A Gift to Remember (25 page)

Darcy extracted the tome from its place on the shelf, and delicately opened the cover. Too late, she wondered if she should be wearing gloves, or at least something to keep the natural oil from
her hands rubbing off on the treasure. Painstakingly raising the cover, her breath caught in her throat. A scribble of ink dotted the flyleaf – handwritten words. The sentence ended with the
name
Kit
. Gasping in shock, Darcy ran her index finger over the words as if the action allowed her to travel across the centuries and connect with the man who had written them.

There was little doubt in Darcy’s mind that the book she was holding at the moment had also been held four hundred years ago by the Elizabethan tragedian himself.

She felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes from the wonder and amazement of it all. Then, though it killed her to do so, she placed it back on the shelf, vowing that she would take a proper
look again sometime, ideally with Aidan’s full permission.

She recalled what Aidan had said earlier about his curious knowledge of books and literature. Well, the explanation for that was right here in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t wait to
tell him what she’d found, although she was kicking herself for not checking this room first time out. But she’d been in a hurry, and had been actively looking for personal objects and
photographs that might help his memory, rather than taking a full account of every room.

Darcy guessed that if she owned a collection of books like that, she’d remember them in an instant; if her position and Aidan’s were reversed, it would have been those that stood out
in her memory.

But who knew how these things worked? And the fact that he was obviously such a dog lover said something good about him too.

Darcy continued to skim through the titles, and back in the A-section soon came across her beloved
Pride and Prejudice
. The novel had originally been published in 1813 in three separate
volumes, and Darcy gasped aloud as she saw the three spines facing her. Scarcely daring to breathe, she lifted out the first volume and set it down on a nearby side table. Leaning over it, she
inspected its weathered brown leather cover.

As she examined the black morocco double spine she couldn’t help but wonder how Aidan had procured this. ‘He must really be a man of means,’ she muttered out loud as she
remembered reading what such editions typically went for at auction. Eighty-five grand or so?

Wow
. Never mind Elizabeth Arden. This was something that truly was a million miles outside of her pay grade.

This particular set of volumes seemed extraordinarily well-preserved. Again, she wondered where Aidan had come across them.

She traced her fingers over the title page and its simple statement:
By a Lady
, wondering what Jane Austen would have made of her own current adventure.

‘She probably would have considered it too far-fetched for a plot,’ she said with a grin.

Then, turning to the first page, Darcy began to read out loud the iconic opening sentence. ‘
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune,
must be in want of a wife
. Certainly sounds like a best-seller to me,’ she added. As her gaze travelled over the text, Darcy remembered a maxim that she’d adhered to all her life:
you could tell a lot about a person from simply looking at their bookshelves.

And if Aidan Harris was anything like his book collection, she sighed, then he was a very special person indeed.

What in the hell has happened to all this time I thought I had?

Yesterday and today have been a blur. I don’t even know how the time has got so far away from me. Sure, I’ve checked off some of the things on my To Do list. But not the most
important things. The big day is looming large now and time is seriously running out.

When did life become so complicated?

Now, as I sit at the kitchen counter, laptop in front of me, Bailey at my feet begging, and practically willing me to drop this forkful of noodle on the floor so he can gobble it up, I’m
doing my best to not be completely consumed by the fact that 17 December is now less than three days away.

So I really only have two days, if I want to get everything organised and ready for delivery beforehand.

Christ.

And even worse, my new buddy Nate has not called, despite his promises.

Today I ended up getting nothing done except fielding enquiries from LA and making follow-up calls to the names on George’s list. I had to cancel a planned outing with Mel, something I
know she was terribly disappointed about but I just have to hope she understands. She gets how things can be and how busy I am sometimes, yet I know that she doesn’t completely understand why
she has to suffer because of it. It makes me feel so guilty to have to let her down like that but there’s really nothing I can do.

I’ll make it up to her though, and I already have an idea how, but for the moment, I need to concentrate all my energies on getting this thing done.

At least this morning I managed to get Bailey out for a good amble in the Park, and he enjoyed sniffing around and meeting up with his buddies, some of the other regulars around the Great
Lawn.

But realising I hadn’t actually eaten anything since our hot dogs mid-morning (I’m not really a fan but Bailey has a thing for Gray’s) I took the easy option and microwaved
some noodles for lunch.

I have to admit, this readymade stuff from Whole Foods was pretty good. That Californian Petite Syrah from the rack was good too. So good, in fact, that I might just drink the whole bottle
– I am starting to feel that desperate.

‘How about that idea, Bailey? Maybe getting drunk will give some answers. It worked for Hemingway.’

Bailey stared up at me with those incisive blue eyes of his, perhaps mulling over the idea that if I got drunk, I would be much more likely to drop food on the floor.

I rubbed my forehead, refilling my glass while I offered Bailey a small piece of chicken from the plate.

He gobbled it up as if it was the finest Kobe steak.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ I asked him. He licked his chops and stared at me intently, looking for more and giving me my answer.

Feeding him again, I finished off the last few bites myself and pushed the plate away. Then I pulled the laptop close and started half-heartedly typing in some search terms, just on the
offchance that Google would feel sorry for me today and answer, ‘Here you go, Aidan. Right here, at this location, is exactly what you want, ready and waiting to be sold to you.’ The
search engine would show me a big map with an ‘X’ on it and I would put on my coat and rush off, chequebook in hand.

But Google didn’t work that way, did it? And so I lost yet another hour’s worth of time, still hoping I might get lucky.

Remind me not to head to Atlantic City anytime soon; I would probably lose my shorts.

I got up from the stainless-steel kitchen counter, picked up my wine glass and meandered into the library. Flicking a switch, I turned on the Christmas tree and stared at the glittering lights
and twinkling orbs, making me all too aware that the holidays were approaching and time was almost up.

