Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 11
“And why is that?” I ask carefully, sensing these are dangerous waters for her heart.
Her blue eyes darken with hurt and anger. “He’s married to my best friend from college.”
12
JO
It’s not a state secret. I don’t keep data like that password protected. My friends know Poppy married my father ten years ago.
But I haven’t yet been on a date where I’ve wanted to share those details. Where I’ve wanted a man to understand more about me.
To see me for who I am.
To know about the part of me that makes me this person.
Except this isn’t truly a date, so maybe calling it friendship made it possible to tell Heath.
“That’s . . . a lot,” Heath says gently, his eyes soft with concern. “I take it that’s not easy for you.”
“It’s fine.” I make light of it since I don’t want to scare him away.
“Jo, it’s not fine. I can tell it’s not fine. You don’t have to paint it over for me.”
Already, he can see through my veneer. No point pretending. My shoulders relax a bit. “You’re right. It’s not fine. But it still just is. It’s life. It’s what happened.”
“How did that come about?”
He clearly asks out of concern for me, not for the salacious details, so I tell him the story.
“I met Poppy my freshman year at Yale. She was an art history major too, and we bonded instantly over a love of Caravaggio and J.M.W. Turner, of Rothko, and de Kooning. She was from England; I grew up on the East Coast. I came from a small family of academics; it was just my mom, dad, and me. She had a big one, with six brothers and sisters. We were from different places, but we became thick as thieves, passionate about art and learning and boys and sex.”
Those words come easily, but they’re only the start. I rearrange my fork and knife, trading their spots at the table, bracing myself for the next part. “When my mother was sick with cancer, Poppy was there with me. She came with me when I went to my mom’s treatments. She was there, too, when my mom died.”
“I’m so sorry you lost your mother, Jo,” he says with sympathy . . . and maybe even a shared pain.
“Thank you. She was amazing. She was my hero.”
“And she believed in you,” he says. He’d been listening when I said my mom told me I could do anything. “What was she like?”
That’s easy to answer. “Vibrant. Curious. She believed in books, and questions, and taking chances, and having faith in yourself. And hard work. Most of all, she believed in the value of hard work.”
“She left her mark on you,” he says, his eyes locked with mine. It’s as if we’re alone in the restaurant. The clinking of dishes from the kitchen, the chatter of other diners, the footsteps of the staff have all faded away. It’s just him and me, and he gets me completely.
“She did.” I shrug, owning it when I say, “I’m a lot like her. I have a photo of her in my flat. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“I’d like that,” he says.
These little things—showing the picture, meeting TJ—all feel like inevitabilities, even though they can’t be.
Unless we truly do become friends.
And friends share the hard truths. “The first year after was rough. I threw myself into my studies. Mom always encouraged me to pursue my dreams, and I knew I wanted to work in art and that I’d need a master’s degree. But work and learning became so much more for me than just a professional requirement.” I thump my fist on my sternum. “Studying art helped me . . . heal. Maybe that sounds weird.”
“Not at all,” he says, without pause. “Not one bit.”
It’s easy to talk with Heath. He seems enrapt, and I don’t think it’s because I’m a great troubadour, unspooling oral history.
I think it’s him. He likes to listen.
“And as part of grad school, I went to London that summer to study, several months after Mom passed. Poppy lived here then, studying for her master’s. She invited me to stay with her family, and when I dated a grad school student, I told her all about him. We talked about everything, including the guys we saw.
“Soon, she started telling me about a new man she was seeing. She didn’t use his name.” I keep my tone even as I hit the spot where the tale starts to twist. “She was deliberately veiled, and she’d say, ‘Soon, I’ll tell you soon.’ She said she’d fallen for someone and to trust her choices.”
Memories play out in my mind—the days I spent here in London, still trying to find a way out of a cloud of grief, needing my people, like Poppy, my father, and Jacob.
Heath keeps his gaze on me, his deep brown eyes patient, kind. “That’s a lot to ask,” he says softly.
“Yes, it was. And unfair.” I gird myself for the final chapter. “One day after a seminar, I had some errands near Hyde Park, and I found her with my father on a park bench. Wrapped up in each other.” I look away, letting the image pass, then return to my dinner companion. “And it turned out they’d been together for some time.”
He draws a sharp breath “Did it start while your mother was ill?” he asks carefully, almost bracing himself for a yes.
That’s the one saving grace, I suppose—that I can say no.
“It didn’t start then. My father was with my mother the whole time, caring for her. I was around then, too, and Poppy was often with me. They say it started shortly after my mother died. For a while after I found out about them, I obsessed over every detail of how it had happened. And when I looked back on those days, that made sense. Which also meant it had been going on for months before I caught them. They’d lied to me that entire summer while we were all here. I confronted them after seeing them in the park, and they said they didn’t want to tell me until they knew they were going to marry. Like that would erase the months of lies. Like the sanctity of love was enough,” I say, bitterly.
His lips curl in disgust. “It’s terrible they deceived you. It’s better just to be honest, even about transgressions like that.”
