Chapter 3 #2
Still, her smile is warm and appropriately apologetic. She doesn’t seem to be completely mad, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Belinda snatches her daughter away, like Red’s carrying a virus she suspects is catching.
After announcing that she won’t be working with Red—ever—she sweeps out of the pub, little Mary in tow. Within moments, the other parents follow suit, fetching their semi-traumatized offspring, bundling them into coats and wellies, and guiding them out into the storm.
Soon, the pub has emptied of respectable society, leaving just me, Reggie, and his busboy, and the old fogeys by the fire who haven’t moved from their spots since 1987.
And, of course, the American disaster standing in the wreckage of baby Jesus, blushing such a bright, fetching pink, I can’t resist teasing, “Well, you certainly know how to clear a room, don’t you, Red?”
Her head snaps toward me, and I get my first proper look at her face.
Green eyes flash with indignation, freckles dust her upturned nose, and the stubborn jut of her chin makes it clear that she’s prepared to do battle.
She’s beautiful and fierce and still blushing in a way that makes her eyes seem to glow in the dark.
And, God help me, I’m suddenly more excited to be out of my apartment than I’ve been in months.
I’m waiting with baited breath, eager for the dressing down this curvy firebrand is poised to deliver, when Misfortune strikes again. Red opens her mouth, preparing to unleash what I’m sure would have been a scathing retort. But before she can speak, her foot catches on a string of fairy lights.
The universe, it seems, isn’t finished with her just yet…
Down she goes again, arms windmilling, taking out the stuffed cow as she thuds down the stairs. She lands flat on her back with a grunt that might have been concerning if she didn’t immediately stomp her foot into the floor and exhale an outraged huff, proving she’s still in one piece.
Once again, I can’t seem to help myself…
“But your commitment to destruction is admirable.” I cluck my tongue in only slightly mocking sympathy. “And thorough.”
She surges to her feet with surprising grace for someone who’s fallen twice in five minutes. One heel is definitely broken, her skirt is twisted so badly the back zipper is in the front, and there’s straw mixed with the petals in her hair.
Still, she faces me with the dignity of a queen as she breathes, “Thank you, sir. I try to be thorough in all things. And who are you exactly? The pub peanut gallery?” She glances around, her eyes widening theatrically.
“Don’t you have a child to fetch home? Or are you drinking alone on a Monday with no one to talk to except down-on-their-luck strangers who have already been humiliated several times tonight? ”
“Touché.” I raise my glass in acknowledgement of her point. “Yes, I was drinking alone, but only while I waited for the entertainment to arrive. And I must say, you’ve exceeded expectations. Do you do birthday parties? Or do you specialize exclusively in terrorizing nativity plays?”
“I’m not sure, yet,” she mutters, hitching her purse back on her shoulder as she tugs at her skirt.
“Seeing as I’ve just torpedoed my shot at hiring the best florist in London, I might need to explore other career options.
” She sniffs, her gaze still fixed on her rumpled clothing as she adds, “Why? Are you about to have a birthday? Fiftieth just around the corner?”
“Sixtieth, actually,” I say, loving her spirit. “I’m quite aged and decrepit, a fact I’m sure would be more apparent if it weren’t so dark in here.”
She looks up, arching a wry brow. “Right. Decrepit. That’s the first word that came to mind when I saw you smirking in the corner.”
Was that a hint of flirtation? A grudging acknowledgement that I’m not bad to look at?
Perhaps, but she truly doesn’t seem to have recognized me.
That isn’t all that strange, of course. She’s American, and aside from the current monarch and his or her offspring, the average American has little knowledge of who’s in the British peerage, let alone what we look like.
Especially a secondborn son like me.
Relishing the chance to flirt with a beautiful woman who has no clue I’ll be rubbing elbows with the highest of high society tomorrow afternoon, I decide it’s time to extend an olive branch.
“You’re right, I was smirking, and that was poorly done of me.
You’ve had a rough go of it this evening without being smirked at on top of it.
Please accept my most humble apologies.”
She blinks at me, obviously suspect.
“I’m truly sorry, Red,” I maintain, motioning to the empty chair across from mine. “Please, take a seat. Let me buy you a drink.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to accept, but then her chin goes up again.
“No, thank you,” she says, her voice chillier than it was before. “I’m not interested in drinking with a man who thinks it’s funny to kick a girl while she’s down.”
