A Gift to Remember (26 page)

Peering into the windows of the homes across the way, she saw that some had Christmas trees displayed, others had lights strung round their windows and piles of wrapped packages piled on the
window seats. There were vast, open loft spaces and tight, tidy family kitchens, all well-lit and festive, fairy lights blinking on the trees. In one, kids played games on the floor, and in
another, an elderly couple sat reading companionably side by side on the sofa, the way Darcy’s mum and dad used to do; in others, people were wrapping presents, baking cookies or simply
sipping coffee by the window while gazing across at snow-covered oak trees in the Park.

She could have stayed there all day, watching families go about their daily business. Darcy loved watching families period, and wondered if she’d ever have one of her own, to help recreate
some of those special times she’d enjoyed before her parents’ death.

She turned away from the window then, suddenly uneasy about making herself too comfortable here, to say nothing about prying beyond what was necessary.

But on her way out of the bedroom, Darcy’s eyes were drawn to a small cabinet in the corner; it was set into an alcove which made it difficult to see when you first walked into the room.
As she approached, she could see that it was a brass and glass display case sitting on top of an antique rosewood table.

The back of the case was lined with etched mirror and Darcy thought that it had probably sat proudly in one of Fifth Avenue’s finest furniture stores once upon a time. Inside the case was
a selection of medals and medallions, set apart from each other in an obvious display.

She was about to check what the accolades might be for when her eyes landed on a framed photograph just alongside the medals. It was a group shot of people mostly dressed in sports gear, and the
location was obviously somewhere with a hot climate, judging by the camera subjects’ tanned skin, sunglasses and hats protecting them from the glare of the sun.

Darcy scanned the faces, trying to seek out Aidan; it was a huge group, probably about 150 people. Some of them were adorned in colourful tribal dress, with dark complexions and bare feet. What
exotic location was it this time? she wondered, taking in the oxide red dust beneath their feet. Several white-skinned members of the group could possibly be him, given the clothing, but it was
difficult to pick anyone out at the distance the photograph had been taken to get the entire group in frame.

But curiously, right beside the photograph and on its own stand was a book entitled
Born to Run.
Darcy scratched her head as she thought of all the expensive first edition classics and
collectors’ items downstairs – yet here in the only lockable display case was a very ordinary-looking paperback.

Curious . . .

But taking all of the contents in the case into account she realised that there was a definite theme forming.

The large medallions and belt buckles with various logos and dates all detailed running competitions and races of some kind.
Western States Endurance Run: 100 miles – 1 day
read
one of the large silver belt buckles. 100 miles in one day? Who in their right mind would undertake such a thing? Darcy thought incredulously, reminding herself that merely walking ten or so blocks
put her out of breath. Yes, she managed to stay reasonably fit from cycling, but compared to Aidan, she was an absolute slouch.

Yet it fit with the photographs she’d seen in the living room, the prescription pills and what she suspected Thrill Seeker Holdings was all about. Aidan was indeed one of those
adventure-loving, adrenaline-seeking activity types.

She reached for the clasp on the side of the display case and giving it a gentle tug, found the door was unlocked. Opening it, she thought about poor Aidan in the hospital bed, and so many
hard-earned, precious memories out of his reach. The only thing Darcy could think of worse than having to run 100 miles was running 100 miles and not being able to remember it.

Deciding immediately to bring one of these medals back to him, she looked through them, trying to select the best one.

There were certainly lots to choose from: the first, detailing the ING New York City Marathon, was a race Darcy recognised well, recalling the inconvenience of closed streets and inaccessible
parks one weekend every November. Several other medals on thick ribbons recorded similar achievements from various years – all attached to a wooden holder that looked like it could have been
custom-made.

Where on earth did he get the time to maintain a hugely successful career, sit and enjoy the wonderful contents of his own private library, and at the same time train to run hundreds of miles?
Trying to figure out who Aidan Harris really was, was turning out to be a true conundrum.