“I don’t think I’d have liked it either way, but yes, exactly. I felt so stupid, like I didn’t matter to either of them.” My voice is brittle. My jaw tics. “And sure, they didn’t start dating until Mom was gone, but they got to know each other while she was sick.” The memory of their deception is a noose, choking me. I try to loosen it, to tug free of the past. I hate when it trips me up. I refuse to let it. I have to deny its power.
“And so, my best friend had a secret affair with my father after my mother passed, and they lied about it for nearly a year. Now she’s his wife. London reminds me of them. Of lies.”
Heath reaches a hand across the table, takes mine in his, squeezes my palm. “That’s so hard, Jo,” he says gently.
I whisper my thanks. “I thought I was so tough. I thought I could handle their secrecy and now their . . . marriage. But it was easier to hate the scene of the crime than deal with them. I wasn’t able to talk to them after. I haven’t spoken with her since then, and I barely talk to my father now.” I fan my face like that will dry the tears welling in my eyes. “I guess it’s taking more emotion than I thought.”
He squeezes harder. Reassurance seems to flow from him to me, and I need his calm, need his resilience.
I reach for the napkin in my lap to dab at my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. His brows knit. “Don’t apologize for having feelings. It’s complicated and terrible, and of course it must have made you doubt everything. Your friendship with Poppy. Your sense of the truth. Your sense of people.”
Yes. That. He gets it exactly. He sees why the news rocked my world. “I’m an only child. Over the course of a year I lost the person I loved most in my mother, the friend I depended on like a sister, and the trust and faith I’d put in my father. I felt so alone,” I say, my voice small and wobbly.
The waitress appears with our food, a Fattoush salad for me, and a hummus plate for him. We thank her, and once she’s gone, Heath doesn’t make a move to pick up his fork. He just holds my hand tighter and listens.
Since, evidently, I’m not done.
Maybe I needed to tell this story again. I haven’t spoken about it in years. Easton, Emerson, TJ, Nolan—they simply know it.
“I threw myself into work, into friendships, into New York. And into hating London,” I say. “When I finished grad school, I moved to New York City, and I felt like I was . . . remaking myself. I moved into a tiny apartment with no windows. It smelled like sauerkraut, but it was mine, and I was starting my own life. I found new friends and they became my new family.” At last, I smile. “So maybe the story has a happy ending after all.”
“Seems it does.” With a soft sigh, Heath threads his fingers through mine. “And no wonder you miss New York.”
My chest squeezes tight with emotion. “I do miss it, and them. That’s why London is complicated.”
“Will you see them while you’re here? Your father and his wife?”
My jaw tightens. My teeth click. “I’m seeing him on Sunday. I don’t know if I want to see her.”
“That’s understandable. And, for better or for worse, he’s family, so perhaps it’s easier to see him only.”
“I suppose so,” I say. My gaze rests on our hands, locked together on a Friday night as I tell him about the soap opera period of my life. The best part is, he doesn’t judge the fact that ten years later I’m still unsure how I feel about my father and Poppy.
“Thank you for telling me about them,” he says, “and what it all means to you.”
“I don’t usually tell men on the first date,” I reply with a sparkle of returning levity.
“Oh, this is a date now?” Heath asks it like a challenge. A good challenge. “I thought we were just friends?”
“It’s sooo just friends coincidentally dining,” I say, as I pick up my fork and dive in.
“It definitely seems to be,” he says, a little hint of a smirk in his lips.
After I take a bite, I choose more honesty. “You know, Heath . . .?”
“Yes, Jo?”
“You keep doing this thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where I think I miss New York, but you come near and I don’t miss it at all.”
His smile is electric, five thousand watts. “Bet I could make you like London after all.”
I take another bite of my salad, chew, then set down the fork. “Is that a challenge?”
He lifts his water glass, drinks, then leans closer, his elbows on the table. “Perhaps it is. You said your friends are trying to get you to like it. What’s their plan?”
“They gave me a book—Most Instagrammable Spots in London. I’ve been checking them out and taking photos.” He cringes visibly, and it cracks me up. “Oh, excuse me. What is wrong with that?”
He sighs, sounding so aggrieved. “Let’s see. Peggy Porschen’s. Tower Bridge with you holding it. The London Eye.” He stops, stares levelly across the table. “I could go on.”
“Oh please, that won’t be necessary. I can smell your disdain from here.”
He laughs buoyantly; his eyes crinkle with laugh lines. “Good. Just wanted to be clear.”
“You’re crystal.”
“Look, what’s the point in Porschen’s? The food is mediocre. It doesn’t deserve to be photographed just because it’s pink. And Tower Bridge is lovely, but there are other prettier bridges that aren’t so crowded. And if you’re in mad love with Ferris wheels, I’ll take you on the London Eye, but if you’re not, why bother? Besides, I bet I can get you to love . . . my London. Want to take me up on it?”
His London?
Sign me up.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And two miles later, here we are,” I say, gesturing to the dark blue wooden door into my building.
