Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
handwriting around the beautifully preserved blooms makes me feel close to him again somehow.
I bound the bouquet now and stepped back. Pulling a chair up, I sat down and checked my watch. It was nine forty-five. I rubbed my eyes as lack of sleep began to creep up on me. I didn’t hear the door open.
‘You look beat,’ Ed said from the doorway. He might not have held a white flag, but I knew a ceasefire had been signalled.
‘I am. I didn’t sleep well. James is here for a few days and I think I’m conscious of him being there when I’m asleep.’
He held out a mug. ‘Old F sent you this.’ There was the merest hint of a smile. ‘May I bring it in?’
‘Of course.’ I rose to meet him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll take Mr Jacobs’ order, if you like. I could—uh—do with heading home for a shower.’
‘Sure. Take all the time you need.’
Ed nodded and made to leave. He stopped in the open doorway and, without turning, spoke over his shoulder. ‘You know you’re my true friend?’
My wounds still stung from what he’d said earlier, but I smiled. ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied.
‘I have news, Rosie!’ Celia sang as she flew into the shop and swooped to land on the sofa by the window. She was brandishing a beat-up newspaper, which turned out to be a copy of the New York Post. ‘Look, look, look!’ she pointed excitedly as I sat beside her.
‘Where did you get this paper, Celia?’ I asked as I surveyed the torn, coffee-stained page, which, by this point, was being held about three inches from my face.
‘Somebody left it on the subway train. But that’s not important. Look here!’
‘Hey, great! Bloomingdale’s sale starts Tuesday!’ I exclaimed in mock delight.
Celia whisked the paper away and gave me a stern look. ‘Rosie Duncan, you do not deserve me.’
‘But you’re stuck with me anyway, aren’t you? OK, OK, I promise to be nice.’ She brought the paper back and I had to suppress my amusement when I saw exactly what had elicited her attention. ‘You mean you’re reading “Gloria Weinberg’s Word on the Streets” column now?’
Celia pulled a face. ‘You know I can’t abide the woman, Rosie. She dares to describe her gossip-mongering as journalism. She is an insult to the written word. But this one thing caught my eye…’
Underneath a suitably glitzy photo of Ms Weinberg was the heading ‘NY—Oh My!’ and the piece below read:
BIG news of a BIG day in the City…I have it on a VERY reliable authority that the ladies of New York are soon to lose yet another eligible bachelor (sob!). Word on the street is that rising star of the publishing fraternity Nate Amie has proposed marriage (at last!) to stunningly beautiful girlfriend Caitlin Sutton. The buzz goes that he poured his heart out to her at her family’s deluxe Long Island residence. My source confirmed that the Sutton family are overjoyed and expect the happy couple to wed in a lavish, star-studded ceremony early next spring. Whilst we single ladies mourn the loss of another adorable young man, we have to send our hearty congrats to the beautiful couple and wish them every success for what is sure to be a very prosperous future.
‘So, no prizes for guessing who the reliable source was, then,’ Celia grinned.
‘Who?’
‘Mimi Sutton, of course!’ Celia studied my expression and took my hand. ‘Rosie, honey, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just he didn’t say anything about it yesterday when he—’
‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ Celia retorted. ‘Because it’s not true! I met Mimi last night and it was all she could talk about. She said “wheels were in motion” to make Nate’s decision for him. This was obviously what she meant.’ She stopped. ‘You could at least try to see the funny side of this, Rosie. Nate is too laid-back for his own good. He’ll be Mr Caitlin Sutton before he’s even realised what’s happening. Or, at least, that’s what Mimi’s counting on.’
‘Brent said something about Nate and the press yesterday,’ I began, as a dim recollection formed in my mind, ‘but I can’t remember what it was. He was very concerned about you, though,’ I changed the subject almost as speedily as Celia usually does. I saw her eyes flicker and continued, ‘He says Old Bee Jay is there for you.’
Celia’s expression softened and she wriggled a little in her seat. ‘He is so sweet. He shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll call him later. But, Rosie, about your brother…’
Out-manoeuvred once again. I took a deep breath.
‘He sends his love, Celia.’ I saw her expression and stopped joking. ‘He mentioned some trouble he’s in. To be honest, I don’t want to know.’
Celia squeezed my hand. ‘Frankly, Rosie, it’s best you don’t.’
There was something about her tone that sent the little voice in my head muttering worriedly. I decided not to press Celia for any more; in any case, I got the impression that she had no intention of enlightening me further.
‘Gracious—look at the time, honey! I gotta go. I’ll call you tonight. Will you be coming by tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. Any preference on cakes?’
Celia was already halfway to the door. ‘No—no, I’ll trust your impeccable taste as always!’ She grabbed me for a huge hug and paused for the briefest of moments. ‘Be careful, Rosie. Don’t get involved. You mustn’t get involved, OK?’ And with that, she hurried out.
Ed was gone a long time. When he finally reappeared he had company.
‘…Well, I never knew you were a Mets man. Look, I got tickets for the game next week—we oughta go.’
‘Sure thing, buddy—count me in…Ah, hi, Rosie. Look who I found on the sidewalk,’ Ed grinned. ‘Did you know Nate’s a Mets fan? And I thought I was the only sane individual left in this sea of Yankees.’
Nate smiled. ‘Hi, Rosie.’
‘Hi.’
‘Coffee?’ Ed walked behind me to get to Old F. As he passed he squeezed my arm and said, ‘Mr Jacobs’ wife was blown away by the bouquet, Rosie.’
‘Great.’ I tried to look busy and in control. Which was difficult as inside I was annoyingly flustered and shaky again. Why was that?
Ed made the coffee, followed by his excuses, before disappearing into the workroom. For a moment Kowalski’s was uncomfortably silent. Nate smiled again. I smiled back. I took a deep breath and moved over to the sofa. ‘So—flowers for the woman who has everything…any more thoughts?’
Nate looked both relieved and frustrated as he joined me. ‘Uh, yeah…I’m still trying to get my head round what you said yesterday…about my story, I mean.’
I took a long sip of coffee and braced myself for the answer that would inevitably follow my next question. ‘And?’
His brow furrowed and he appeared to be locked in a battle with his thoughts. After some time, he turned to face me. ‘Rosie, I don’t know. That’s just it. I don’t know.’
‘Ah…Nate, look—don’t lay too much store by what I said. I mean, yes, it’s important for me to know what a customer is trying to say, but often they have no idea themselves. They just want to send a bunch of flowers. End of story. It’s my job to try and see beyond that.’
Nate’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘So what do you see in this customer, Ms Duncan?’
‘Er…’
Why is it that when you are presented with a genuine opportunity to say something