Wolf-whistles sounded across the bar.
‘No – wait – ’s not I meant …’
Jake grabbed his brother’s shoulders to steady him. ‘I know, dude. You’re at mine tonight.’
Head wobbling, Ed turned to Jake in surprise. ‘Really, Jakey-boy?’
‘Really. Now let’s call a cab.’
‘You’re a good boy, J-J-Jake,’ Ed slurred, patting Jake’s face like a puppy. ‘Hey! Guys! My brother’s a good boy! A s-sh-well guy …’
It took Jake almost twenty minutes to get every bachelor party guest out of the sports bar and into cabs, a feat not aided by his own alcohol-induced lack of co-ordination that became magnified when the cold New York night air hit him. When he had offered to arrange Ed’s night out it had been an attempt to keep himself busy and his brother safe: Ed’s other friends were most certainly incapable of ensuring Ed got home in a state fit to marry anyone. The plan had worked to begin with. Jake had consciously paced himself, ignoring the impassioned pleas from the other guests to enter into drinking challenges. But as they had moved from the steak restaurant to the gig bar and finally to Harry’s, he had found the lure of plentiful alcohol too tempting to resist. With Ed’s friends generously funding every round, it was easy to drink far more than he’d intended. But it felt good to have a real blowout: the last time he’d been this drunk was on the night Jess announced their marriage was over. That time he’d been alone – and that was dangerous.
Jessica.
She had been calling him since he’d walked out of their hotel meeting and it was messing with his mind. He hadn’t replied yet, but he knew through the family grapevine that she was still in the city. Her voicemail messages confirmed that she intended to remain in New York until he agreed to talk to her about their future.
Because of this, alcohol was his friend this evening. Alcohol helped to erase her face from his memory. It reminded him he was in sole charge of his destiny and – for tonight at least – that made him feel good. Nevertheless, he was pleased to finally get back to his apartment and complete his last grown-up responsibility of the night by steering a wheeling brother to the safety of his couch.
‘Women. Everywhere,’ Ed wailed, waving his arms above his head as he sprawled across the couch. ‘Can’t ’scape them. ’S like my home’s become a Ladies’ Room.’
‘It’s only one more woman,’ Jake corrected. ‘And good for Rosie that she has her cousin with her.’
‘Ah, Cousin Harri … short for Har-ri-et. From good old Blighty. She’s nice,’ Ed conceded. ‘But smells …’
Jake spluttered a laugh. ‘Harri smells?’
‘Mm-hmm. Harri smells good. Sprays and perfumes and – and –’ he frowned as the word he needed evaded him ‘– that stuff that sticks up your hair … Everywhere. All over our apartment.’
‘Her hair is all over your apartment?’ Jake was reaching the point in his semi-drunken state where everything bordered on the hilarious. A few more drinks and he would be sniggering at lampposts …
‘Ha! No! Good hair, though. Red. Like Bea’s.’
‘Bees aren’t red.’
‘No-no-no, not bees. Your Bea.’
Jake stared at Ed, his vision hazing around the edges. ‘My Bea?’
‘Yep. Pretty Bea the Book Lady of Brooklyn. Though you won’t admit you like her.’
‘I do like her. She’s become a good friend.’
‘Not like that, Jakey-boy. Like, you like her.’
In the encroaching fog of his mind, Ed’s comment dazzled Jake like a searchlight. Suddenly, he needed another drink. He stumbled into the kitchen and rummaged in a cupboard until he found a bottle of bourbon. Grasping it like an old friend, he collected a pair of glass tumblers and returned to Ed, who had managed to wobble himself upright on the couch.
‘Ah! That’s my bro!’ Ed exclaimed, receiving his glass with relish. ‘Cheers …’
Jake downed half his glass, hoping it would wash Ed’s comment away. Instead, it burned brighter. ‘What did you mean?’ he asked.
Ed was trying to see his reflection in the amber liquid filling his tumbler. ‘Eh?’
‘What you said about Bea: what did you mean?’
‘Oh, that.’ He looked up at his brother. ‘We’re the same, Jakey, me and you. We wait too long to admit how we feel. We hope it’ll go away if we ignore it. But it doesn’t. You know that, I know that.’