Heath cranes his neck upward. “Fourth floor, you say?”
“Yes, why? Are you going to serenade me?”
Shaking his head, he laughs. “No. I have a terrible singing voice. I just want to picture you.”
“Then wait here. You don’t even have to picture me in your mind’s eye. I’ll be at that window,” I say, pointing to the one lined with plants, “in about two minutes.”
He hums, his eyes narrowing as he calculates something. “Maybe make it three.”
“Oh,” I ask, arching a brow. “What are you going to do for that extra minute?”
“Give you a gift.” He reaches behind himself, pulls a pair of socks from his back pocket, then dangles them in front of me. “For you.”
I’m absolutely enchanted—by socks.
He hands me the gift, and I unfurl them, delighting at the illustration. It’s a woman lounging on a park bench with a book. The caption below her says: Fuck off, I’m reading.
My heart handsprings. “Am I truly supposed to not kiss you after this?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” he asks, tempting me.
As if I need any more of that. This time with him is nothing but temptation.
And yet . . . we work together.
We’re competing for the same job.
We’re rivals.
We aren’t dating, but we are becoming friends.
I hesitate, and in my pause, he holds up a hand as if he’s read my thoughts. “You’re right. Best that we keep this at ‘coincidental dining,’” he says.
“And touring. Don’t forget your promise to make me love this city.”
“It’s a tall order. So, we’ll start at eleven sharp tomorrow,” he says, then gives me a location.
With the socks in my hand, I throw my arms around Heath, my chest pressing against his, my nose sliding along his neck. He smells so damn good. I want to bury my face in his shoulder and kiss him all night long.
Seems he wants the same, since he tugs me close, his breath catching as his arms wrap tight around me.
And we linger.
He’s stealing hits of me too.
I wrench away from him, since otherwise I’ll spend the night like this, pulling him closer, wanting him again.
“Bye, friend,” I say.
“Goodnight, friend,” he echoes.
I run from temptation, up the stairs to my flat and inside. There, I go to the window, throw it open, and peer down to the busy street.
He’s there, phone camera at eye level, snapping a shot of me four stories above, a little caught up in him.
Or maybe a lot, especially when he texts me the photo he took with the caption.
My London.
13
HEATH
Hey there, Jo. So, just wanted you to know I was married once and my wife died. But I’m good, all stitched up and ready for romance again!
By the way, um, I’ve been meaning to mention I was married for twelve years to my college sweetheart.
Oh, while we’re getting to know each other, as friends and all that, been meaning to mention, I’m a widower. And here’s a fantastic pub. Let’s have a drink, shall we?
Shaving the next morning before meeting Jo, I slide the blade along my jaw and practice what I’m going to say. Because it would be weird if I waited any longer.
It already feels weird, this awareness that I should say something. That she shared with me, and I ought to share with her.
I want to. It’s not a secret, just not casual conversation. Though, if I’m honest, I haven’t minded that it hasn’t come up.
Still, the longer I wait, the stranger it’ll be to drop that intel.
Rinsing off the shaving cream in the sink, I return to the rote task. A few minutes later, I pat my face dry, then splash on a hint of aftershave.
Will Jo like this rainfall scent?
It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point of today. The point is . . . friendship.
And I’ll take that. I definitely want it.
I grab my camera and a book, then bound down the steps of my flat. On the street in front, I spot a familiar couple out walking—my friend Griffin and his wife, Joy. They’re munching on pastries and drinking tea.
“Ah, it’s a rare sighting. What brings you back to the homeland?” I ask Griffin as I give him a quick hug and Joy a kiss on each cheek.
“My lovely bride had a meeting yesterday for her new perfume line, and I thought why be in Paris alone when I can be in London with her?”
Joy squeezes his arm. “That, and the company paid for his ticket and comped our hotel.”
I laugh. “But of course. Griffin is always looking for a deal.”
“I am. I won’t even pretend I’m not. Thanks again for those pics last weekend. I’m definitely going to add the apothecary garden to the tours here.” Griffin recently expanded his tour business from Paris to London, so he’s on the lookout for interesting places to show off.
“I’m off to The Rookery today, so if you want any—”
“Photos? Yes, yes, and more yes. Especially since it’s far away, and some customers like that.”
“Some people do too.”
He gives a knowing wink. “That they do.”
“It’s a plan.”
I say goodbye and walk to the train station near Jo. Since I’m early, I wait on the corner, crack open the mystery Nigel gave me, and pick up where I left off late last night, racing through what I suspect is the first red herring about the jewel heist.
“The butler did it.”
Startled, I jerk my gaze up from the pages. Jo looks entirely impish.
“You better not spoil this,” I say, flipping it closed, giving her a stern warning just in case.
She gasps indignantly. “Who do you take me for?”
“Not a spoiler person, that’s for sure.”
“Good. Because I’m not. I have no clue who murdered the dowager, or lifted the diamonds, or stole the art.” She waves a hand at the book. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
