A Gift to Remember (5 page)

Throwing open the front door of her building, she was immediately assaulted by the change in temperature. Joshua had been right about the weather, she thought. Her hair, still damp from the
shower, would be in danger of freezing under her helmet in these icy conditions. Well, she didn’t have time to go back in and blow-dry it, and if she ended up catching pneumonia, it would
have been for the greater good of Chaucer’s bookstore. Darcy unlocked her bike from the decorative rail sectioning off the front of Luigi’s restaurant to the entrance of her building,
and mentally thanked her landlord for having the foresight to have salted the steps the night before.

As she positioned her bike on the path, she began to swing a leg over when, caught unawares by the icy terrain, she slipped and landed squarely on her backside on the hard cold ground.

‘Damn!’ Darcy cursed as the bike landed clumsily on top of her. Pulling herself to her feet, she steadied the bike while holding on to the rail, deciding that she’d have to be
more careful and not go out and prove them all right – those who seemed to believe that she was putting herself in serious danger on this thing.

Taking a deep breath this time, she mounted without issue and with the wheels eventually finding traction, she pedalled off in the direction of uptown. The panicky adrenaline rush she’d
been experiencing since she woke began to subside, and Darcy felt her pulse gradually stabilise as she pumped her legs, gliding through the streets with ease. Taking a cleansing breath, she
concentrated on the streets, soon realising that traffic was nowhere near as bad as Joshua claimed; at this hour, the worst of the morning rush had dwindled in any case. She smiled fondly; her
workmate could really be a worrier sometimes.

Gradually, Darcy slipped into autopilot, something that happened routinely when she was riding. Her body was so familiar with this route – right and straight up on Sixth Avenue towards
Central Park – that she could probably do the journey in her sleep.

Her mind started to drift to the list of items to be accomplished at the bookstore that day.

She should probably start with that special order from Mrs Hansen, she thought, remembering an email from one of the store’s regulars the day before. And then get those Christmas orders
out, or maybe Joshua had done that already? And she needed to ready her yearly festive favours – special Chaucer’s colour-themed candy canes to give out with purchases. These always
helped spread some cheer amongst customers’ stressful last-minute shopping expeditions.

If she could get all of that done before the weekend, Chaucer’s would be in great shape for the last-minute Christmas rush next week, she decided, admiring the gigantic Christmas tree
baubles atop the fountain between Forty-Ninth and Fiftieth Street, before she sped past the famous
Love
sculpture further along on the corner of Fifty-Fifth.

Then once the holidays were over, she would think again about putting in place her long-held idea to offer customised literary walking tours of the city.

Over the last while she’d spent a lot of time investigating potential routes and assorted literary-related nooks and crannies throughout the city. Such as a former speakeasy in Greenwich
frequented by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the destroyed shirtwaist factory near Washington Square Park – the tragedy of which featured in several modern literary works – as well as the various
Greek Revival houses made famous by Henry James, which were home to eighteenth-century New York high society and where Edith Wharton had once lived. Not to mention the plethora of cafés,
theatres and watering holes oft-frequented by many a Great American Novelist.

She’d come up with the idea ages ago through conversations with customers and tourists who’d shown a keen interest in the city’s literary heritage, but had yet to get round to
making it a reality. For Darcy, offering to show people around the city’s bookish landmarks was something of a natural progression, yet still she struggled to find the courage to
just do
it
– and not for the first time, wished she possessed some of Katherine’s entrepreneurial spirit.

Darcy’s ultimate dream was to open up her own bookstore some day – and try to recreate the kind of bookshop that was once ubiquitous to New York City but over the years had been
lost.

Somewhere with panache, but a certain tattiness too: a lived-in, homey quality, with separate areas for new as well as old books, and unusual genres. Quiet little corners to get lost in, making
browsers helplessly lose their bearings, the way any great bookshop should. She longed to be able to present the books themselves in ways that made them as irresistible as jewellery or chocolates,
as well as provide space for public readings, book groups and launches, plus a café that perhaps at night turned into a wine bar.

It might be idealistic, but weren’t all the best dreams?

