It was a phone, nicer than the one she had at home.
“I figured it would be good for you to have one for over here,” he went on. “Your own English number. Makes it easier to reach me, or . . . whoever you want to call. The rules wouldn’t let you have one of these last time, but there’s nothing stopping you now.”
Ginny smiled as she took the device out of the box. Her own English phone—a line to Richard, whenever she needed it.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Now,” Richard said, slapping his hands down on his thighs in a decisive manner that suggested he wanted to push through the emotional moment. “Since it’s just us, we can have dinner whenever we want. I was thinking, why don’t we make the food now? It’s lunchtime. No reason to wait. There’s a little bit of everything in there. What do you say? Not only did I get the roast dinner, but since the halls aren’t open tomorrow, they give us everything that won’t keep. Perk of the job. I’ve got amazing stuff in there.”
He wasn’t kidding. There was cold lobster and fresh mayonnaise, smoked oysters, stilton with cranberries, custard, half a dozen types of chocolates, glazed fruitcake, tiny cupcakes . . .
“Partridge?” Ginny said, examining the contents of a labeled container. “As in, ‘in a pear tree’?”
“The same, except not so much in the tree, and more in the oven.”
“You eat them?”
“Don’t they have partridge in America?”
“I’ve never seen it,” Ginny said. “Does it taste like chicken?”
“Everything does! Except this.”
He held up the fruitcake.
“Is that a food?” she asked.
“Ah. Good point. We’ll just put that over here so we don’t eat it by accident.” Richard stuck the fruitcake on top of the refrigerator, out of harm’s way.
They decided to eat in the living room, in front of the television, purely because it seemed wrong. But they did it with style, setting the coffee table with everything they could find in Richard’s cabinets. They had to drag in a few kitchen chairs to serve as a sideboard for all of the food. Harrods had not done them wrong. It was a feast. A feast largely comprised of meats. Meats and things cooked in meat.
“This would have been it for me,” Richard said, looking at the food that was all over his furniture. “Sitting here eating all this by myself. It would have been very, very sad and very, very disgusting. Because I would have done it.”
In that moment, Ginny was happy she came, for no other reason than this—sitting around with Richard and all of these containers in front of the television. They loaded down their plates, weighing them down with the vast quantities of gravy that had been provided. They ate and watched a movie. It was just so natural, so nice being here with Richard . . . and yet, she was leaving tomorrow for Paris. She had to tell Richard now. She couldn’t tell him the whole story, but she had to tell him something, at least that she was going. If he objected—well, she could ignore him and go anyway, but that would be wrong. That would be using him, disrespecting someone who was generous and kind and far from stupid.
She waited until the movie was over, and Richard was reaching over for another helping of potatoes.
“There’s something I need to . . .”
. . . talk to you about. Yeah. That sounded bad. Richard froze mid-reach for the potatoes.
“Someone found the last letter,” she said.
“Someone found it? It was stolen, wasn’t it?”
“This guy . . . he bought the bag. He found the letters and got in touch with me.”
“Well, that was decent of him.”
“There’s one last thing I have to do,” she said. “One last piece of art I have to get. It’s broken up into three pieces. I need to go and get them. And the first one is in . . . Paris.”
Poor Richard. He didn’t deserve this. Every time Ginny walked in his door she was on her way somewhere else. Then again, he had let Aunt Peg live in his house and married her, so clearly he had a thing for flaky American types who liked to sneak off in the dead of night. That was, as Ginny remembered it, how America won the Revolution in the first place. The English walked around in bright red coats in straight lines and took breaks for tea, and the American just snuck around dressed in rags and hid in trees and stole their horses. Or something. Whatever. She had to do this—it was her birthright. It was what George Washington would have wanted.
“When were you planning on doing this?” he asked.
“The day after tomorrow?”
“Where will you stay?”
“The same hostel I stayed in last time,” she said. “It’s really nice.”
“Are you going by yourself?”
“No. I’m going with a . . . friend.”
Okay, that was a lie.
“Your friend from last time? Kevin?”
“Keith.”
She could hear the drop in her voice. She couldn’t hide it. Richard looked at her curiously.
“He has a girlfriend,” Ginny said. “I just met her.”
“Ah.” It was a long, sad ah of understanding.
Richard knew the pain of having feelings for someone who didn’t necessarily reciprocate. He had loved Aunt Peg for a long time when they lived together as friends and roommates. He had taken care of her through her illness, and married her to make sure she had care. And slowly, over time, she realized that she loved him too, that she had just been afraid of this straightforward, stable guy who had never hidden his feelings. Ginny had learned all of this from the letters. Aunt Peg died before telling anyone in the family what had happened, before she could even tell Richard how much she really loved him. Ginny found herself staring at his wedding ring again.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to go with him, then?” he asked quietly.
“It’s not him. It’s . . . someone else. It’ll take about four days.”
Richard scooped up the potatoes and put them on his plate. He pushed them around thoughtfully.
