Chapter 22
Casey sat on the front garden wall outside Nate’s house while she waited for Ajay.
A few minutes early, she took the time to soak in the pretty tree-lined street.
Though the trees had long since evicted their leaves, the local residents had wound the branches with fairy lights, which cheered up the dull winter morning.
All along the street Christmas trees stood in sitting room windows like nosy neighbors peeking through the curtains.
She smoothed down the corduroy fabric of her long dark green coat, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.
She wanted to make a good impression. Ajay was not only beautiful to look at, but he was also thoughtful and kind, a rare and precious thing.
As delicious as these feelings of hopeful excitement were, though, they came with their own warning system.
What if her exile had rendered her so closed off that she couldn’t let him in?
Could she risk letting her guard down? Did she even know how to anymore?
She pulled her gloves off and then put them back on again for something to do.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she looked down at her warm lace-up boots, wiggling her toes inside them.
She had chosen a pair of smart jeans to go with her favorite Fair Isle jumper, and her pink-and-orange-striped scarf matched her knitted hat.
The ensemble was warm enough to be practical but could pass for smart too.
She hadn’t worn makeup since the meme, but she always wore tinted lip balm and had them in a range of colors; today she wore a plum shade that went nicely with the wisps of dark hair poking out beneath her hat.
Ajay pulled up against the curb, at precisely half past ten, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and she felt that her own smile was just as wide. The butterflies in her stomach lifted into the air all at once, and she had to concentrate not to go onto her tiptoes with the force of it.
He killed the engine and climbed out. “Hello,” he said, still grinning as he opened the passenger door for her. No one had ever opened a car door for her before! “Are you ready?” he asked when he’d climbed back in beside her.
“I am. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“No.” He smiled mischievously. “But I ran my idea past Nigel, and he gave it the thumbs-up.”
She laughed, and said, “Intriguing,” as she fixed her seat belt.
They left Weaverston behind and drove farther into the countryside.
Housing estates were replaced by pretty hamlets of cottages with thatched roofs and bony wisteria climbing the walls.
They passed fields dotted with pheasants, their plumage bright against the hard white furrows in the earth.
Prickly hedgerows grew up either side of ever narrower lanes, and orange-breasted robins feasted on the red berries, which seemed to be abundant on the twigs despite the lack of foliage.
“So, you know all about my terrible ex,” said Casey. “What about you? Was there someone back in London?”
“Not for a while. I was with someone, Bea, for three years but we’d drifted apart, both of us concentrating on our careers. We were on a break, well, more of a trial separation, when the incident happened with Jared, and it was kind of the final nail in the coffin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Like I said, it was over. It was just that neither one of us wanted to be the bad guy. When I got suspended from work, I ended it properly, but it turned out she’d met someone during our break anyway.”
“And she didn’t tell you?” She found it hard to imagine anyone wanting to cheat on Ajay. “Talk about kicking a man when he’s down.”
“She’s not a bad person, and we were separated. In the end we both knew it was for the best.”
“You don’t sound like a man with hard feelings.”
He smiled. “I’m not. Some relationships go out with a bang, and others, like mine and Bea’s, go out with a shrug and handshake.”
“The elusive amicable breakup,” said Casey with a whistle. “I’ve heard about them of course, but I’ve never seen one out in the wild.”
Ajay laughed. “Really?”
“Truly. Sam and I were a trainwreck, as you know, and my parents’ divorce, well, now they took acrimony to fresh levels of hell. My mother once screamed so hard at my dad she burst her own eardrum.”
Ajay snorted. “That can’t be true.”
“On my life. They had to be kept in separate rooms at the solicitor’s office because they were so vile to each other.
During one of their many divorce consultations, a receptionist caught them having sex in a toilet cubicle, and then they went straight back into their adjoining meeting rooms and started slagging each other off again. ”
“That is so toxic!” Ajay exclaimed, trying not to laugh.
Casey raised a wry eyebrow. “Why do you think I write horror?”
—
It wasn’t a long journey, just over half an hour, which felt like nothing in their easy conversation. When they turned down a particularly long, winding lane, Casey suddenly realized where they were headed. “Are we going to Sissinghurst Castle?” she asked.
“We are,” he replied, smiling, but keeping his eyes on the road.
“I’ve wanted to visit ever since I moved to East Sussex, but I never seem to get around to it!”
“Well, now you can tick it off your list.”
“Did you know that Vita Sackville-West was a writer? And that she was happily married but also she and Virginia Woolf were longtime lovers? Her husband, Harold, also took lovers; they had an open marriage but were quite devoted to each other.”
Ajay laughed. “I did know that, although I only know because I read about her when I was doing research into where we might go on our date.”
“You did research?” she asked, surprised.
“Of course. I wanted to take you somewhere that you would enjoy.”
Who knew that thoughtfulness was her kink? A warm feeling spread through her and she wanted to kiss his neck and press herself up against him, but she wouldn’t, because that kind of thing caused accidents. No, she’d be sensible and save the pressing for when they had a bit more privacy.
