Page 116 of The Last Night in London
For the wedding reception. We’re having a sit-down dinner at the old bowling alley—it’s now an event space. The Dixie Diner is catering.
I guess that explains no vegetarian or fish options. Either is fine.
And Colin?
“Tell her I’m fine with either as well. But what’s a Dixie Diner?”
I spun to find Colin looking over my shoulder. “Seriously? What is it with you and Arabella being so nosy? It’s very un-British.” I began climbing the steps as I texted,He won’t be there, so it doesn’t matter.
Before I could turn off my phone, her quick reply popped up.Okay. I’ll put him down for beef.
Colin called up to me. “First room on the right at the top of the stairs. You’ll see a big table in front of the window. I’m going to make coffee.”
“Bring the pot up, if you would,” I said, retracing my steps to relieve him of my backpack, dropping my phone in one of the outside pockets. “First room on the right—I’ll see you there.” I began to climb the stairs again.
“They look nice, by the way.”
I stopped, turned. “Excuse me?”
“Your new trousers. They fit you nicely, even if they don’t have pockets.”
“Thank you,” I stammered, feeling my face redden, thankful that he’d already headed back toward the kitchen and couldn’t see.
I’d never been upstairs in Colin’s house, though I’d always wanted to know what existed at the top of the curving staircase. I walked slowly, trying not to gawk at the twelve-inch egg-and-dart moldings of the ceiling cornices or the lovely carved pediments over the doors. I wanted to explore more, but dutifully turned in to the first door on the right instead. Out of habit, I tapped on it briefly before opening. A person didn’t grow up in a large family sharing a bathroom without learning that one simple rule.
Despite the drizzly day outside, light from the large window opposite the door flooded the high-ceilinged room. A parquet floor softened by Persian rugs made the cream walls and brilliant white trim pop.
I crossed to the window and carefully emptied the hatbox of cut photographs onto the table, then placed my backpack on the floor. Outside, in the gated gardens across the street, an elderly woman was walking two small fluffy dogs with no apparent interest in going in the same direction as their owner or each other.
It made me smile, reminding me of outings with my parents and siblings when we were young, how our parents must have felt the same way with the five of us running around in different directions. They’d probably wished for leashes and muzzles—at least I know thatIhad. Although I remembered it had usually taken only a wordor a single look from Mama to get us to behave. Daddy had called it her magic touch; he’d said that of all her many talents, her best was being a mother.
Turning my attention back to the room, I noticed a wall of bookshelves, a comfortable couch upholstered in a subtle check pattern of black and white—probably to help disguise dog fur—and a cozy red wool throw with matching pillows. A leather reading chair with an ottoman; a copy of Harlan Coben’s latest thriller sitting on a small table built from what appeared to be airplane parts. Black-and-white photographs of architectural masterpieces—Notre-Dame, the Houses of Parliament, the Taj Mahal—in simple silver frames were placed around the room. AStar Warsposter signed by George Lucas hung next to a shadow box with a toy lightsaber. I smiled as I pictured a little Colin playing Jedi warrior.
The room had obviously been professionally decorated but curated by Colin. It was functional and nonfussy but showed parts of his personality I hadn’t expected.
An open door on the far wall captured my attention. If it hadn’t been ajar, I’d like to think my curiosity wouldn’t have been piqued. But it sat open, inviting inspection. And it wasn’t like Colin hadn’t sent me up here alone to begin with.
I walked over, making an agreement with myself that I wouldn’t go any farther than the doorway, and peered inside. A large king-sized bed dominated the center of the big room, flanked by two nightstands. The bed was unmade, the sheets mostly kicked to the floor, a duvet puddled on the rug, as if having lost a fight with a restless sleeper. A large red blanket with black printed paw prints covered one of the pillows, letting me know that Colin didn’t sleep alone.
Looking at the bed felt so intimate, the way it allowed me to picture Colin’s nighttime tossing and turning. I’d imagined him to be a focused sleeper, one who remained in the same position all night long without moving. But, as he frequently pointed out to me, I apparently didn’t know him very well at all.
I looked around the room, brightly lit by a window matching theone in the adjacent room, and I wondered if they might have originally been two bedrooms, converted at some point into a two-room suite. The furniture in here was all midcentury modern, flat fronts, no ornamentation. It surprised me, as it was so different from the rest of the house, but it fit Colin somehow. Not just that it wasn’t fussy or antique, but it showed that he’d cared enough to make his own mark.
I heard the jangling of china and the tread of footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, I returned to my backpack, pulling out the two framed photographs I’d taken from the wall in Precious’s flat. I placed them on the edge of the very large table, really looking at it for the first time.
It was almost what I would have described as rustic, with rough-hewn and weathered wood, rusty screws holding the large rectangular top to the picnic table legs. A thick piece of glass had been placed on top to make it functional, the beveled edges dressing it up to fit the room.
But it was the stack of architectural renderings neatly piled in the corner near a felt-lined box of drafting tools that I found the most interesting. I’d leaned over to get a better look at the drawings when I heard Colin enter the room behind me.
“I’ve brought coffee, lots of milk, as you like it, and in a cup big enough to be considered a serving bowl in most countries.”
I stood back so he could put the tray on the table, rattling the cups as he set it down. “Just in case your job as—” I stopped, unable to fill in the blank.
“Financial analyst,” he supplied with a wry look.
“—your job as an analyst doesn’t work out,” I continued, “you seem qualified to run a B and B. Except you’ll have to learn how to make beds.”
“Actually, I do know how. And I make my own. Every morning. A habit from boarding school I can’t seem to break. It’s just that I’m not used to being awakened at the crack of dawn and having to squeeze in my morning run and shower before entertaining guests prior to breakfast. But it’s nice to know of your interest in my bedroom habits.”