Darcy knew for sure which hobby she’d prefer, she thought, picking up the book – the one thing in the case she had some chance of understanding.

The book jacket was not pristine or particularly attractive: it was cream with a black imprint of a bare foot, and the title printed within the footprint beneath the outline of a man running
partly silhouetted against the sun.

She held it in her hands, guessing that it was easily the least valuable book in the house by a mile. Then she opened the first page and saw two signatures, one by Christopher McDougall the
author, and beneath this the name ‘Cabello Blanco’.

Well, it might seem insignificant to her, but it must mean a lot to Aidan if it was the only book on display. Carefully placing the book in her bag to take back to the hospital, Darcy was about
to close the cabinet when an inscription on one of the medals caught her attention.

NYRR. Which Darcy knew stood for New York Road Runners.

Joshua often spoke of the running club – his health-conscious medical family were all avid runners and all members of the club. His dad even sat on the board apparently, and Joshua often
joked that no matter what time you went to Central Park there was always a Bishop running around it.

She looked again at the contents of the cabinet – so many proud mementos of races Aidan had run. And she thought again about how he seemed so full of contradictions.

Every time Darcy thought she was getting closer to figuring out who Aidan Harris was, something else came along to blow her assumptions out of the water.

All those who wander are not lost
.
J.R.R. Tolkien

Trying to think like Miss Marple, but actually feeling more like Goldilocks, Darcy left the master bedroom and ventured back down the hall to the room she had to assume was a
guestroom. She took in every detail and decided that yes, someone had been sleeping in this room, recently. Strange . . . with the other room available to them as a first choice, no one would
realistically pick the smaller room.

She entered the guest bathroom and was again confronted with signs of use. Taking in the aftershave, the deodorant and the nose-hair trimmers, she deduced that it had to be a man.

‘Have you recently had a house-guest, Aidan?’ Darcy murmured into thin air.

Maybe someone had been staying at the house and had been locked out since Aidan hadn’t returned after the other day.

Feeling anxious now, she wondered where this person could be. Her thoughts flashed to Aidan’s phone, out of action for the last few days. How horrible it would be if his house guest had
been trying to get in touch with him, thinking he’d disappeared or that something bad had happened to him. Darcy thought of hanging around for a while longer, just in case the person might
come back.

But then again, how would she know if they were who they said they were?

Too many confusing thoughts were bumping around Darcy’s head, and she was starting to feel overwhelmed.

Casting a final glance at the room, she headed in the direction of the office she’d glanced through the other day. It hadn’t held her interest at the time as it contained little
other than filing cabinets, the heavy wooden desk and Aidan’s laptop. But this time, on her way in she noticed another photograph, tucked away on a shelf nearby.

A striking woman – again incredibly radiant and beautiful – was pictured in a gold string bikini, evidently in some tropical location. Sunshine glistened off her blonde hair and she
was deeply tanned. Darcy made a face as she took in the woman’s model physique. Difficult to be 100 per cent certain, as this image was in colour, but it seemed likely to be the same blonde
that she’d seen in the other photograph shut away upstairs in Aidan’s bedside drawer.

‘OK, it’s official,’ Darcy sighed. ‘The girlfriend is beautiful.’

She glanced balefully down at her own frame and tried to imagine what she would look like in that same bikini. There was a litheness about this woman that she knew she would never have.

She tried to remind herself of the statistics – that Supermodels were merely genetic abnormalities. Whereas she was normal and should be proud of it.

Still, Darcy couldn’t help but feel a pang. Despite the odds, why did it always have to be women like this who attracted men like Aidan?

She put the picture back on the shelf, deciding not to go there. Besides,
everyone
had cellulite, and Miss Universe probably did too, it’s just that the lens wasn’t picking
it up. And everyone knew that PhotoShop could work wonders.

