A Gift to Remember (27 page)

Quickly scribbling down the caller’s number, she dropped the pen and tore off a piece of paper from the pad. But as she did so, Darcy’s elbow knocked against the open Fiji bottle,
spilling water all over the blotter and on top of the desk.

She jumped up from her chair. ‘Oh crap! I’m sorry, Aidan, I’m sorry!’ she called out to the air. ‘I just keep ruining your stuff.’

Looking around desperately for anything to sop up the mess, she ran from the room and returned a moment later with a hand towel that she’d grabbed from a small washroom just off the
hallway. Rushing to wipe up the blotter, she realised that she should be more concerned about the desk’s expensive-looking walnut surface.

Darcy pulled the wet blotter from the desk and tossed it to the side. As she did so, she heard something clink on the floor. Something distinctly metal.

Pausing briefly, she glanced at the ground, wondering what else she had broken.

And spotted a key. Her hands shook ever so slightly as she bent down to pick it up. A tiny silver thing, it looked to be the kind of key that would fit a padlock, or a suitcase.

‘Or a desk drawer,’ she whispered out loud.

Darcy picked up the key and placed it on the desk. She made another cursory swipe of the surface with the hand towel, making sure it was completely dry, and then turned her attention to the
water-stained blotter.

Horrified, she took note of the brushed silver handle and expensive fine leather base, and knew she was looking at a couple of hundred dollars’-worth of damage or more. For a simple ink
blotter. She shrugged. Next time she’d be sure to run down a poor guy.

Darcy sat back down in the chair and picked up the key. She started on the left side of the desk, and tried each individual keyhole for each drawer.

Her efforts were foiled every time; the key didn’t seem to fit in any of them.

Feeling her frustration grow, she turned her attention to the other set of drawers on the right side of the desk. And felt her spirits soar as the key fit effortlessly into the lock of the top
one.

Darcy took a deep breath, turned the key, and the lock clicked.

Opening the drawer, she was struck by how neat and orderly the contents inside seemed to be. Once again, in keeping with the rest of his house, Aidan was not one for clutter or
mess.

Darcy thought of her own place and grimaced, wondering what he would think if he saw the dishes clogging the sink, the discarded clothing on the back of the chair, the pile of ironing in the
corner calling out to be tended and, of course, the contents of her book collection gathered on every available surface.

For the most part, everything in the drawer looked rather normal and uninteresting. Rubber bands, paper clips, a few Mont Blanc pens, a small notepad and . . . aha! Beneath a manila folder lay a
small stack of A4 stationery with the Thrill Seeker Holdings company letterhead printed on each page.

Eureka!

Delighted to have come across something she was actually looking for, Darcy set aside the folder and picked up a few sheets then put them in her messenger bag, carefully folding them over. She
would get Aidan to scribble a quick note authorising the Apple Store to order the replacement iPhone and drop by Fifth Avenue with it later today. One thing off her list.

With any luck, Aidan would have a working phone and his contacts back in no time. Arranging the drawer back exactly as she’d found it, Darcy put back the folder which she noticed was so
thin, it couldn’t possibly contain anything. But flicking it open briefly to check, she found that it did in fact contain a single sheet of paper listing various names and addresses,
handwritten in precise cursive script. Alongside this were some other, less elegant scribbles, and Darcy wondered which of the two writing styles was Aidan’s. There were some other names and
numbers listed below, again in the messier handwriting, and a couple of numbers which looked to be dates.

Darcy peered closer at the names and addresses and one immediately caught her eye. Nate Cleaver-Parks.

Cleaver-Parks? The guy who she’d just heard on the answering machine was on this list.

Turning the paper over, she read through some more names, written again alongside a 212 phone number, as well as a couple of 917 numbers, also a New York area code.

Darcy scratched her head, wondering what it was all about. At the very least she could call back Mr Cleaver-Parks. Unlike the Kensingtons, this guy seemed to know who Aidan was, and from what
she could recall from the phone message, had even called him by name. So she figured he was as good a bet as any.

Replaying the message to confirm that Cleaver-Parks had indeed referred to Aidan by name, she compared the number on the list with the one on the caller display: they were indeed one and
same.

