Chapter 20
Twenty
As flights went, her trip to London was the worst Cretia had ever experienced. It wasn’t that it was so terribly long. The ones to Australia had taken more than twice the time. It wasn’t even that she had a bad seatmate. Her frequent flier status had added up to pretty consistent first-class upgrades. On this flight, the window seat beside her had been taken by a petite woman in a button-down blouse and crepe skirt. She’d refused a drink from the flight attendant, pulled a sleeping mask from her carry-on, and promptly fallen asleep.
On any other plane, Cretia would have thanked God for the peace. But this particular plane had absolutely nothing that could hold her attention.
Of course, it had all of the usual gadgets—a screen on the back of the seat in front of her stocked with every B-list movie from the previous five years, endless channels of music, and even old-school magazines in the seat pocket.
When she’d first started traveling, those magazines had been her inspiration. They offered clues and suggestions for countries she’d never even heard of. She’d scribbled down their names and looked them up later. Articles in those magazines made her curious if the street tacos in Madrid could truly rival the best Michelin-star restaurants or if cliff diving was as wonderfully freeing as it looked.
They did and it was.
But there wasn’t a single thing on this flight from Toronto to Heathrow that could distract her from the pain in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t hunger—though she hadn’t eaten in almost a day. It wasn’t physical either—though every joint in her body screamed for relief.
It was all in her head.
Or, more accurately, in her heart.
That left her to shift from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep. But even with her eyes closed, a pillow under her head, and a blanket tucked beneath her chin, all she could see was the pain in Finn’s eyes right before he’d kissed her cheek and she’d walked away.
Worst. Flight. Ever.
The sun was already fighting its way through the London clouds when they landed. Her phone said it was 6:32 on a Saturday morning. Her heart said it might as well be noon on a Thursday.
Somewhere in the critical-thinking part of her brain, she knew she should capture some content of the morning in the historic city. But as she dragged her carry-on off the plane and through customs, only one thing kept her feet moving—the hope of a cozy bed and dreamless sleep.
Outside the terminal, she hailed one of the city’s famous black cabs and crawled into the back.
“Where to, miss?”
“Leonardo Royal—” She stumbled on the words, her tongue as sluggish as the rest of her. “The hotel by St. Paul’s?” She’d almost skipped making a reservation during her layover in Toronto, but now she wanted to hug her past self. Present Cretia could barely sit upright, let alone find a room for the night.
“Of course. I know it well.” Her driver’s accent was thick but friendly, and he smiled at her as he pulled away from the curb and into traffic on the wrong side of the road. “Is this your first time in London?”
“No.” Just the first time she desperately wanted to be elsewhere. Her previous three trips had been packed with exploring the history and architecture and culture of vibrant London. This trip was an escape—the first flight she could get. Far enough away that she wouldn’t be tempted to go right back to the island. Right back to Finn.
Squeezing her eyes shut only released a few tears, and she knuckled them away, telling herself that she was just tired and that the reflection of the sun off the other cars bothered her eyes. Whatever lie she had to tell herself to get through the day. The next few days.
The bed in her room at the Leonardo Royal was everything she’d hoped it would be. Soft and cozy. Warm and soothing. Except for the location. About three thousand miles west would be better. Under the roof of the Red Door Inn.
Slamming a pillow over her face, she screamed into it. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t supposed to meet someone so right . Someone so good and kind and perfect for her. Someone who made her wish her life could be different.
She’d been thoroughly satisfied—more than content—right up until Finn Chaffey had scooped her up on that boardwalk and carried her to safety.
The tears came in earnest then. Tears of anger and pain, denial and grief. She didn’t bother trying to stem their flow, just letting them come. Great big, silent tears that leaked out of the corners of her eyes and pooled on the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase.
Cretia awoke with a start. The room was pitch-black, but she immediately knew it wasn’t her room, the one at the Red Door anyway. She blinked against the darkness, her eyelids clearly lined with sandpaper. Pressing her hands to her eyes, she tried to make them tear up, but nothing came. Apparently, the crying jag before she’d fallen asleep had dried up all of her reserves.
Forcing herself to roll out of bed, she stumbled toward the bathroom, nearly losing a toe to the leg of the bed in the process. Pain shot across her foot, and she shoved her fist to her mouth to keep from terrifying the guests in the room next door. Flicking on the light, she shrank from its brilliance, then turned from the hideous reflection in the mirror. Eyes swollen and red, hair a disaster, face puffy, cheeks splotchy. Every bit was the worst version of herself.
At least her outsides matched her insides.
With a sigh, she turned on the exquisitely scrolled silver faucet, filled up the white marble sink, and splashed cold water on her face. When she looked up again, the mirror still showed the very worst version of herself, only wet.
She had two choices. Wallow or do her job.
The first was pointless. Especially since all of this was the result of a choice she’d already made. Leaving had been the right choice. Even if it hurt for a little while. Or a long while.
