A Gift to Remember (37 page)

And since we’d decided that part of my role should encompass taking care of Bailey (actually I’d insisted), it made sense for me to have a base at the townhouse, especially for the
accounts part, though in reality most of my work involved being out and about, gathering specifics for research, meeting with publishers, or like last week, chasing down some of Will’s more
obscure requests.

I’d recognised right off the bat that the ballet dancer was dangerously smitten with Will – not a good idea when the same man hadn’t committed to one girl since preschool
– and I had once even tried to gently warn her, obviously to no avail.

Finding the key under the blotter, I opened the desk drawer, curious to see what Will had chosen for me. But seeing as his last gift to me was rather disappointing – being a replica of
some dagger that had featured in one of the Max Bailey books – I didn’t have high hopes.

And taking out the beautifully wrapped but suspiciously book-shaped package, I realised that my instincts had been right on the money.

Will had a habit of gifting me signed first editions of his own work – a kind gesture certainly – and seeing as the new Max Bailey book was due out in the New Year, I guessed that
this was exactly what was contained in the package.

Never mind, I thought, absentmindedly tidying the desk and shoving the file from Christie’s back into the drawer; like they said, it’s the thought that counts.

Back in the kitchen I tidied everything away; put the laptop back in its rightful place in the office and my cup in the dishwasher before attaching a skittish Bailey to his lead.

‘Come on, boy, time to get moving. We have a busy day ahead of ourselves today.’ I clapped my hands and Bailey yawned. Clearly, he didn’t share my urgency.

I hurriedly shoved the gift box into a bag I found in Will’s pantry, deciding I’d open it later. If anything, Ciara would get a kick out of it.

Smoothing down my Cole Haan coat in the hallway, I brushed some lint off the sleeve. It really was a nice coat. Way too nice truthfully, but in my line of work, I thought, glancing at that
insanely expensive Rothko – another impulsive purchase of Will’s upon selling the movie rights – you had to keep up with appearances.

Bailey and I walked quickly through the snow-filled streets, and I couldn’t help but notice that today, everything looked fresh and new to me. It was often like that after I’d
finished a difficult assignment; as if a great weight had been lifted and I could concentrate on something other than the task in hand.

Looking around, and for the first time in days truly taking in the beauty that the city had to offer, especially at this time of year, I felt my heart and my spirit soar.

Going up to the Park entrance on Eighty-Sixth Street, I took our usual meandering route around the reservoir and then down past the lake and out at Central Park South, before heading back in the
direction of Eighth Avenue where Bailey’s occasional daycare place ‘Puppy Love’ was located.

I tapped my foot on the ground and out of nowhere started humming ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ to myself. Bailey looked up at me as I hummed and I glanced
down, throwing him a wink.

I smiled benevolently at the Apple Store, the target of so much of my bewilderment not two weeks before, and took in the holiday window displays over at Bergdorf, as Bailey and I effortlessly
weaved our way through the holiday shoppers and late-morning commuters. And for once, I didn’t feel the slightest bit annoyed by the sea of people that seemed to hit our path at the junction
of Fifth, where a plethora of carriages waited to take tourists around a snowy romantic Central Park.

Then I checked my watch and realised that my thus far relaxed attitude was turning out to be seriously misplaced. It was after ten and Ciara’s flight from San Diego was due in at Newark at
eleven. I would have to get a move on if I wanted to make it there on time. Distractedly sending a text to the company’s regular town car service, asking them to pick me up at the daycare
address, I quickened my step.

Bailey hurried along in tandem, immediately noticing my sudden change of pace, and I looked up ahead noticing that the crosswalk light on Sixth was on a flashing red.

I glanced sideways at the driver of the FedEx van stopped at the lights; he was on the phone and didn’t look like he was going anywhere too fast.

‘Come on, boy, we’ll just make it—’

But I didn’t get to finish my sentence, as out of nowhere I thought I heard a female voice scream, ‘Hey, look out!’