Suddenly indecisive, she picked up the handset, realising that she felt nervous, possibly because this phone call might well mean the end of her involvement with Aidan Harris and his mysterious
life. And the thought made her feel despondent.

Was the fact that she’d discovered he was a book-lover like herself clouding her judgement? Loving books didn’t automatically make you a decent human being (although in Darcy’s
eyes it went a hell of a long way towards it), nor did an affinity with animals, or a love of hot dogs and still taking the subway even when you were loaded . . . And really, that was about the sum
of what she knew about him. All the ideas she’d built up around Aidan and his world: his loves, likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, were mostly products of her admittedly sometimes vivid
imagination, and she guessed that anyone who really knew Aidan might well end up ruining the fiction, quickly disabusing her of any presumptions she had made. She wondered too what would happen
when Aidan got his life back and didn’t need her to help or run errands for him any more. Would he want to keep in touch once she’d served her purpose?

She guessed she was going to have to deal with all of that sometime anyway, and her priority at the moment was to help him get back on his feet and set things right.

Darcy consulted the sheet of paper again and punched in the numbers. She waited a moment and knew that somewhere else, here in Manhattan, a phone was ringing. A moment later, a voice came on the
line. A disturbingly gruff voice.

‘Cleaver-Parks residence.’

Darcy’s stomach clenched. ‘Uh, hello yes, I’m calling for Nate Cleaver-Parks, please?’

‘Speaking,’ the voice barked, without hesitation.

Darcy’s brow furrowed. That was odd; the voice on the answering machine didn’t sound anything like the belligerent man on the phone now.

‘Oh, I see. I was actually calling with regard to a message that was left on my friend’s answering machine—’

‘Who is this?’ Cleaver-Parks snapped, cutting Darcy off.

‘I’m sorry, excuse me, I should have introduced myself. My name is Darcy Archer, and I’m calling on behalf of someone I believe you know – Aidan Harris—’

The man interrupted her again before she could finish speaking. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Well actually, I believe it was you who called him, sir. There was a message on his answering machine, and well—’

But Nate Cleaver-Parks was apparently intent on not letting Darcy speak. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t a clue what or who the hell you are talking about. I just got back into town this
morning and have called absolutely no one. And with that being said, I am also incredibly jet-lagged with a long To Do list to get through before the holidays. I suspect you have the wrong number.
Goodbye.’

The line went dead in Darcy’s ear, indicating that he had hung up. She pulled the phone away from her head and stared at it. She had just been hung up on! Double-barrelled surname or not,
this guy clearly was no gentleman. What type of person wouldn’t let another finish a sentence? And hang up without listening to what she had to say?

Nate Cleaver-Parks, that’s who.

Darcy shook her head. It didn’t make sense. She knew this guy had called Aidan. She had the voicemail on the answering machine to prove it. Yet, much like Tabitha Kensington, the man she
had just spoken to insisted that he had no knowledge of Aidan Harris or anything to do with him.

Another dead end. Darcy felt like banging her head on the table. Whatever elaborate fantasy her mind might concoct about Aidan Harris and his mysterious life and elusive friends, it
couldn’t possibly be any stranger than the reality.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream
.
Edgar Allan Poe

‘So which ravishing hero delayed you this time?’ Joshua teased Darcy the following morning when she arrived a couple of minutes late to open up at Chaucer’s.
‘Heathcliff or Rochester? Don’t these Regency cads realise you have a job?’

‘It was Mr Darcy actually.’ Going inside, she switched on the lights and went about readying the store for a busy day ahead, given there were now only a few days left till Christmas.
‘And I don’t believe he approves of my employment actually,’ she joked, grabbing a stack of books from the countertop and moving them to the side.

‘And for him, being late is worth it, is it?’ her colleague asked.

‘Maybe, I don’t know. Actually, I’m mildly frustrated,’ she told him. ‘My subconscious keeps putting a lake in my dream and it’s annoying as everyone knows
that entire lake scene with Colin Firth in the TV series isn’t in the book at all. Granted, in my dreams Mr Darcy never appears with a wet shirt, but for some reason the lake is there.’
And it wasn’t the only trick her subconscious was playing on her, Darcy thought uncomfortably, not about to admit to Joshua that once again the object of her affection had borne a striking
resemblance to Aidan Harris.