“I can’t stop you if you want to go somewhere,” he said. “But it seems like you’re asking my permission. Which is fair enough, I suppose. Let’s make a deal. I know you’ve traveled before. So, be careful. Nothing excessively crazy. Check in with me at least once a day, and let me know where you are. And if you have any problems at all, any problems, you phone. You’ve got no excuse, now.”
He tapped the opened box that contained her present.
“I won’t,” she said. “It won’t be like last time.”
Last time, Richard had airlifted her out of Greece. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up.
“Right . . . ,” he said, giving her a forced smile.
It was done now. She had made her decision. She had permission. And if anything went wrong, she could call Richard. And when it was all over, once she’d worked out this mess, she could tell him the whole story.
She was going to Paris.
Boxing Day
Boxing Day. Ginny had heard this term before, but it seemed so ridiculous. Boxing Day sounded like the day when everyone beat the crap out of one another. Richard explained that it was the day that you . . . put things into boxes. Or moved boxes. Or did something with boxes.
Richard had been very concerned about leaving her alone again, but he had no choice but to go in to work. Apparently, Harrods after Christmas was about as bad as Harrods before Christmas, and Boxing Day was his own personal Armageddon. He was up and gone long before Ginny was out of bed. She had the entire day to herself, and no particular agenda. Tomorrow, she had to go to Paris with Oliver. She had no way of preparing for this trip. She had no information. Today, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and think. And work on the essay.Outside, England was being English—it was raining. Rain here wasn’t that bad. It made being inside all the more cozy. Ginny drew a hot bath, got a pad of paper, and decided to soak, listen to the rain, and think brilliant thoughts that would get her admitted to college. She spent several minutes setting up a towel an
d arranging herself so she could write notes without soaking the paper, but the second she moved to write something down, she splashed the notepad and soaked it completely. She tossed it over to the toilet and sank lower.
Describe a life experience. Well, how about this? How about coming back to England to find the guy you love dating someone else and some other random guy holding your dearly-departed aunt’s letters and her art hostage. How about that, admissions committee?
They would never believe her. They would think she was a fantasist. They would put her picture on the corkboard with a note under it that just read: PSYCHO. DO NOT ADMIT.
The bathwater cooled almost as fast as her desire to work on the essay, so she got out and dressed. Her timing was excellent, because as soon as she pulled on her shirt, there was a brisk knocking on the door. She jogged downstairs, shoeless, her hair still damp and straggly.
Keith stood on the doorstep, bundled up in a big army-green coat, a heavy black scarf wrapped several times around his neck. He stepped inside, dropped his umbrella in the hall, then yanked off his coat and scarf and threw them on a hook.
“It’s pissing down,” he said.
He walked straight back into the kitchen. This was how he used to come over in the summer—just walking in like he was fully expected, like he didn’t have a girlfriend he’d kept secret from her. Ginny was too surprised to react in the moment, so she shut the door and followed along.
“Present,” he said, setting a CD-shaped object on the table. “Go on, open it!”
The present looked like it had been wrapped in repurposed paper, full of telltale white crinkle lines and old tape marks. For some reason, this made Ginny open it very carefully, like the paper needed to be kept for another mission in the future. Inside, there was a homemade CD, complete with a fancy designed cover from the Starbucks: The Musical poster.
“Properly recorded,” he said proudly. “So you can listen to it every day. So, what have we here?”
He examined the many containers piled on the kitchen counter and turned to Ginny with an expression of intense interest.
“We have a lot of leftovers,” she said. “If you’re hungry, there’s a lot more in the fridge . . .”
He was already rooting through the fridge and pulling out the tins.
“What is this?” he said, pulling off a lid. “It’s not turkey. . . .”
“Pheasant,” Ginny said. “Richard got the fancy Harrods Christmas dinner . . . because he works there.”
Ginny passed him a plate, and he started piling it up with food. Keith could always eat, anything, anywhere, in any amount.
“So,” he said, “I got the impression the other day that something brought you over here, but you didn’t say what.”
Ginny filled the kettle and said nothing for a moment. Her brain was still trying to catch up with the fact that Keith was here in the kitchen with her, that she was unprepared and wearing pajama bottoms . . . and now he was asking about the letters. But if anyone could take this weird story, it was him. And he had been there since the beginning. He had a right to know.
She set the kettle on its base and switched it on. Keith took a seat at the table to eat.
“Someone found the letters,” she said. “All of them. Including the last one.”
“Someone from Greece?” he asked. “Isn’t that where they were stolen?”
“Yeah, but the person who found them is from here. He’s English. He bought the bag. He used the information in them to track me down. The last letter, the one I never got to read before—it has more instructions in it. There’s another piece of art. There’s something else I have to do. I have to go to Paris, tomorrow.”
“Always the same with you,” he said, shaking his head and taking a bite.
“There’s kind of a problem.”
Keith was chewing, so he waved his fork, indicating that she should elaborate.
“He won’t give me the letters.”
“What do you mean he won’t give them to you?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“He’s keeping them, because he wants half the profit from the last sale. He bought the tickets to Paris. He’s the only one who knows where we’re supposed to go or what we’re supposed to do.”
