Gigi, Listening, page 13
From the kitchen, a series of narrow, steep steps climb up to the second floor, opening up into a cozy bedroom. I put my suitcase in the corner and walk across the short-pile mint-green carpet to the window, which overlooks a rectangle of freshly cut grass, the trimmings creating a thin veil overtop. The uneven slabs of wood that form a fence on all three sides support tufts of bright-orange gladiolas, pink tulips, deep-purple dahlia and blue hollyhock interspersed with wispy grasses. English ivy winds up the back fence over a shed, and lady’s mantle covers the stepping stones of the path leading through the center of the grassy patch. Tiny lights string from one side of the fence to the other. Close to the cottage is a lounger with a blue-and-white cushion and a matching sun umbrella.
Whenever I visit Cleo or Emily—both of whom have somehow managed to afford beautifully landscaped homes off Washtenaw—I envy their gardens but quickly become overwhelmed once they start describing the yard work required to keep them up. Cleo makes the home renos she takes on with her partner, AJ, look easy. Emily loves to spend her weekends weeding the massive yard that leads from her A-frame house to the ravine behind. It feels like too much. But this? This little cottage with its perfect backyard? This I could definitely do.
The bed is springy, an old mattress under a thick, soft pink duvet covered in giant white lilies. It would be so easy to lie back right now, fall asleep and not get up until morning, but I resist the urge. Dinner is soon and I don’t want to miss the pub in town that’s known for its curry and rice. A shower will wake me up. Inside the bright white bathroom, I push the various buttons until the right combination results in hot water. Moments later I’m engulfed in steam.
I close my eyes and let the water run over my hair, not bothering with shampoo. My shoulders relax. And then I realize I’m humming “Greensleeves,” the song Taj sang in Canterbury. “I have been ready at your hand,” goes the line. “To grant whatever you would crave.” How many other women have hummed the song in showers just like this one, after Taj sang to them?
I turn off the water and reach for a towel, holding the warm, soft terry cloth to my face for a minute. I wrap myself up and pad over to the window. As I’m closing the shutters, a flash of white catches the corner of my eye. Down below, in the garden to the right of mine is Taj. I slide to the side, out of sight, and watch him, in jeans and a T-shirt, kick a soccer ball into an old barrel he’s turned on its side. He retrieves it, dribbles the ball, kicks it in again, does a bunch of push-ups and then jogs back to get the ball, kicks it back toward the cottage, turns, and repeats the process. After some more of this he stops, pulling his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his forehead and in the process revealing his taut, tanned stomach.
A knock at the front door startles me back to reality.
“Just a minute,” I shout as I scramble to throw on a short sundress. I hurry down the narrow steps and open the door to Charlotte who’s also changed and is wearing a beautiful silk maxi dress swirled with blues and oranges. Her feet are strapped into gold sandals, and she’s wrapped a silk scarf in her blond hair like a headband.
“You alright, Darlin’?” she asks, concern creeping across her brow. “You look flushed.” Her lips are freshly painted in bright coral.
“Oh,” I say, thinking of the muscled knot in Taj’s tricep on his final push-up. “Probably just the shower.” I give my head a tiny shake and focus on Charlotte.
“Did you notice the cream tea? Isn’t it absolutely adorable? Would you like to come over and sit in my place with me? Seems a shame to sit and have tea alone.”
I tell Charlotte I’ll be over to her cottage, Escape, as soon as I’ve finished getting ready. After closing the door, I head back upstairs to dry my hair and do my makeup. As I’m using a small brush to apply tinted moisturizer, I notice a few freckles on my nose that weren’t there yesterday and smile. I look relaxed. Happy, even.
My phone dings as I’m adding a few bangles to my wrist. A text from Dory pops up.
So???? Update!! Gigi!!
There’s been tons of texts in the group chat about other things, which I’ve mostly ignored, trying to focus on the trip instead, so now the girls have been adding my name to texts, presumably so I won’t ignore them.
I type back a quick Zane’s still not here. But having a great day xoxo. Then I toss my phone into my purse before any of them reply and head out the door. I have to pass Taj’s cottage to get to Charlotte’s, and I can’t help but glance over as I pass by. (No sight of him.) Inside, Charlotte’s cottage is the mirror opposite of mine, but decorated in soft pinks, circular white doilies on the top of every table. The kettle whistles and Charlotte pours the hot water into a chubby floral teapot, then places teacups, cream, sugar, spoons and the teapot onto a silver tray with handles twisted into hearts.
“So, go on . . .” she drawls once we’re sitting in her tiny living room—me on the floral love seat, her on a wicker chair. I look around at the various abstract watercolor paintings on the walls, then back to her.
“What?” I’m confused.
“Where’d you disappear to when we were in Canterbury?” Charlotte says, her blue eyes sparkling.
My face heats up and I’m grateful we’re inside, not in the back garden where Taj could hear every word of our conversation.