She had a feeling that she’d think of Finn years from now and remember what might have been. By then the sharp edges would be softer, the pain replaced only by fond memories.
For now, she needed a distraction.
After a steaming shower that fogged up the mirror and wrinkled her fingers and toes, Cretia got dressed and applied enough makeup to look human—though nothing was going to make her camera-ready. But that was okay. She didn’t need to be in the video when she was mere steps from St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christopher Wren’s architectural masterpiece. She’d never captured it, though she didn’t quite know why. She’d been in this area before, stayed in this same hotel.
She’d rectify that this morning.
Grabbing her backpack with all of her new equipment, she stepped into the hallway, only then realizing the silence. The plush hallway was empty, no other doors opening or closing. She glanced at her phone. Probably because it was 4:35 in the morning. Any normal person was sleeping.
Ignoring her growling stomach, she tiptoed through the corridor toward the elevator, then through the lobby. Outside, the cool morning air greeted her with the scent of the Thames, and her hunger pangs immediately vanished.
She couldn’t help but compare London to her precious north shore, to the smell of fresh air and salt water that greeted her, to the sunshine and life of the island. Which wasn’t fair. No place was like Prince Edward Island, but London had plenty to its credit, like the massive building that loomed before her. Its enormous dome and outstretched wings shone like a beacon even in the relative darkness.
The street was nearly empty, save a few cars slipping by on their way to somewhere more important. The lights of a coffee shop flickered on as a shadow inside flipped a placard to “Open.” Signs of life.
Cretia strolled west along the street and paused when she came to a bench. There she set up her phone on her retractable tripod, changing the settings to capture a time-lapse video. Then she waited.
The sun began its warm morning embrace as it reached between the city’s buildings—both ancient and new—turning the sky pink and peach and settling a gentle glow over the day. As it rose, even behind gray clouds, people came. First, a few walking into the cathedral—perhaps the choir or the ushers. Then more. And more. And just before eight, flocks came. Families with children, little girls in hats and dads straightening their sons’ ties. Distinguished gentlemen leaning heavily on canes. Young women in floral dresses and high heels.
Cretia looked down at her tan linen pants, blue blouse, and slip-on sneakers. She wasn’t dressed for a visit to St. Paul’s, but something about it called to her, invited her inside. Church attendance hadn’t been a regular part of her life after her abuelita died, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat through a whole service. But she believed there was truth in the Scriptures. Perhaps—like Marie had said—there was a God who loved her more than her mother had ever been capable of.
If she walked inside, maybe she’d hear more of that. And she wanted more of it in her life.
She packed up her gear, stuffed it into her backpack, and hurried across the street toward the entrance. A driver laid on his horn as she rushed in front of his car, and she waved her apology, too eager to be inside to stop.
When she reached the black-and-white-checkered marble floor beyond the enormous wooden door, she froze. Hundreds upon hundreds of chairs filled the cathedral floor in neat rows, all facing a wooden platform at the front. And beyond the podium, the choir stood singing like she’d thought only angels could.
She slipped into a seat in the last row, closed her eyes, and listened. She could have sat there for hours, the choir’s sweet hymns of praise wrapping around her, soothing the dark spots of her heart.
She was still lost in their perfect melodies when a young priest with dark hair and olive skin walked up the steps and into an intricately carved box lined with vibrant red fabric. He placed his hands on either side of the pulpit and took a deep breath.
“John 3:16: ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’” The priest’s voice rang out soothing and clear. “One of the most well-known verses in all of the Bible. We quote it, we memorize it, yet we often miss its truth. God loved the world so much that he gave up what he loved most.”
Cretia swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, squeezing her folded hands together in her lap. She’d heard that verse a hundred times, memorized it in Sunday school many years before. But she’d never thought about it in that way.
“Later in the Gospel of John, we read, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ My friends, this much is clear in these two verses. The heart of love is always sacrifice. When was the last time you gave up something precious to you to love someone else well?”
The priest paused, but his words rang in her ears over and over, striking at her heart.
The heart of love is always sacrifice.
Finn had let her go. He’d done everything he could to make it easier on them both. He’d sacrificed his desires for her best chance at happiness. Not because he didn’t care but because he cared so much that he was willing to lay down his own wants, the longings of his own heart. So Cretia could pursue her dreams.
And what had she given up?
Not a single thing.
The tear ducts that had been dry earlier that morning flooded again, and her bottom lip trembled as she held her hand over her mouth. If she wanted to be with Finn, she’d have to sacrifice. Her lifestyle. Her job. Her growing community.
All of that she could give up. None of it mattered nearly as much as Finn.
But it wasn’t enough.
If she wanted a future with him, she’d have to put down roots on the island. She’d have to have a home and stuff and junk .
If she really loved Finn, she’d have to sacrifice the fear of turning into her mom.
But there was no question that she loved Finn. If only she could show him how much.