Page 35 of Love Around the Corner

He was fond of books, for they are cool and sure friends.

A noise left Alfie’s lips, a reluctant huff of amusement. Fine, Leo was describing himself. The next clue—what else could he call it?—read:Rather too light, and bright, and sparkling.

He recognized that as Jane Austen’s wry description ofPride and Prejudice. Lips pressed tight, still refusing the smile valiantly trying to break free, Alfie hunted the book down. It sat with the rest of Austen’s works in a display near the window, its cover gleaming in the reflected brilliance of the snow.

Picking it up, Alfie turned to the marked page close to the end of the book where Leo had underlined three sentences:

I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

Something fluttered in Alfie’s chest, a helpless beat of pleasure like a butterfly arrived too early in spring and liable to freeze. The quote was from Darcy’s explanation of how he’d fallen in love. And, Alfie supposed, it was Leo describing howhe’dfallen in love. He could relate; it had been much the same for him, in the middle before he knew he’d begun. He read the words again, hearing them in Leo’s quick, smiling voice, and deep down felt a low tremor. Perhaps it’s what cracking ice felt like as the thaw began.

Inside the book was another note. It read:Gilbert Osmond only paid lip service; I mean it.

Gilbert Osmond …? It took him a moment, then came in a flash. Isabel Archer’s asshole husband in Henry James’Portrait of a Lady. The book lay two shelves belowLes Misérables, face up. On the bookmarked page, two quotes had been underlined:

“It has made me better, loving you”and“it has made me wiser and easier and — I won’t pretend to deny — brighter and nicer and even stronger.”

Alfie paused, re-reading the words, gazing at the firm indent made by the pencil beneath them.It has made me better, loving you. He swallowed, found it difficult around the lump in his throat. But his anger loosened, relaxing its vicelike grip on his chest, and he took his first deep breath in hours.

The next note said,Dedicated to a happier year.

Alfie smiled, couldn’t help it. He understood right away: E.M. Forster’s novel,Maurice. It was that rarest of beasts in gay literature—a classic with a happy ending for the two lovers—and it was one of Alfie’s all-time favorite books. He’d listened to it countless times. Forster had dedicated the manuscript, published after his death, ‘To a Happier Year’.

The well-thumbed copy he found sitting next to the cash register had to be Leo’s own, with its cracked spine and dog-eared pages. Certainly, this copy was in no condition to sell. They’d talked a lot about this novel over the months of their friendship—they’d even watched the movie together.

Alfie picked up the book carefully, studied the sepia toned picture on the cover of two Edwardian gents, arms linked, as they sat together on a park bench. Then he lifted it to his face, riffled the pages and breathed in the papery scent. When he exhaled, his breath shook.

There were underlinings and scrawls in the margin throughout the book—evidence of it’s meaning to Leo. But Alfie turned quickly to the page marked by the next note, and read the paragraph Leo had chosen.

He snuggled closer, more awake than he pretended, warm, sinewy, happy. Happiness overwhelmed Maurice too. He moved, felt the answering grip and forgot what he wanted to say. Light drifted in upon them from the outside world where it was still raining. A strange hotel, a casual refuge protected them from their enemies a little longer.

Maurice and Alec, in love and happy against the odds. Alfie sniffed, felt his eyes prickle. Forster might have been describing Alfie’s own morning, waking with Leo in his arms—warm, sinewy, happy. Overwhelmed by happiness. Yes, that’s how he’d felt. Exactly that. And maybe, he realized with an aching lurch, so had Leo…

A swift rise of emotion caught him off guard, brought tears to his eyes, but he forced it back down with a harsh grunt. The enemy awaiting Alfie hadn’t been the law or social ostracism, it had been Leo’s colossal fuck-up. His denial, his deception. Hisdisdain. But, God, if Alfie could have gone back to that morning again, lived forever in that liminal space, he would have taken the chance in a heartbeat.

“Damn you, Leo Novak,” he growled into the silent bookstore. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Once he’d gathered himself again, he looked at the note that had fallen out ofMaurice. It said,A heroine whom no-one but the author will much like.

That was Austen’s famous quote aboutEmma, Leo’s favorite Austen novel. At least, it had beenLLB’sfavorite... And it was the very book Alfie had been listening to on his way to the Whiskey Jack the night Leo had seen him waiting and walked away.

He found the book on the display near the window and, when he turned to the marked page, saw that Leo had highlighted several lines. A couple of them twice, for emphasis.

He had misinterpreted her feelings… They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern.

This was Emma, having been told a few hard truths by Knightley, the man she would soon realize she loved. It was her confession of guilt, of remorse.

Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of his representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel…?

And there was more, underlined by two thick strokes of Leo’s pencil.

Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed.

Alfie got the message. Leo was sorry. But Emma had insulted an old friend, Leo had done worse—he’d lied to Alfie, denied him. Broken his heart. At least, half an hour ago it had felt broken. Now…?

There were places on the beach where two waves collided, crashing against and over each other in messy turmoil. That’s pretty much how he felt standing there alone in Leo’s bookstore. Anger, loss, amusement, and, yes, affection, all crashing together in a hot mess of confusion.

He flipped through the book, pulled out the next note. It read:Your resentful, passionate captain.

---