She shakes her head and points a finger at me. “I knew you got up to something good.” She takes a sip of tea then puts her cup down on the white wicker table between us.
I take a breath and tell her about how Taj took me punting, about Q, and about their impromptu tunnel performance of “Greensleeves.”
“I wonder why he would go to all that trouble to arrange a ride for you.” She raises her eyebrows at me, her lips slightly turned up, the vertical lines under her nose disappearing.
I shrug. “I’m sure . . . Angus put him up to it, actually.” I didn’t even really consider that but now that I’ve said it aloud, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened. Just like Angus put him up to tracking me down when I went into the Crooked House. “I’m sure he would’ve done the same for you if you’d slept through some of the tour.”
“Well maybe so, but I’d rather stick with Angus,” Charlotte says, then quickly throws a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Did I just say that?” We both laugh.
“You like him,” I tease. “I can tell.”
She fans her face with her hand. “Oh, it’s just silly. I really can’t—I’m a widow. And I was supposed to come on this trip with Harold. For our anniversary.” Her face falls.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” she says softly. “He was a good husband. Most of the time anyway. Still, it just—it wouldn’t be right.” She takes a sip of tea. “Anyway, what am I talking about? It’s been two days and I’m going on and on about our tour guide. Shame on me . . . Anyway, Taj seems to like you. What are you going to do?”
I shake my head. “Taj isn’t really my type,” I say, running a hand over my hair. It’s fuzzy from the humidity, even though we’re sitting inside. “He’s on a dating app and—”
Charlotte shrugs. “Isn’t everyone your age on a dating app?”
I feel busted, because technically, until a week ago, I was also on the very same dating app. Until I deleted my profile after that horrible date with Kevan.
“Maybe, but . . .” I stand and walk over to the fireplace, leaning close to look at the tiny porcelain animals on the mantel.
“It’s not the reason you came on the trip,” she says, as I pick up a tiny porcelain sheep.
I turn around and look at Charlotte. She smiles. “Everyone’s here for a reason.”
I replace the sheep, then walk back and sit down on the couch, pulling the pink-and-cream herringbone wool throw over my legs.
“It’s going to sound crazy,” I warn her. I can’t believe I’m about to tell someone—a stranger—my secret.
“Honey, the crazier the better.”
“Well,” I say, pulling the throw up to my chest. For a moment I feel like I’m talking to Mom—sitting in the main room of our apartment, telling her about boyfriend drama when I was a teen. “You know I own a romance bookshop,” I start. “And I read a lot of romances. But I also listen to them—audiobooks. And a few months ago a book called Their Finest Hour popped up on my recommended listens.”
“OK,” Charlotte says, leaning forward in her chair. She puts her tea down on a coaster and clasps her hands together over her knee.
“It’s a book I know well, because it’s the book that my mom was reading when she met my dad. At her bookshop. She didn’t know him, but he picked that very same book off the shelf and started reading it aloud.”
“How bizarre,” she says.
“It is weird, right? Like so random, and it’s not like it was a super popular book either. Anyway, that weird coincidence caused my parents to meet, and fall in love.”
“How lovely,” Charlotte says, then frowns. “But how does that . . .” She’s trying to figure out where all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.
“So I came across that book’s audio version, and it turns out the person reading it has a great voice. Like, really great,” I say. “So great that I—well, it’s weird, but, I kind of became obsessed with that voice. Like, I sort of fell in love with it.”
“OK,” Charlotte says, still not understanding.
“Zane was the one reading the book,” I say. “The audiobook,” I clarify.
She looks surprised, but still confused. “Zane? The guide that you keep asking Angus about?”
I nod. “I didn’t know who he was. To me I was just listening to this book that brought my parents together, so I knew I would have feelings about the book, but when I heard this voice reading it, I felt completely swept away. And I’ve heard hundreds of actors and professionals read some of my favorite romance novels over the years. I know that a voice can make or break your enjoyment of a book, and it’s all subjective, but hearing this voice was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never felt the way I did hearing Zane read. His voice goes straight to my soul. I feel connected to him. There has to be something to that.” I exhale, closing my eyes and remembering that first time. When I open my eyes, Charlotte’s eyes are glued to me. She nods, urging me to go on. “It’s like everything just made sense.” I push the blanket away, suddenly hot. “His voice is so full of passion, Charlotte.” I pause. “And then I found out about his family’s business, and his life feels like it has all these parallels to mine. So when my friends gave me the tour as a gift, it felt like it was all a sign from the universe.” I close my eyes. “That I could meet him. And maybe, just . . . see.”
I open my eyes and look at Charlotte. She’s holding her hands together in a prayer position, her fingers to her mouth. “Well that just dills my pickle,” she says.
I laugh. “Is that a good thing?”
She nods. “You came on this tour because you fell in love with the tour guide’s voice in an audiobook. It’s nuts, Sugar, but, then, life is nuts.”
“Would it be more nuts,” I wonder, “if the tour guide never shows up at all?”