My lips turn down hard at the edges. “Oh, come on. It was all in good fun. And I have apologized. Most sincerely, I might add. I’m frightfully sorry.”
She shakes her head, her eyes narrowing.
“Nope, don’t even try it. I’ve been a victim of British manners before.
You’re all—‘Oh, terribly sorry, old chap, frightfully bad form, pip pip, cheerio!’—but you don’t really mean it.
” Her attempt at an English accent is horrifically bad.
“What you really mean is that you want to be exonerated without making yourself vulnerable or fully acknowledging your wrongdoing. And that way is the coward’s way.
Therefore, I will be buying my own pint and drinking it by myself. ”
Just like that, I’m even more thoroughly charmed.
When was the last time someone rejected my apology?
Possibly…never.
It’s exhilarating.
She spins on her broken heel, nearly goes down again, and catches herself on a chair before announcing, “Or maybe I’ll just get a taxi and leave.
Right now. Before I can break anything else.
” To Reggie, behind the bar, she adds in a softer voice, “I’m really sorry about the mess.
Do you have a broom and a dustpan? I’m happy to sweep up before I go. ”
Reggie, who’s unloading the washer behind the bar, offers her a kind smile.
“Don’t worry about it, love. Knowing Belinda, she’s already got someone scheduled to come in tomorrow morning.
But you might want that pint, after all.
I doubt you’ll find a taxi. Not until the storm passes. It’s getting ugly out there.”
Red pulls in a breath, shoulders sagging as she exhales, silently admitting defeat.
Through the windows, we can all see he’s right. The snow that was pretty an hour ago is coming down in sheets, already piling up against the door. We’re all here for the duration.
Which is just fine with me.
We wrapped up our last big project before the holiday this morning, and I gave the entire office three weeks off. Aside from our holiday party next Monday night, my responsibilities at the office are on hold until the new year, and I don’t have to be at the luncheon tomorrow until noon.
I’m free to burn the midnight oil with Red, who I’m now determined to win over. Edward is the prize-winning polo player in the family, but we’re both wickedly competitive.
I never back down from a challenge or a dare, and Red’s quickly becoming both.
“You’re right,” she says, nodding toward Reggie. “I’ll take a pint of whatever’s best for a case of wounded pride then, please.”
Reggie nods. “Pint of Guinness. Coming right up.”
As she limps to the bar with as much grace as one can manage with a broken heel, I consider my options.
Put a song on the ancient jukebox and ask her to dance? Offer my vintage copy of Great Expectations for her entertainment by way of further apology? See if I can find an open shoe store willing to deliver a new pair of heels at this hour?
Not likely in a storm, but worth a try.
As I open a search window on my cell, Red pulls a pen and paper from her purse. She begins furiously scribbling, muttering something about a “career obituary” and “death by poinsettia” beneath her breath.
Death…
Death is not funny.
If she’s that upset, I owe her more than a new pair of shoes.
I stand, crossing to the bar. When I slide onto the stool two down from hers, she doesn’t look up, but her pen stops moving.
“I am deeply and honestly sorry,” I say, in my most conciliatory tone.
“Please, don’t commit death by poinsettia.
You seem like a lovely girl, and that sounds like an awful way to go.
” I wait until she glances my way before adding, “You’d have to eat an obscene amount of it, as well, since it isn’t actually all that poisonous.
And that’s far too much work for someone who’s already down on her luck. So…”
“I was kidding. But thank you. I’ll mark death by poinsettia off my list.”
“May I?” I ask, gesturing at the paper.
After a brief hesitation, she slides it over with a shrug. “Sure, why not? It’s not like tonight can get any more embarrassing.”
Her handwriting is surprisingly tidy for a woman who looks like she’s never met an iron, a hairbrush, or a cup of coffee she wouldn’t spill on her skirt.
Post-Worst-Day-Ever Action Items
1. Track down Belinda Moore and beg her forgiveness on your hands and knees. On your belly, if necessary. Offer to de-thorn roses in her shop until you pay her back for the damage you’ve caused.
2. Find a new career, a gig you can work alone in shame-free isolation. (Librarian? Lighthouse tender? Dog walker? Dogs don’t judge nearly as much as rich people. Especially rich British people)
3. Change name. Get new nose. Possibly new face.
4. Give Maya your share of the business while apologizing profusely for being a failure who fails.
5. Move to a remote island where no one plans parties or has social media.
6. Become hermit.
7. Learn to make furniture from coconuts.