Chapter 17 #2
“Wow, is that the time?” I say, glancing at the spot on my wrist where my watch would be if I hadn’t forgotten to put it on this morning. “I have to go. The bookstore will fall apart without me.”
This is blatantly untrue, as anyone who’s ever met Paris would testify.
I’m ‘doing her dirty’ here, as she would say herself.
Nevertheless, I start gathering my things as if I know everyone’s going to be desperately waiting for my return, then rush out of the cafe with the same haste, leaving Elliot at the table behind me.
Okay, so he might not actually be dating someone’s great-grandmother, and that’s definitely a relief, don’t get me wrong.
But his obsession with the people who inspired his book is only slightly less weird than that, and I think I’ve heard more than enough about it now.
Even watching Levi hang books on a Christmas tree would be better than this.
“Holly, wait.”
Elliot catches up with me just in front of the village Christmas tree, which I see has been hung with dozens of miniature snow globes this year.
This place.
I mean, seriously.
The Christmas market is in full swing, and there’s a line of people waiting to have their photos taken in the snow globe. They all watch with interest as Elliot grabs the sleeve of my coat, turning me to face him.
“The publisher does want me to write a sequel,” he admits, ignoring the onlookers. “They’ve been putting a huge amount of pressure on me, actually. It’s been … well, it’s been really hard.”
I shrug, not really caring how ‘hard’ the life of a world-famous author is. It’s kind of hard to feel sympathy for him, all things considered.
“They want to announce it at the book festival,” Elliot goes on, looking desperate.
“But I don’t want to do it. I still don’t have the answers.
Katie doesn’t know anything about Evie and Luke.
She’d never even heard of him; I guess that, whatever happened between them, Evie didn’t tell anyone. So I still don’t know how it ends.”
“Elliot, this is insane,” I tell him firmly. “You know that, right? You’ve been chasing this story for over a decade now. You don’t need to know how it ended for real. You just need to decide how you want it to end, then write that. You’re an author. I’m sure you can do that.”
“That’s just it,” he says in a strained voice. “I don’t think I can, Holly. Not without you to help me, like you did with The Snow Globe. That’s what I wanted to ask you. That’s why I really came here. Will you help me?”
He scans my face for a reaction, his expression suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes me want to reassure him.
At the same time, though, I can’t quite believe the audacity of the man — to come here and ask me to help him write the sequel to the book that’s been the bane of my life ever since it came out.
“Are you for real?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low enough not to be overheard by all the passers-by, out doing their Christmas shopping.
“Do you know what it was like for me when your first book came out, and everyone figured out who it was based on? Do you seriously think I’d want to have anything at all to do with the next one? ”
Elliot takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him.
“No,” he says. “No, I should’ve … it was stupid of me. I’m sorry. You’ve been … very clear how you feel about my book.”
His shoulders sag with defeat and I once again find myself fighting the impulse to comfort him, which is ridiculous, really. I know Elliot doesn’t need comforting. Elliot’s a rich, famous author, whose biggest problem in life is a mild case of writer’s block.
All the same, as I stand there in the crowded village square where we first met, I can’t quite bring myself to walk away from him.
“What happened to her?” I ask suddenly. “Evie, I mean? You must know that much, if your detective tracked her down?”
“Yeah,” he says, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “Yeah, I know that much. I know she survived the war — well, obviously, given that she has great-grand kids. And I know she moved away from here, and got married, and settled down. She had a nice life, from what I can gather.”
“Nice?” I reply, raising my eyebrows. “You must hate that for her.”
He chuckles softly.
“I’m going to an auction tomorrow,” he says. “Katie told me about it. Her parents just finished clearing out some stuff from her grandparents’ house, and they’re selling it off. She thinks some of Evie’s things might be among it.”
“Right,” I reply, not really sure what to make of this sudden change of subject. “That’ll be … fun.”
I imagine a serious-faced Elliot rifling through a pile of old-lady clothes and random pieces of bric-à-brac, and stifle a smile.
“I suspect ‘weird’ is the word you were going for there.” He grins ruefully. “Look, I know I’m not going to find anything significant,” he adds. “I’m not totally obsessed.”
He waits for me to agree with him, but I’m not sure spending years of your life obsessing over a random old photo is a good way to demonstrate how not obsessed you are, so I just wait for him to continue.
“I’m really not,” he insists, as if he’s read my mind.
“I haven’t spent the last ten years thinking about this, you know.
I hadn’t been thinking about it at all, actually, until my publisher started leaning on me for a sequel.
But once it was back at the front of my mind again it became …
oh, it’s just a loose end, I guess. And I figured now was as good a time as any to tie it up. ”
He shrugs again, and I wonder if he’s thought about me in the last ten years, or if it’s just his return to Bramblebury that’s brought me back to the front of his mind, too.
Quite the trip for him, if so.
“Well, I know how much you hate loose ends,” I tell him, wondering if I’m one, too, but somehow managing not to ask.
“You could come with me?” Elliot says, proving there’s apparently no end to the way he can surprise me. “To the auction? It’s not far from here, actually. It’s in this big old country house. It looks pretty cool, from the website. I think you’d like it.”
I really want to point out that he has no idea what I’d like any more; and no right to be acting like he still knows me.
I want to tell him that he has no business asking me to do anything anymore — not helping him write his books, and definitely not tracking down long-lost mystery women, who may or may not have had a role in one of his ancestor's lives.
I want to tell him all of this, but right at that moment, something cold and wet falls out of the sky and flutters past my nose. It’s followed by another, then another, and when I tilt my head back to look up at the sky, I realize two things in quick succession.
The first is that it’s snowing in Bramblebury, for the first time in almost a decade.
And the second is that, even though I know it’s quite possibly the worst idea ever, I want to know how Evie’s story ends, too.