Jake felt his shoulders drop. ‘It doesn’t matter how I feel.’
‘Liar.’
‘It doesn’t!’ He raised his glass. ‘Impossible relationships. That’s what I get for feeling, bro. Impossible with Jess. Impossible with Bea …’
‘Bull. That’s what I told myself with my Rosie. That it was impossible. That she was falling for someone else and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I didn’t want to let her hurt me. So I waited. I waited a long time, bro. And I wish I hadn’t – because that woman is everything to me. I’m going to marry her like she’s never been married before!’ With a snort of laughter he took another sip of bourbon. ‘Nothing’s impossible, man. You have to tell her how you feel. ’S the only way.’
‘She doesn’t want a relationship.’
‘So you say.’
‘So she says. We made a pact.’
‘Pact! Who dragged you from Camelot? Lemme ask you something, Jakey: in all the time you’ve been hanging out with Bea have you ever asked her straight out if she wants to be with you?’
The question sent cold icicles of fear spreading across Jake’s shoulders. ‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know she’s not looking for that …’
‘How do you know?’
Jake groaned. ‘If she wants a relationship with me, how come she always mentions The Pact every time we meet?’
‘Probably ’cause she doesn’t know how you feel. But how you feel could change it, like – like –’ he made several attempts to snap his fingers, finally resorting to waving his hand instead ‘– that. You just gotta take the chance, bro.’
It had been a long night and now alcohol was slowly taking over his ability to think of anything at all. As Jake closed his eyes, the sound of Ed’s snoring filling the room, one thought rose and fell on a blurred, spinning carousel:
Until I tell her, I’ll never know what’s possible …
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn
The first significant snow of the winter fell the week before Christmas, blanketing the city and either ruining New Yorkers’ travel plans for the week or enhancing the festive feel of last-minute Christmas shoppers, depending on which taxi driver you listened to. For Bea, it was beautiful – even if it did mean some customers coming into Hudson River Books were more interested in keeping warm and enjoying the complimentary Christmas treats that changed with each day of the bookstore’s advent calendar theme rather than buying anything.
‘Watch that guy,’ Russ said, sidling up to Bea behind the counter.
‘Which guy?’ asked Bea, gift-wrapping a stack of books for Mrs Ovitz, a long-time customer of the store and owner of a startling selection of New York one-liners.
‘Beard Guy. Over by the biographies.’
Bea looked across the bookstore to see a bearded older man wearing a blue baker-boy-style cap and long grey belted cardigan over baggy jeans and army boots. ‘Why am I watching Beard Guy?’
‘He’s taken five candy canes in the last fifteen minutes.’
‘They’re free gifts, Russ.’
‘Sure. One per customer, like the sign says.’
‘Which sign?’
‘The sign I just put up.’
Bea squinted. ‘I don’t see it. Where?’
‘There. By the biographies.’
‘Russ …’
‘What? Look at him: I don’t think he’s even reading those books. It’s a ruse to steal our candy.’
Bea groaned as she handed over the bag of books to Mrs Ovitz. ‘Thanks, Mrs O. Have a lov
ely Christmas.’
‘I’ll try, Bea. Although if my kids don’t stop yelling at each other I might forget these books are gifts and use them as weapons instead.’
Grinning at the mental picture of Mrs Ovitz barricaded in her living room throwing books at her children on Christmas Day, Bea turned to Russ. ‘It’s Christmas. We’re meant to encourage our customers to stay and buy, not scare them away with rules and signs.’
Russ was unrepentant. ‘If he buys anything. Right now he’s too busy enjoying our heating and free candy. He was in here last week when we had sugar cookies, too. Trust me, Beard Guy is a browser, not a buyer.’
Mrs Ovitz tapped Bea’s arm. ‘I’m with Russ. Bill the guy for the candy before he leaves.’
Bea laughed as her straight-talking customer left. When she looked back at Russ, she saw he was smiling at her. ‘What?’
‘Us.’
‘What about us?’
‘We’re doing that thing again.’
‘What thing?’
‘The Russ and Bea shtick. We haven’t done that for weeks.’
