21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
I n London, Nate’s senses were also experiencing the excess use of red roses, hearts and pink; all stores used them to display their wares, including one trying to convince the shopper the way to the affections of a loved one was a new household appliance. More likely cause an argument. Who’d be conned by it? Enough fools, he guessed, otherwise they would not do it. A lady selling overpriced roses on the street corner accosted him. Another thing that would cause a row, why buy a singular rose when they expected a dozen? His mood plummeted as the day progressed, and he registered George’s relief when he said he was nipping out between appointments. Like a loyal dog, his foul mood followed him, making his responses to questions terse enough for one of his employees to leave his office on the verge of tears.
He rang the bell of the exclusive jewellers, and they ushered him in. Diamonds sparkled, and the gold gleamed under the bright lights. The compulsory red roses set the scene for romance. A couple gushed over the wedding ring collection and recounted their wedding plans to the smiling advisor. It sounded like Nate’s worst nightmare. Why did everything have to be so excessive? If it were up to him, he would elope.
‘Ah, Mr Reynolds. Here it is. Such a beautiful cut. It will impress the lucky lady, I am sure.’ The jewellery advisor showed him the open box.
Nate mumbled under his breath and forced a smile. The ring was stunning. Rebecca would be suitably impressed—by the expense. As soon as it was on her finger and she was alone, she would research the design and cost. Unless she already knew; they’d visited many jewellers to browse rings—before Christmas and her affair. And Willow.
What would she choose? Do witches even get married? His thoughts of her were never far away. Enough. It was over. There had been no contact since he walked through Black Cat Alley, but he missed her. There were reminders of her everywhere. The Vincent photobombed photos showed when his finger slipped on his phone, the cracker gift lay in his sock drawer, and the gossip. Earlier that week, he was walking by one of his employees’ empty desks when he spied a fashion magazine peeking from under some files. He didn’t recognise the celebrity on the cover with her dark glossy hair, airbrushed skin, and catty eyes, but he knew the name. Clara. Unable to resist, he flicked through until he found the article. It documented her rise to fame, her steamy on and off affair with a famous musician, and her ongoing and long-standing feud with her rival, Sabrina. The words the Enchanted Emporium jumped out further down the page. Before he finished, he noticed a presence next to him. Alice, the owner of the magazine and office gossip, had returned. Despite reprimanding her for reading on work’s time, he heard her chuckle when he strode away.
Willow might be miles away, but fate kept nudging her into his life, forcing him to question things over and over. What was he doing? Jamie, his youngest brother, had it sorted. He knew what he wanted and went for it, even if it was different from his family’s wishes. With his cheeky grin, he always wrangled their support. Rebecca fought for what she believed in with stubborn determination, as the ring in his pocket confirmed. Nate? While his career was strong, he suspected he drifted into other people’s plans, never acknowledging his own desires. Why else had he agreed to his brother’s ludicrous plan? Most people would have refused to become involved, especially after his Christmas confession on top of Rebecca’s betrayal. Everything was out of kilter: relationships, his flat, and his work. The rush of adrenaline from sealing a new deal remained elusive and only symbolised more money in his bank account. What he needed was to breathe in the refreshing coastal air to clear his mind, but instead the hectic streets of London called.
Distracted, Nate dodged the tourists blocking his path as they gaped and clicked their cameras at the arches and windows of the gothic church-like architecture of the Royal Courts of Justice. Under the watchful eye of Samuel Johnson’s statue, he impatiently joined those waiting to cross the road. His heavy trench coat over his designer suit offered him some protection from the bitter icy wind but not as much as the coat he bought in Whitby with its arctic lining and hood. Why did everything remind him of that time? His phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Yes! I’m on my way. Give me five minutes,’ he snapped, winding his way through the crowd. ‘Actually, make it fifteen. I’ve got to go.’
He disconnected the call. Above the heads of the crowd, he spotted the golden sign of a famous tea company, Twinings, under the iconic golden lion and royal crest guarded by two seated men. How often had he crossed this road and never seen it before? It was easy to miss, he consoled himself, when he had had little interest in the beverage. Unlike now. He edged closer, drawn to it like a pesky moth to his bedside table lamp.