—
They parked and made their way to buy tickets to enter the castle and grounds.
Ajay bought them each a hot chocolate from the tearoom, and they sipped as they meandered the mostly sleeping gardens.
Espaliered fruit trees splayed their naked limbs dramatically along old walls while ice plants winked flashes of pink at their feet.
The rose gardens were a tangle of spikes and promise, and the castle tower rose up above them like a fairy tale.
“I’d never had a garden until I moved into the cottage,” said Ajay. “And now that I’ve got one, I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I shouldn’t worry, I’m sure Nigel and Vern don’t expect you to do much. It’s mostly lawn, anyway, isn’t it?”
“Oh, there’s no pressure from them; but I’d love to start growing stuff, flowers and vegetables and whatever. If I’m honest, I feel a bit intimidated by the scale of it—how do I even begin to turn a hundred foot of lawn into beds and borders?”
“Yeah, I suppose it is a bit daunting.”
“Daunting is right, I can’t even bring myself to push the spade into it.”
“Then let’s hope Sissinghurst gives you some inspiration.”
In this moment, here with Ajay while sleeping bees and blooms held their secrets close, Casey could feel her own inspiration stirring within her for the first time in forever, a fresh, rousing sensation trickling through her veins like water in a babbling brook.
Possibilities stretched out like long-unused muscles, ideas swirled tantalizingly, none of them yet firm enough to grasp but they were there, biding their time like the seeds and bulbs beneath their feet, living things waiting to push up through the earth and be seen.
She had often searched inwardly for her inspiration, but maybe it was time for a change, time to look elsewhere.
Being here with Ajay was an emotional parting of the clouds, and the urge to write was making her fingers twitch.
Ajay glanced at her. “You look happy,” he said. “Not that you usually look sad,” he added quickly. “You just seem relaxed, I mean. It suits you.”
“I am relaxed,” she said, marveling at how true that was. “And I am happy. Thank you for bringing me here. Just so you know, I’m going to sniff every scented soap and peruse every book in the gift shop before we leave. Nothing smells as good as a National Trust gift shop.”
He laughed. “Noted.”
They wandered along a walkway that would be a carpet of pale-yellow primroses when spring came, but for now was crisp short grass lined with giant terra-cotta urns filled with slumbering tulips and daffodils.
“Would you like to visit the library?” Ajay asked.
She side-eyed him. “Do you even need to ask?”
He chuckled. “Come on, then, my fingers are going numb.”
“That’s because you didn’t bother to wear gloves. Here, give me your hands.” She pulled her gloves off and took both his cold hands in her warm ones. “How’s that?” she asked as she massaged them. “Any better?”
He cleared his throat. “Much,” he said. “Thank you.”
She moved her focus from his long fingers up to his face, to where stubble peeked over the top of his scarf and his lips quirked in an amused smile.
Ajay’s aura was crackling fires in cozy hearths, crisp autumn leaves, and warm blankets, and she wanted to settle in and get comfortable beside him.
The way he looked back at her made her feel even warmer.
A multitude of hitherto hibernating facets of her were rousing today.
For a woman who had been hiding in numerous ways, both from society and herself, such awakenings were a lot. She swallowed. “Library, then?”
“Library,” he agreed.
As it turned out, the library was not much warmer than the gardens, but there were a couple of blow heaters that prevented tourists from turning blue.
It was a long one-story gallery and smelled of old book bindings, leather, and wood from the dark oak paneling that lined the walls.
A large Christmas tree in traditional red, gold, and green stood beside the fireplace, and garlands of clove-studded orange pomanders were strung across some of the bookshelves.
Casey had always loved libraries, from the utilitarian municipal boxes to the grand historical book shrines of stone and steeple.
Any building that held such possibilities for knowledge, self-discovery, and adventure all in one place exuded a sense of magic that spoke to her soul, and despite the chill in the Sissinghurst library, she could feel that magic calling to her now.
They wandered the gallery, each in their own appreciation of the space and its papery treasures.
Book spines in faded green, blue, and aged magenta lined the crowded shelves; some with titles she recognized, others by authors whose names were lost to time but whose words would live on in perpetuity thanks to places like this and the British Library, which had been keeping one copy of every book published in the UK since 1662.
The idea of all those books hidden in underground vaults boggled her mind.
She imagined Vita and Harold sitting together in this library reading, and then further back still, to the authors who had penned the books, having no idea that hundreds of years later someone like her would run their fingers along the binding and feel the indentations of their names left by the printing press.
For the second time that day, Casey had the urge to write.
She wished she could bottle this feeling.
“I don’t think you could have brought me anywhere better for a first date,” she said, smiling up at him.
He returned her smile and said, “The best is yet to come.”
“I’m not sure you can top this,” she teased.
“Watch me.” He grinned mischievously and this time Casey felt a thrill that had nothing to do with books.