Turning my gaze from the tree, I walked slowly along the bookshelves, lightly caressing the spines. They comforted me as books always do.

Many people would kill for a collection like this, I knew, and no doubt for a house like this. In a place as perfect as this you’d expect to have a perfect life, and that everything would
be easy.

But I knew better. I knew that you could spend a fortune filling shelves with rare books, travel all over the world and take pictures of exotic locations that most people could only ever dream
about visiting, but at the end of the day, if the books remained unread and the journeys were mostly taken alone, then there was something missing.

And really, I guess that’s the saddest thing in the world. I know for sure that I would rather have memories with another person in some cheap, out-of-the-way place on the map, than travel
to Paris alone, stay in the finest hotel and take a picture of the Eiffel Tower that I could get from any stock photo website.

I sat down in one of the big wing chairs next to the fireplace and took another sip of wine. A moment later, Bailey came in and joined me, sitting down next to the chair and balancing his big
warm head on my knee. I put a hand on his head and petted him.

‘Good boy. You’re a good boy.’ I scratched his ears and he leaned into my hand as if wanting to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get this sorted,’
perhaps reassuring myself more than him. ‘Something will come up; I’m sure of it.’

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me
.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

Very reluctantly replacing volume one of
Pride and Prejudice
back on the shelf next to its sister volumes, Darcy managed to tear herself away from Aidan’s
library and began to move further along into the house, trying other rooms that she hadn’t ventured into previously.

Next she encountered another bedroom – smaller than the one she’d seen on her last visit – and while it was well-appointed just like the rest of the house, it also looked
relatively lived in, or at least recently used, unlike other areas that seemed pristine in their appearance.

A remote control for the plasma TV on the wall was haphazardly thrown on the bed, which was made, but it also appeared somewhat rumpled, as if someone had been watching TV while lying on top of
the covers.

Curious, Darcy moved to the antique rosewood closet and opened it. Inside were men’s clothes: shirts, trousers, and a couple of folded-up sweaters.

Granted, Aidan probably had a lot of clothes, but she wondered why he kept them in here instead of his own bedroom. Then she reminded herself of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words about the rich
being ‘different’, and guessed that this closet was used as an overflow, or to store away his wardrobe depending on season.

She would have given anything for a closet that was big enough to store what few clothes she had, let alone have the luxury of a separate room altogether. As it was, she sometimes had to use the
kitchen cupboards to put away seasonal stuff. If she wasn’t careful she could soon end up storing T-shirts in the freezer and socks in her cutlery drawer.

Turning, she left the room and headed again in the direction of the larger bedroom, the one in which she’d tried to find useful mementos for Aidan on her last visit.

She flung open the doors to the walk-in closet and turned on the light to check if her suspicions about the smaller bedroom being an overflow were correct. In front of her was yet another wide
assortment of men’s clothes. She pulled a shirt off the rack and examined the label. Valentino. Nice.

Placing the shirt back where she’d found it, she looked around briefly again and turned the light off, closing the closet door behind her.

Darcy turned to her left and found herself in the master ensuite bathroom. Here, too, she immediately noticed that everything looked perfect, as if it hadn’t been touched in days.

Granted she was not the most experienced of girlfriends, but every guy she’d ever been involved with had at least offered her a drawer if ever she stayed over, someplace to store spare
underwear and socks, or a toothbrush.

But Darcy realised now, despite her initial impression that Aidan lived here with a female companion, there were no women’s clothes anywhere, no stray shoes, or any make-up or face creams
in the master bathroom. Actually, now that she thought about it, other than the flowers in the hallway, there were few feminine touches
anywhere
in the house. Despite herself, Darcy was
heartened by the notion.

Perhaps he preferred to live alone then? While he was a guy who clearly had no shortage of female attention, she guessed he enjoyed his own space, preferred things the way he liked them –
particularly his books and his organic food and fancy cookware . . .

Well, Darcy couldn’t blame him. If she was lucky enough to own a house like this, to say nothing of what was inside it, she’d be quite possessive of them too.

She opened the bathroom cabinets and idly ran her gaze across the contents, which consisted of a typical selection of toothpaste, and luxurious male toiletries such as Tom Ford pore gel and
Bulgari aftershave, though one of the bottles gave her pause.

Rogaine? Darcy frowned as she studied the hair-loss treatment bottle. Picturing Aidan’s healthy head of hair, she wondered why on earth he would need this. Or was his glossy mane in fact a
good advertisement for the product? If so, the company should definitely use him in their marketing campaigns, she thought, smiling at the notion. But it was a curious find all the same.

Her attention moved to a small container of pills immediately recognisable as some form of prescription medicine.

‘Diamox . . .’ Darcy read the words on the label out loud and was wondering what the pills were for and if by chance their absence might be affecting Aidan’s memory recovery,
when she noticed that they were in fact labelled as effective for altitude sickness.

Altitude sickness . . . No doubt for all that high-adrenaline travel, in mountainous places like the Swiss Alps or indeed, scaling the heights of Mont Blanc.

She found herself craving to hear Aidan – in that lovely lilting voice – tell her about what it was like to have reached the top of K2 or Everest even, and bring those adventures
alive for her. She frowned. What was she really doing here? Poking around in someone else’s life? She should be out there, concentrating on her own. Was all of this helping of Aidan actually
an excuse to put her own run-of-the-mill existence on hold?

Feeling slightly maudlin, she closed the bathroom cabinet and headed back into the bedroom, finding herself in front of the large bay window which overlooked some of the balconies in the
luxurious apartment building across the road. She soon discovered that if she leaned to the far right side of the window, shoved her shoulder into the corner and slightly tilted her head to the
left, she could just about make out the inside of some of those residences.