Said out loud, it sounded even crazier and much, much worse. Keith set down his fork and tapped his fist lightly against his mouth in thought.
“You just made that up, right?” he said.
“Nope.”
“So, you’re saying that a complete stranger bought your stolen property, and is now demanding half your money . . . and that you are going to Paris with him. Because that is the sane thing to do.”
The kettle clicked off. She busied herself with making the tea.
“What choice do I have?” she asked, yanking out two mugs. “He’s not dangerous. He’s just . . . he just wants the money. I need to get the pieces. I’ve had to do worse.”
“Who is this guy?”
“His name is Oliver Davies.”
“That tells me nothing. What’s he like? How old is he?”
“He’s, like, our age or something. It’ll be fine. I’ll just go with him. I’ve traveled with people I didn’t really know before. I did with you.”
“It’s not exactly the same.” His voice was rising. “We went to Scotland together once. We both happened to be in Paris at the same time. And I didn’t steal your stuff and ransom it back to you.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“Gin, listen. Sit down.” He was more serious than Ginny had ever seen him before. She picked up the two mugs of tea and sat next to him. “I’m all for weird stuff as a general rule, but you can’t do this. What you’re describing is some kind of travel horror story waiting to be written. In the best-case scenario this guy is some kind of a con artist, and that’s me being optimistic.”
“I know it’s a problem,” she shot back, unable to hold her frustration in any longer. “What choice do I have? If I don’t do this, I never get the letter. I never find the piece. I never finish. And it’s not like anyone can help me. What am I going to do? Call the police and tell them that someone stole my mail? He’ll just disappear, and I can’t let that happen.”
Keith leaned back in his chair and pushed the front legs off the ground, sighing heavily. He stayed balanced like that for a moment, then brought the chair down with a thud.
“You said you’re supposed to go tomorrow, right?”
“Right.”
“Explain to me how this is supposed to happen.”
Ginny took a long breath. She was shaking now.
“I’m supposed to meet him at St. Pancreas. . . .”
“St. Pancras, you mean. That’s where the Eurostar leaves from. You said he wants you to take the train to Paris?”
“He got us two tickets. I’m supposed to meet him at ten. He’s even set up the sale. He took me to see Cecil. Whatever it is we’re getting, it’s going to be auctioned off on the second, and I have to be there. So I guess he can’t kill me, right?”
She tried to laugh, but it didn’t quite work. Keith did not join in. Keith resumed eating for a moment, spearing a huge piece of pheasant that Ginny couldn’t believe he actually managed it fit into his mouth. He chewed it to nothingness, his eyes flicking back and forth a bit in thought.
“It seems to me that all you need is the letter,” he finally said. “Correct?”
“Right. But he’s not going to give it to me.”
“But he’ll have it with him tomorrow, right?”
“He’d have to.”
“All right then. We have a solution.”
“We do?”
“You forget,” he said. “I am a man of many abilities.”
He stretched out his hands on the table and wiggled his fingers.
“You play piano?” she said.
“Do you forget my shameful previous life? I’m a thief. I nick stuff.”
“I thought you mostly vandalized stuff.”
“I
stole a car,” he said proudly. “And many other things.”
“But you quit. You don’t do that anymore.”
“I gave up thieving for gain, but there’s nothing wrong with using my skills for good, now is there? Everybody loves Robin Hood. And I haven’t lost my touch. Oliver Davies takes the letter out, I steal it from him. Easy.”
He scooted his chair closer, until they were directly side by side, his arm up against hers. Every hair on her arm stood up in unison, goose bumps everywhere. It must have been like leaning against someone who had pineapples for limbs.
“This is easily fixable, Gin,” he said. “This is nothing. We will get the letter back, and you can get your aunt’s art. Come on, now. No one messes with my mad one.”
Oh god. She was tingling all over. She was going to become hysterical. She was going to grab him by the face and make out with him. There was nowhere she could look at him that made it any better. The way his new haircut revealed his ears a bit more, the way his T-shirt stretched across his chest, the string bracelets he had around his wrists . . . everything highlighted something about him that seemed unbearably wonderful. Her hands shook a little. She quickly pulled them down into her lap.
“Thanks,” she said. She turned her head partially in Keith’s direction. She could not look at his face. She had to find a dead zone somewhere on him that produced no feeling. She tried for the armpit, which she could look at easily because he had his arm extended, but even that made her pulse go faster.
“I have to go,” he said. “I was just stopping in. But it’s sorted now, yeah? I’ll come by at eight thirty tomorrow and we’ll go over to the station together to work through the details.”
He got up and pulled on his coat and scarf. The fact that he was leaving without saying why, or where he was going, or inviting her along told her all she needed to know. Ellis. They were going out somewhere. Or maybe she was already at his place for a cozy night in.
She commanded her brain to stop this train of thought. Keith was here now. He was going to help her. They would get the letter back. It wasn’t exactly like before—it would never be exactly like before—but it was something.
The Last Little Blue Envelope Page 5