And then out of the blue, something crashed into me – the van? – I wasn’t sure. It felt as if I was witnessing the entire scene from afar, as if I was having an out-of-body
experience. My legs were suddenly flying towards the clear, blue winter sky as my head and upper body were headed towards the ground. As I guessed what was coming next, I had a sudden moment of
clarity: I was going down hard.

And that was it. After that, the world around me went black.

Logic will get you from A to Z, but imagination will get you everywhere
.
Albert Einstein

‘Darcy? It’s Aidan. I’m sorry, but I’m still here on Long Island, at my house actually, and you won’t believe this, but now that I’ve seen
it, things are coming back! Turns out you were wrong about my place being on the Upper West Side, but I think I have an explanation for that . . . So listen, just to say that there’s no need
to meet me now. I’m fine here and I think everything’s going to be OK. Sorry again for bothering you, and I hope I haven’t put you out. Talk soon.’

Darcy had played back Aidan’s phone message about a hundred times, trying to figure out how she’d got it all so wrong.

It had come in while she’d been talking to his wife – his
wife
– trying to explain to the woman what had happened over the last few days and why she and her daughter
Amelia – Aidan’s daughter – had been unable to contact him.

Assuring Mrs Harris that she’d have him call them as soon as she met Aidan outside the subway entrance a few minutes later, she’d ended the call and proceeded to the agreed meeting
place. Only to find the missed call from him on her own phone, telling her that he wasn’t going to show.

His tone had sounded so jovial that Darcy guessed that upon reaching home, he would have immediately reconnected with his family and everything would go from there.

And they all lived happily ever after.

She could only assume as much, as that was almost forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t heard anything from the family – or indeed Aidan – since.

She would need to return his phone and, of course, the keys to the townhouse which she’d in the meantime removed from beneath the maple tree when checking on Bailey, and that would be the
end of her involvement in Aidan Harris’s life. She’d sent him a follow-up text telling him he could pick up the phone (and Will’s keys) from her at Chaucer’s whenever it was
convenient for him to do so. She also assured him that she’d keep an eye on Bailey too.

But she guessed he and his family had quite a bit of catching up to do.

The Husky seemed happy to be back home, and because she knew Aidan had enough to think about just then, Darcy had topped up his feeding bowl and taken him across to the Park for walks the last
couple of mornings on her way to work. She guessed his real owner would return soon, but she wasn’t going to abandon his needs in any case.

Darcy still cringed when she thought how badly wrong she’d been about Aidan, and how she’d fallen for an idea of the man – a sophisticated, charming book-geek like herself, but
with an enviable, glamorous New York lifestyle – a far reality from who he actually was.

Married and with a daughter Amelia (Mel), maybe even more children for all she knew.

Yet, it wasn’t just the fantasy she’d created for him either; Darcy had genuinely fallen for his kindness, his gentle laugh, those twinkling eyes and wonderful Irish lilt in his
voice as he teased her about her doggedness in helping him, and challenged her book knowledge.

And all along he was married.

Darcy wanted to kick herself for not even considering it and felt guilty afresh for allowing herself to think so fondly of another man’s wife. Yet she distinctly remembered checking for a
wedding ring that first night she met him and he absolutely wasn’t wearing one, she was sure of it.

Still, she thought shrugging, as Katherine made her way to the table Darcy was sitting at now in the restaurant, there was bound to be a simple explanation for that one too; maybe the hospital
had removed it for some kind of medical reason, or he’d forgotten to put it back on after a shower that morning.

She could speculate endlessly, but at the end of the day, it was no longer her business to speculate, nor was there any point.

‘Hey there, why the long face, darling?’ Katherine asked, sitting down and promptly summoning a waiter. They were at the Gramercy Tavern for their annual pre-Christmas lunch date
before Katherine left for St Barts; Christmas now only two days away.

Darcy raised a smile at her aunt’s all too familiar behaviour and knew that she could always rely on Katherine to behave according to character. ‘Nothing – just daydreaming,
that’s all.’

The waiter duly obliged and without consulting Darcy, her aunt ordered a bottle of some unpronounceable wine that was sure to be both expensive and delicious.