Similar to the Enchanted Emporium, it was squeezed between the two imposing grand buildings, making the pillared door to the single-storey property resemble a gateway to a magical land more than a business. Swinging open the heavy doors, he stepped over the mosaic tiled threshold into the narrow store and welcomed the warm escape from the wintry day. The aroma of different tea blends released the tension in his shoulders he never realised was there until they sagged. Shelves brimming with boxes and jars of tea and accessories lined the walls, under the watchful eye of the oil-painted figures. Did they haunt the place like Old Percy, offering advice or causing havoc? Willow would know. He threw open the Pandora’s box of memories he struggled to contain daily, accepting the pain he would feel when he’d scramble to close the lid again. While he was here, he would allow himself to remember. To feel. Feel what? He wasn’t sure, but he knew despite the brevity of their relationship, he missed her. He missed her flat, and he missed chatting over tea and coffee. Nate held a teapot, tipped it to imagine the tea flowing into a cup, judging whether it would pour well. It’s all about the spout, he remembered Willow saying but the why was lost when he’d become mesmerised by the ritual she performed. His heart flipped at the memory and he swiftly returned the pot to its shelf.
A murmur of voices drew him further into the store, leading him to the museum with its potted history of tea hanging on the walls and objects in cabinets. Willow would love it. Has she ever been here to the smallest oldest tea shop? Her face would light up with her glee before she’d still to study the information. She’d grab his hand and pull him to the nearby testing booth where a blend of different languages, clink of teapots, and murmurs of appreciation of the tea they tried filled the room.
‘Would you like to try some, sir?’ a retail assistant said, holding a glass teapot of amber brew. His fingers skimmed the small box inside his pocket, reminding him of a promise made. He should be at work, but he nodded. Five more minutes, as he gazed at Willow’s photo on his phone. Just five more minutes with his memories.
***
George brought in a tray of a cup and small teapot under a tea cosy. What he thought of the new routine of tea in the morning rather than strong coffee, Nate hadn’t asked, but like most things he took it in his stride.
‘You’ve a meeting at ten about the Blanchard account. Henry has slotted in another meeting with you at one, so I’ve changed your conference call to three. That’ll provide a good excuse if Henry is giving you a headache.’
‘Thanks, George.’ Nate lifted his head up from the document he was reading. Thank goodness George knew Henry’s ability to induce a migraine in everybody, but particularly Nate, with his overbearing, monotonous personality which would only get worse once Nate’s plan came into fruition. He rubbed the frown lines that were becoming more prominent on his forehead. Doubts crept in. What had seemed the ideal solution to his apathy at work while at Whitby with Willow lying next to him, didn’t with the passing miles and time. Too late now, he’d set the train of change on the track when he told his plans to his family: now only time would tell whether it would result in a painful crash or trip to paradise.
‘My wife also sent this.’ George handed over a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Nate opened it to read the petite refined handwriting. ‘As another thank you. More reservations for Sand Dale have been made.’ Bauernbrot. Nate had never heard of it before. ‘She inherited it from her mother who was given it by her German penfriend. Has a nice taste and she thought you’d like it. She also sent this, a sourdough starter.’ George passed him a small jar of frothy beige substance. Ever since his confession, George’s wife had snuck him recipes and samples to try, quietly encouraging him on a journey he never thought he’d take, and as she expected feedback, he couldn’t discard them into his drawer of to do later.
When Nate attempted bread making, he understood why George suggested it. The kneading and thumping of the dough released some of his brewing frustration. It made him easier to work for. ‘Tell her thank you. I’ll give it a go.’
‘And Parson’s Investigations phoned with an update. Told them you’d call them.’
‘Thanks George. Hopefully it’ll be good news.’ George left with a small salute as if Nate was his superior in the forces. Stupid fool. Nate shook his head, he was under no illusion that he was in charge. George’s organisational and personal skills kept the business running more than him. He picked up his phone and dialled.
‘Parson’s Investigation Agency, how can we help?’
This was another idea that was planted in Whitby which he hoped was a good one. Willow and magic might not have had luck finding her grandmother’s cottage, but professionals might. He’d used them before when he needed background checks on dubious business connections or employees. They were discreet and good. Within minutes, he’d have an answer and a legitimate reason to phone her. The bewitchment she cast still held. His mood plummeted as he listened to the investigator; the update was, there wasn’t one. With little to go on, an old photo with little landmarks and unreliable memories from a child, the task was proving difficult. Made harder by their only revelation. Beyond buying the Enchanted Emporium, they’d found no records of a Willow Anderson. Who was the witch who had captured his heart?