The traffic signals had mostly been in Darcy’s favour so far, but now reaching the top of Sixth Avenue and approaching the busy intersection at West Fifty-Ninth Street, she slowed her
pedalling, preparing to stop for an upcoming red at the crosswalk. However, seeing it turn green, she sped up again slightly.

Too late, she became aware of a large dog walking out from behind the tall FedEx van about to move off just in front of her. She pumped hard on the brakes, but realised very quickly that she
wouldn’t make it, as her bike skidded perilously beneath her.

‘Hey, watch out!’ came a shout, which Darcy barely recognised as coming from her own lips.

Swerving, she squeezed again on the brakes and jerked back the handlebars, and for a split second felt relief at managing to avoid impact with the dog.

Just before ploughing directly into the pedestrian at the end of its leash.

Our destiny is frequently met in the very paths we take to avoid it
.
Jean de La Fontaine

Barely avoiding the van, and instead ricocheting off a mailbox to her right, Darcy came off the bike just as her wheels slammed right into the pedestrian.

Several cars coming from behind honked and swerved to avoid her, screeching their brakes and sending her rolling on her side, while the FedEx van driver continued on as if nothing had
happened.

Her bike had flown in the opposite direction, and the strap of the messenger bag that she usually draped across her chest now hung awkwardly around her neck and held her to the ground in a
vice-grip. She felt cold seeping through her trousers and realised, too late, that she was lying in the dirty wet slush that finds its way kerbside during snowfalls in traffic-filled Manhattan.

Dazed, she sat up tentatively, wondering if she had sprained or broken anything, but she was still in one piece. If she had been a cartoon, this would be the moment that little blue birds would
have been drunkenly circling her cranium.

‘Hey, is that guy all right?’ someone cried out nearby.

Like a tidal wave of memory, Darcy suddenly became aware that the voice, wherever it came from, wasn’t talking about her.

She once again felt the memory of a body connecting with her bike. She straightened, the left side of her body howling in protest, and let out a guttural groan of pain.

‘Lady – hey, lady! Do you need an ambulance?’ called out another voice.

‘Goddamn crazy cyclists . . .’ muttered yet another not so helpful-sounding one.

Darcy’s eyes zoomed in on a brown shape situated about five feet from where she was sitting. Shaking her head to clear it, she tried to make some sense of the cacophony of voices around
her. She attempted to push herself to her feet, but feeling dizzy, she toppled back down again, splashing noisily in the slush.

She looked back at the toppled mound, noticed the mop of dark tousled hair, taking in that the form also had two legs, at the bottom of which were expensive-looking, black leather shoes that now
bore a long scuff across one heel. She saw that the brown lump was indeed a coat, and a nice one at that.

Or at least, it had been nice, before it had been dragged across Sixth Avenue, she thought.

As the scene unfolded and recognition finally set in, to her distress she quickly realised that she wasn’t the one who needed help. A woman whom Darcy idly noticed was carrying bags from
nearby Pain d’Avignon at the Plaza Food Hall helpfully uprighted her bike and leaned it against a lamp post. A guy dressed in jogging clothes bent down beside her. Probably on his way for a
morning run across the road in the Park, she thought dazedly. ‘I think somebody called an ambulance,’ he said. ‘Can you sit here for just a moment?’

She stared open-mouthed at the jogger, in shock and completely unsure about her answer.

Am I hurt? What happened?
She focused her eyes once again on the man in the brown coat, and felt relieved when she saw another bystander – an older woman – go over to check
on him. Calling out to him, the woman gently nudged his shoulder. But the man didn’t move.

Panic surged through Darcy’s chest and she made another feeble effort to push herself to her feet. ‘Oh my God, is he OK?’ she cried out, finally finding her voice.

The woman crouching down beside the injured man looked up at her and said, ‘I’m not sure. His eyes are closed, I think he might have blacked out.’ She tried to adjust the man,
so that he was lying flat on his back.

Someone else cried out in alarm, ‘Jeez, don’t move him! He might have neck or back injuries or something. Wait for the ambulance, lady!’

At these words, Darcy felt her head start to spin afresh as she considered the implications.

Back injuries. Oh Christ . . . had she just broken someone’s neck?