‘Well, I have something to cheer you up,’ Katherine went on. ‘Turns out I managed to get some interesting information about your gentleman friend. That library you told me
about was the key.’

‘Katherine . . .’

‘Now, I did make some phone calls, and spoke with a gentleman at Christie’s – I think his name was George? And while some of this information is confidential, George revealed
that a copy of Christopher Marlowe’s
Dido
was sold about eighteen months ago. It was the only one sold in New York in recent history; in fact, it seems to be one of the only copies
in the United States. Although, and here is the important bit,’ she paused, smiling in satisfaction, ‘it was not sold to your friend himself but to a company called Thrill Seeker
Holdings, which you did mention and which I thought at the time sounded familiar.’

‘Katherine . . .’

‘So I enquired further about Thrill Seeker Holdings, which wasn’t an easy task, believe me – holding companies are notoriously lacking in public information. I persisted, and
you might even say I threw a small bribe at the records clerk – nothing serious, of course, but it did work, the man apparently is a fan of Le Cirque. And you’ll never guess what I
discovered and the reason it sounded so familiar.’ She paused dramatically, waiting to make her announcement, Darcy having decided by now to just give up and let her have her say.

But at that moment the sommelier arrived with the wine, and Katherine went through her usual routine of tasting and swirling before declaring it agreeable and continuing with her story.

‘The holding company is owned by none other than Will Anderson!’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘Will Anderson, don’t you remember him? That thriller author I introduced
you to before,’ she pressed when Darcy didn’t immediately react with surprise, or indeed gratitude.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘So I was thinking that perhaps your gentleman friend is simply an employee of the company – in which case he’s not that much of a catch after all, darling. So best not to
completely disregard Oliver Martin. You might think he is a little . . . different, but I saw him the other day again at a restaurant in midtown, and he asked about you. So, just know you have
options. Anyway, cheers,’ she said, finally pausing for breath, but only to raise her glass.

‘Cheers,’ Darcy replied dully, her thoughts drifting to Hemingway and his belief that alcohol was the rose-coloured glass of life.

Then out of the blue she felt her eyes well up.

‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Katherine asked, looking vaguely horrified. ‘I had no idea you disliked him
that
much.’

‘No, that’s not it.’ Darcy gave a shaky smile. ‘It’s just – oh, I’ve been such an idiot!’

It all poured out – everything that had happened over the past few days: the crash, Bailey, her trek all over the city to try and help Aidan, then the realisation that she’d got it
stupidly, horribly wrong.

Especially the notion that there might have been some kind of connection between them.

Katherine listened silently as she recounted the story.

‘It’s my own fault for spending so much of my life in make-believe worlds, so much so that I can’t seem to tell the difference between fiction and reality any more,’
Darcy said, her voice shaking. ‘I created a storybook life for Aidan, actually hampered the poor guy’s recovery because of it. And I was so taken with my version of the man I believed
him to be, and the narrative I’d formed – imagining mystery and romance where there was none – that I completely failed to see that he was just an ordinary guy with a family and a
whole other life. Instead I imagined him as some enigmatic romantic hero – the star of this mysterious love story.’

Katherine spoke softly. ‘But I’m guessing you might have fallen for more than just the fiction where your hero is concerned?’

She sniffed. ‘Yes. And that’s the stupidest thing of all. Oh Katherine, why am I such an idiot? You’re right, you know – I do spend too much time between the pages of
books instead of confronting my own reality, and look how far that’s got me.’

‘Ssh.’ Her aunt laid a comforting hand on her own – something Darcy couldn’t remember her doing in a very long time. It felt good. ‘Oh sweetheart, I know I give you
grief sometimes, but you know I love you and I am so proud of you. And it’s hardly a surprise that you spend so much time in imaginary worlds when the real one let you down so badly early on
in life.’

Darcy looked up, surprised. She guessed she’d never thought about it that way before, that after her parents’ death, her beloved books had been a form of solace, escapism in its
truest form.