Joshua laughed. ‘I think you might be the only girl in the world who has a problem with a dream that involves a guy in a wet shirt. Your subconscious should be
rewarded
for its
creative embellishment, I think. But then again, maybe you wouldn’t have so many of those dreams if you found yourself a
real
man. There’s a gallery-opening in Soho tonight
I’m invited to. You should come along – it’ll be a hot crowd, and we’ll have a blast.’ He rolled his eyes at Darcy’s immediate hesitation. ‘Let me guess,
only three more chapters to go in the current tome,’ he teased, repeating one of her oft-used excuses to turn down the prospect of a night out.

And while normally he’d be right, tonight Darcy had a genuine excuse for not accepting his invitation because for once, she actually had a prior engagement – a night at the
ballet.

‘Ooh very swanky,’ Joshua replied when she told him about the tickets to the Koch Theater which Aidan had so kindly given her.

But thinking about Aidan made Darcy remember something else.

‘Hey, you run the city marathon every year, don’t you?’ she asked him, outlining what she’d found at the house the day before, including the running medals.

‘Sure do – me and forty-five thousand others. It’s not like we all know each other, sweetie,’ her colleague replied playfully.

‘I know that, but I just wondered if Aidan might have something to do with your running group.’ She went on to tell him about the New York Road Runner connection. ‘There are
medals from some smaller races in the Park too. You running types are pretty cliquey, aren’t you?’

‘Well, if he’s as rich and attractive as you say, I’m sure some of the girls in the club might well be running after him, so to speak.’ Joshua winked. ‘You could
try searching the results section of the club’s website. That would tell you if he ever ran with us, when and where, that kind of thing.’

Darcy bit her lip. ‘Doesn’t really help me though. I was hoping I might be able to get in touch with his family through the club. Maybe there’s an emergency contact number on
record or something?’

Joshua thought for a second. ‘We have a group session tomorrow night, I can ask around, if you like. Though I don’t know . . . he sounds pretty bad-ass if he’s doing ultras and
stuff.’

Darcy looked up. ‘Ultras?’

‘Ultra races,’ he clarified. ‘As opposed to simple marathon running.’

She smiled wryly. Only a running nut like Joshua would ever refer to a marathon as ‘simple’.

‘Western States 100 is some serious shit, Darcy: a hundred miles through the Sierra Nevada over mountains and canyons,’ he told her, and she shook her head, unable to imagine Aidan
(or indeed anyone) putting themselves through this kind of endurance. ‘And that book, signed by the White Horse himself? I’ll bet that’s worth a few hundred, especially
now.’

Darcy looked doubly confused. ‘White Horse?’

‘Signed by Cabello Blanco, you said. The White Horse – that’s what the local Mexicans called him. He’s dead now, but the guy is a
legend
in running
circles.’ Joshua went on to tell her in reverent tones the story of an American who’d dropped out of regular society and travelled to live and run in the copper canyons of Mexico with
the Tarahumara Indians, whom he believed were a hidden tribe of super-athletes. ‘Seriously, you’ve never read
Born to Run
? It’s the runner’s bible.’

‘Well, you know that outdoorsy stuff has never really been my thing,’ Darcy said, shrugging. Needless to say she had always preferred to be curled up cosy and warm indoors with some
choice reading material, rather than outside pounding the pavements.

‘Take it from me, if your guy is in that picture he must have some serious kudos or clout; the first few years of the Copper Canyon Ultra-marathon were invitation only. Tell you what, one
of the older guys in the club has definitely competed in the Western 100 and I think he might even have done the Copper Canyon one time too. I’ll ask him if the name means
anything.’

‘Thanks, Joshua, that would be a huge help,’ Darcy said, looking thoughtful. ‘You could be right about him having some kind of clout though.’ She told him about Thrill
Seeker and what she suspected it might be about. ‘Judging by the photographs, it looks like “ultra” sports and races are right up his street.’