annual struggle to single-handedly lug a six-foot spruce tree up three flights of stairs to my apartment (because I refuse to pay $25 extra to get the tree delivered or choose an imitation tree instead). A real Christmas tree is something Mum always insisted on when we were growing up, and I’ve carried on the tradition ever since.
So this was how I came to be standing, as I had done for the past five Christmases, at Chuck’s Festive Tree Yard, on an impossibly cold Saturday morning, two weeks before Christmas, wearing about twenty-seven layers to keep warm and stamping my feet to retain the circulation in my toes. Having chosen my tree—a gorgeously bushy Blue Spruce—I was now waiting for none other than Chuck himself to net up my purchase so I could drag it home.
Chuck is something of a local hero where I live. He started selling Christmas trees out of the back of his father’s pickup truck in 1953, on the car lot of the old Realto Picture House, three blocks down from my street. The crumbling 1930s cinema was demolished in the late eighties and, by then, Chuck had earned enough to buy the plot. During the year, his business is a small city nursery, selling pot plants and window boxes, but every Thanksgiving he transforms the entire area into the Festive Tree Yard, packed to capacity with every imaginable variety of pine tree. Now in his early seventies, with both his son and grandson working alongside him, Chuck strolls proudly around the yard with a fat wedge of cigar stub hanging permanently out of one side of his m
outh, which bobs up and down comically as he proffers his wise advice to customers.
‘Nah, you don’t want that one, lady. That one is for homes less classy than yours. Trust me, I know. What you need is a tree like this. Now, don’t you go worrying about that price tag. That price is for customers I don’t like, see? You, I like. So, you can have this classy tree, we’ll call it a straight fifty and it’s yours. What d’ya say, huh?’
The Festive Tree Yard was always busy, but this morning it appeared that everyone in a five-mile radius had decided, like me, to buy their tree today.
‘I like the Norwegian Pine myself,’ said a voice by my ear, making me jump. I spun around to see Ed standing there, a large cotton shopping bag from Zabar’s slung casually over one shoulder and a huge grin on his face. ‘Happy Holidays!’
‘What are you doing here?’ I smiled.
‘Same thing as you. Looking at over-priced, half-dead trees,’ he smirked. ‘So what sorry specimen did you go for this year?’
‘Blue spruce,’ I replied, jutting my chin out defiantly. ‘And I happen to think that a real tree is essential for Christmas.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, lady,’ grinned Chuck, appearing from the forest in front of us and handing me my tree. ‘Blue spruce—a fine choice for a fine woman. Don’t you agree, sir?’
‘If you like that kind of thing,’ Ed replied nonchalantly.
Chuck’s wrinkled brow furrowed further. ‘Is he referring to the tree or to you?’ he asked me, clenching the cigar between his teeth as he spoke.
I smiled. ‘Non-believer.’
Chuck let out a big throaty laugh. ‘Aha, I see. Well, Happy Holidays, lady—and to you, sir.’ And with that he disappeared back into the trees.
‘So how are you getting this back home?’ Ed asked. ‘Hailing a cab?’
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