It was true, but until Russ said it Bea hadn’t realised how easily they had both fallen back into their old rhythm of conversation. She wasn’t certain what had changed, but to see signs of a restored friendship meant the world. ‘You’re right,’ Bea smiled. ‘It’s good to have us back.’
Russ wrapped a stack of books for a timid-looking lady who looked ready to scurry away at the slightest sound. ‘Today’s a day for celebration, Miss Jackson.’
The nervous lady blinked back at him. ‘It is?’
‘Oh yes. The two people you see behind this counter are, quite possibly, the best double-act on 8th Avenue. Bogart and Bacall, Hepburn and Grant, Kermit and Miss Piggy: they’ve got nothing on us.’
‘Oh …’
‘Good, huh?’ Russ handed Miss Jackson her purchases in a Hudson River Books cotton bag. ‘That’ll be forty ninety-five, please.’
When a lull in business settled around four p.m., Bea made coffee for Russ and brought it over to where he was restocking the gift books section.
‘You’re an angel,’ he said. ‘We got so busy earlier I didn’t think we’d survive.’
‘Ah, but you forget we’re the A-team of 8th,’ Bea smiled back.
‘Yes, we are. Talking of which,’ he sat on the floor and motioned for Bea to join him, ‘I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. For the misunderstanding. For my dumb ego.’
‘We’ve said this already. It was just one of those things.’
‘I meant it, though, at the time.’ He frowned. ‘At least, I think I did. My dating life’s been slow for ages now. Scratch that: it’s been awful. For the record, I hate first dates. I get so sick of having to introduce myself over and over again, only to find I either don’t want to see the woman again or she doesn’t want to see me. I hate the endless carousel of questions. And I think I just looked at us – where everything’s so easy and you know me and I don’t have to feel like I’m going through a résumé – and I thought we’d be perfect for each other.’
Bea squeezed his hand. ‘You don’t need to explain.’
‘I think I do. I love what we have, Bea. When I thought I’d lost you, I hated myself.’
‘You never lost me. But we would never have worked out as a couple. We’d have killed each other in a week.’
He laughed. ‘I guess.’
‘Anyway, it’s done. I’m glad we’re back to where we were before.’
‘Me too. You’re going to marry Otis, aren’t you?’
His question came out of the blue and Bea didn’t know how to answer. For one thing, she wasn’t aware that Russ knew about the proposal; discovering he did was unnerving. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Hey, it’s OK. You have a chance to be happy. And Otis has changed beyond recognition.’
‘Russ?’
‘Mm-hmm?’
‘Why would you want me to marry someone else if …?’
‘If I thought I had feelings for you?’
Embarrassed, Bea looked down at the silver sequin-strewn floor beneath the shelves. ‘Yes.’
‘I want you to have the best deal possible in life. I know you don’t believe your “no-relationship” rule, even if you still think you do. The right guy will change your mind. If that guy is Otis, you should say yes.’
‘I don’t know. My life is more than whether I’m in a relationship or not, and I’ve learned a lot about myself while I haven’t had to think about that aspect of my life.’
‘Bea.’ Russ took her hand and, surprised by the comfort it brought, she didn’t pull away. ‘You’re successful and smart and you’ve achieved so much in life already. You’ve proved to everyone what an awesome person you are. Don’t you think you also have the right to be loved by somebody who sees all that? Otis sees it. He’s willing to change everything to have you in his life. That’s not dating, that’s love. We don’t get too many chances to find that kind of devotion: but now you have this incredible opportunity, waiting for your reply. Now, if it’s not what you want, you should absolutely refuse. But if you want to be loved by a man who will change anything to have you in his life, you know what you should do.’
At the end of the day, Bea wrapped up against the elements and walked out onto the snowy street. Snowflakes patted against her face and the air was still. All along 8th Avenue traders were closing for the day, waving to Bea as she passed. Usually the season would fill Bea with excitement, but this year nerves tugged at her insides.
When she was halfway home, her mobile phone rang.
‘Hey Bea.’
Bea’s heart flipped a little. ‘Dr Steinmann, this is a nice surprise.’
‘I’m practising my unpredictability.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘And on that note, are you busy?’
‘We have been. Last week of Christmas shopping is always manic, even with this snow.’
She heard Jake cough. ‘No, I don’t mean at your store. I mean now.’