Against the jogger’s advice, she got up and slowly approached the huddled shape on the ground, a well-dressed man who looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, his face so slack and
serene he had to be unconscious. She took in his aquiline nose, dark brows and fine cheekbones. One of his shoes – a sleek black loafer to complement his charcoal-grey trousers and maroon
turtleneck – had come off. She got down on her haunches and started to reach for it when the older woman stopped her.

‘Don’t touch that; it could be evidence,’ she warned sternly. ‘The cops are on their way.’

Oh God. Could this day get any worse?

Suddenly, Sixth Avenue was like a blur, the kerb hard beneath Darcy as she slumped to the ground once again, one of the man’s shoes lying in the gutter, a dog whining restlessly at his
feet.

A dog . . . she turned to look at the animal more closely. It was a medium-sized grey Husky with almond-shaped ice-blue eyes and white tipped ears, long bushy tail wagging as the animal circled
his owner, a red leather leash dragging behind it.

She watched aimlessly, trying to put things together. The guy must have been out walking his dog, and had darted onto the crosswalk from behind the van at the last minute, just as the light
turned.

Trying to stand up again, she held her hand out towards the dog, hoping to try and calm him, whispering, ‘Here, fella.’

‘Hey, don’t strain yourself, miss. The ambulance should be here soon, and the paramedics will know what to do,’ someone else reassured her.

More voices rose in protest as Darcy got to her feet again, her gaze fixed on the man still lying motionless on the street in front of her.

If she had only been paying attention . . . If she had only been focused on riding her bike, and not on everything she had to do that day and daydreaming . . . If only she had set her alarm and
got out of bed in time, none of this would have happened. Yes, the guy and his dog might have cut it close with the lights, but there was no denying she had been going too fast if she
couldn’t stop in time. She felt tears in her eyes and a lump swell in her throat and then told herself sharply to stop. She wasn’t the victim here; she had no right to cry.

Crouching down again and lightly touching the injured man’s arm, she noticed the long gash in the sleeve of his coat.

I’ll replace that
, she promised silently, despite feeling worried when she realised the coat probably cost more than what she made in a month.
Somehow
, she added,
wondering how close her credit card was to its limit. And although his turtleneck was rumpled and smudged from his brush with the pavement, Darcy could tell that this too was expensive. Reaching
out, she touched the fine cashmere material, marvelling at the silkiness of its touch.

Soon, she heard sirens in the distance and an ambulance approach. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop, and moments later the doors to the back end were thrown open. The crowd parted.

‘Can we get some room here?’ the paramedics shouted and Darcy stirred, becoming vaguely aware of a man and woman in blue tending to the fallen pedestrian, and shooing away the dog as
they did so. As Darcy stood back, her muscles briefly screamed in agony; there was no question that she was going to be bruised, but otherwise she thought she was OK.

Having checked the injured man’s vital signs, the male paramedic began searching through his clothes and brought out the man’s wallet, deftly flipping to his ID.

‘Aidan! Aidan – can you hear me?’ he called out urgently. ‘Mr Harris . . . can you hear me?’

But Darcy noted with growing unease that there was still no response from the man. Dear God, what had she done? What if he didn’t wake up? What if he had kids? What if she had ruined
everything for him and his family? And at Christmas . . . She swallowed a sob as it built in her throat.

A flash of panic fluttered afresh in her chest as they carefully manoeuvred the unconscious man onto a stretcher, and loaded it into the back of the waiting ambulance.

‘You were with Mr Harris?’ a woman in uniform asked Darcy, appearing in front of her. A policewoman, she realised gulping. She hadn’t noticed the cop car pull up.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I–I’m the cyclist,’ she said ashamedly. ‘He just stepped out in front of me. I didn’t have time to . . . will he be
OK?’

The woman frowned and scribbled something in her notebook, leaving Darcy’s question hanging in the air. As she went on to explain how the man and his dog had run the lights and that
she’d tried her utmost to avoid him, the cop remained unmoved. Clearly she shared the view of the passer-by about her being just another goddamn cyclist. At this point, Darcy wasn’t
about to argue with that assessment.