Determinedly putting Aidan’s love interest out of her mind, she wandered back to the desk, upon which sat a Vaio laptop, a considerably more expensive version than her ancient clunker. If
by some miracle she could access Aidan’s computer, then a whole world of additional information would become open to her
and
him. She wondered if there was any point in packing up
the laptop and taking it back to the hospital with her just in case his brain might remember how to access it. She knew the mind worked like that, that a person’s fingers sometimes
automatically moved to the relevant keys, without having to think about what they were typing.

Darcy placed the bottle of water she’d been carrying on the desktop blotter and sat back in the chair, wondering where she might start looking for company information or stationery that
would act as sufficient authorisation for Apple.

Seeing a drawer to her right, she reached out and grasped the handle. Tugged it gently, and then a bit harder.

Nothing happened.

Foiled yet again, she sat up straight in the chair and turned her attention to the phone on the desk. She wondered if a separate phone number was fed into the office, or whether it was just
another extension of the downstairs phone. As she looked, she noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking again. Darcy started to scroll through the caller ID. Immediately recognising
the Kensington number, she realised that this was indeed the same line as downstairs, but quite a lot of activity had taken place since the last time she’d checked it.

She was dismayed to see that there were now
seven
private number entries after the Kensington one, as well as a couple of others. Clearly somebody was frantically trying to get in touch
with Aidan.

A small pad of paper sat next to the phone, along with a Mont Blanc pen, and Darcy quickly wrote down the numbers that came up, marvelling at how smooth the nib was.

Interspersed with the private number calls was a listing displayed as ‘Bennington’ with a 212 number, as well as ‘Cleaver-Parks’, also in Manhattan. Wondering if either
of them might be the woman who was calling from the withheld numbers, Darcy scribbled the details down.

Then, feeling no sense of guilt this time around, she pressed Play on the answering machine.

Aidan, hey, it’s Nate. Just wanted to follow up. I heard you since made contact with my friend, and I hope all went well. I’ll try you on your cell but if I don’t get you,
really happy that you got what you needed before the big day. Ciao.

Her eyes widened.
Happy that you got what you needed before the big day?

Now Darcy was more certain than ever that Aidan had been on his way to meet someone and deliver that gift on the day of the accident.

She bit her lip. It was all her fault he never made it.

Hearing a beep and then some background noise she listened closely, feeling a sense of dread as she guessed it would be the woman again.

‘Pick up, goddamn you!’
said a female voice, clearly upset, and this time very angry.
‘I just can’t believe you’re ignoring me like this! If you wanted
to end things, OK fine, but the least you could do is tell it to my face instead of this pathetic, idiotic . . . juvenile behaviour. Well forget it, I get the message. I’d like to say it was
fun but I’d be lying. Have a nice life, ass-hole. Oh, and this is Melanie by the way, just in case you’re having trouble keeping track.’

Darcy sat there, stunned. Clearly the meeting that Aidan had missed was very significant indeed. But, more importantly, she realised, playing the message back again, the mysterious caller now
had a name: Melanie.

Melanie. Aidan and Melanie. Darcy turned the combination over in her mind. So Melanie had to be the gorgeous blonde in the bikini – the voice matched somehow. And she was a somewhat
forbidding type, judging by her parting shot.

She guessed that beautiful women like that didn’t tolerate being messed around too easily, especially when there were bound to be lots of other men lined up to treat them as they expected
to be.

But what event had Aidan missed the other day? Clearly it was something significant, to Melanie at least. She wished the woman hadn’t withheld her number though, since Darcy could have
just called her up and told her that no, Aidan hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was actually all
her
fault, and if it hadn’t been for Darcy he would have made it to wherever
he was supposed to be and delivered the gift to her.

But now she wondered again what the gift could be. She guessed that a woman like Melanie would have expensive tastes and habits. Which meant that the gift Aidan had chosen for her must have been
something very special. Her mind racing, she thought of the other message, the one in which the man had mentioned about Aidan getting ‘what he needed in time’. Could this guy, this
Cleaver-Parks person, be somehow involved in that?