‘You mean right this second?’
He paused. ‘Yes.’
‘Um …’ This was certainly unexpected. ‘No. I was just on my way home.’
‘Meet me for coffee?’
Bea stopped walking, thick snowflakes illuminated by the coloured lights strung across the street settling on her hair, hat and coat. It had been a long day and the promise of a long, hot bath and early night was tempting – but so was Jake’s offer. ‘OK. Where?’
‘There’s a great place I found on 6th Avenue. Meet me there.’
Bennett Roastery was warm as toast, the heated interior steaming up the windows and filling the air with the holiday scent of chocolate, coffee and peppermint. It was a cosy sanctuary after Bea’s walk in the Brooklyn snow and she peeled off layers as Jake ordered at the wood-panelled counter. Her face stung from the sudden reintroduction of heat and surprise meeting with Jake and as she waited for him to return she put her cold hands against her cheeks to cool them.
‘I bought us candy cane mochas,’ Jake proclaimed as he returned to their table, his face as flushed as Bea’s. ‘I figured this close to Christmas it was permissible.’
Bea accepted the cream-topped mug sprinkled with crushed peppermint candy. ‘Perfect. Good job I needed a sugar rush.’
‘This will be kill or cure, I reckon. Crazy day, huh?’
It’s certainly turning out that way, Bea thought. ‘The last week before Christmas always is. How’s business for you?’
Jake scooped a spoonful of whipped cream from his mug. ‘Busy too.’
Bea decided to broach the question burning as brightly as her skin from its snow-battering. ‘So how come you thought to ring me?’
‘Honestly? I have no idea. I just got back to my apartment and the idea hit me that it would be great to see you before the wedding. We’ve both been busy so I figured a catch-up was in order.’ He took a sip of peppermint mocha and grimaced at the intense sugar hit. ‘Along with us getting
our week’s quota of sugar in one beverage. Wow.’
Bea was amused by his reaction. ‘It is a little OTT. You didn’t want to sleep before Christmas, did you?’
‘This is going to keep me buzzing into New Year. Hey, let’s do something.’
‘For New Year?’
‘No, sooner. Tomorrow evening.’
Was this the sugar rush talking? Jake Steinmann was proving to be full of surprises today. Bea observed him carefully. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Nothing specific. But it should be something fun, don’t you think?’ He frowned as he considered the possibilities. ‘OK, what about this: is there something you’ve always wanted to do in New York at Christmas that you’ve never gotten round to?’
Bea thought about it. During her years in New York City she and Russ had covered most of the classic holiday traditions: wandering around shopper-packed Bloomingdale’s and Tiffany’s with no intention of buying anything; drinking frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity 3; watching the lighting of the gigantic Rockefeller Center tree; buying a real Christmas tree from a Brooklyn tree yard and dragging it home through the snow… Then, a possibility popped into her mind. ‘Actually, there is one thing. But it’s a bit of a cliché.’
‘Hey, Christmas in New York was made for clichés. Shoot.’
‘I’ve always wanted to skate on the Wollman Rink in Central Park. You remember, I mentioned it before? I’m ashamed to say it comes from religiously watching Serendipity every Christmas.’
Jake pulled a face. ‘Man, when you said it was a cliché you weren’t kidding. Skating, huh?’
‘Skating. Russ and I have visited the rink in Brooklyn and the Rockefeller Rink but I only ever skated with him once – which lasted a grand total of fifteen minutes before he fell and gave up.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do. But I should warn you: I am no Olympic champion.’
Bea grinned. ‘That makes two of us.’
The Wollman Rink in Central Park – renamed the Trump Rink, which caused Bea such hilarity that she couldn’t quite bring herself to use the name – was framed by illuminated trees and the looming figures of Manhattan skyscrapers beyond. It glowed bright white in the early evening dusk against an eerily orange-black sky, heavy with burgeoning snow clouds. Like everywhere else in the city this evening, the rink was packed with people. A few spun and twirled like professional skaters but most were content to wobble and wiggle around the perimeters of the ice in giggling, arm-linked groups. Couples tumbled together or argued mid-ice, while kids dragged unwilling parents around like reluctant sleds in a husky race.
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