“Mishaps make memories, and Zane’s voice got you here,” Charlotte says, like she can read my mind. “But don’t let the rest of the story pass you by or you might find an ending you don’t like.”
Chapter Thirteen
Day 3, Tuesday, 8:20 a.m.
Hythe
I wake up to pounding and sit up and look around at the mint-green stucco walls before remembering where I am. The noise comes from the front door, so I get up and carefully make my way down the steep steps, pressing my palms into the wall to keep my balance, through the tiny kitchen, the tile like ice on the soles of my bare feet. I flip the little eyehole on the door to the left and peer out.
Taj stares back at me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“One sec!” I call out, looking around the kitchen for the old-fashioned key needed to open the door. What if he’s here to tell me that Zane’s arrived?
“Bike tour leaves in five,” Taj says once I get the door open. He wears blue cotton shorts and a white polo shirt. The shirt fits well and makes his tanned skin look creamy, like a latte. His eyes flick down and I follow them, realizing I’m wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. I yank at the hem of my shirt while pulling the heavy wood door closer in front of me.
“Five minutes? What time is it?”
“Eight-twenty,” he says without looking at his watch.
“Wow,” I say. “I never sleep in this late. Must still be the jet lag.” I blink a few times, and try to wake up. “I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I say.
“Then you should’ve set an alarm.” He tucks a bit of hair behind his ear, and I notice another tattoo—ever so tiny—on the inside of his ring finger, but I can’t make out what it is.
“I think I’ll just skip the biking,” I say slowly. “See you when you get back.” I’m about to shut the door, but Taj puts a hand out to stop it.
“Not an option. We have to be out of the cottages by ten so they can clean them. So you have to put everything on the coach now. So I can lock it up.”
“Fine, I’ll bring my things out and then poke around the town,” I say. I know I sound frustrated. I am not the world’s cheeriest person without coffee. “Is there a place close by to get coffee? And what time will you be back?”
“Do you always ask this many questions in the morning?” When I don’t answer, he checks his watch. “Seriously, you’ve got, like, five minutes to get out of there. Come on, it’s a fun ride, the exercise will make you feel great, and I promise we’ll stop for coffee.” He turns and heads down the walk. Since it doesn’t sound like I’m getting out of it, I close the door and hurry upstairs. I pair an ankle-length flowy white cotton skirt with a U of M sweatshirt, since it felt a bit chilly, and a pair of high-top sneakers—possibly the only practical part of my outfit for this ride. I brush my teeth, pull my hair into a cute side braid, add two coats of mascara and a swipe of lip gloss, then check my reflection. Not bad. Seven minutes later I’m out on the narrow stone path with the rest of the group.
“There you are, Gigi!” Angus says with gusto and I feel a stab of disappointment that he’s here, and Zane is not.
“You sleep well, yah?” Angus says and I nod. He’s wearing a blue Oxford shirt beneath a tweed jacket and nice leather shoes that look like he’s had them forever but polishes them every Sunday. He stands beside Charlotte, who’s tying a blue-and-white-striped silk scarf over her smooth hair. Violet and Nelle wear matching hot-pink and black cycling outfits; Nelle fiddles with the pack of water bottles attached to her waist, and I wonder just how intense this bike ride is.
“Oh dear, you picked the wrong outfit,” Nelle says, looking at me and shaking her head. “It’s going to get caught in the gears. You’ll get grease all over it, and wreck the bike while you’re at it. You might even fall.”
I look down at my long skirt. She’s probably right, actually, and I feel a bit silly, even if ten minutes ago I thought this outfit was cute.
“Relax, it’s not the Tour de France,” Jenny says, squeezing her bike between us. She’s wearing an oversized white dress shirt, white capris, white deck shoes with white-and-black ankle socks, big black sunglasses and a small black cross-body Chanel bag. Clearly she’s not worried about a little bike grease.
“Jenny,” Violet says warningly, but Jenny ignores her. Violet turns to me.
“Here.” She reaches down and grasps the bottom of my skirt. “May I?”
I’m not sure what she’s about to do, but I nod anyway as Taj rolls a dark-blue bike past us, passing it to Francis, who finishes whatever he’s saying into his recorder, then pushes the red button and slides the small black device into the fanny pack around his waist.
“There you go,” Violet says, standing back and putting her hands on her hips. She’s gathered my skirt and tied a knot just above my right knee. “Now it won’t get caught.” So long as the knot holds, it seems like the arrangement should work on a bike. It even looks stylish.
Jenny turns back to me, passing me her camera. “Just hold it steady.”
“What?” I hold the camera out to her and shake my head. “I don’t think you want me filming you,” I say.
“Everyone else is over forty. You’re my last hope,” she says, giving me a look.
I turn the camera over in my hands. It has several dozen knobs, and I’m not sure what any one of them does.
“Don’t forget to leave a comment, like and subscribe,” Taj says as he passes me. I stifle a laugh.
“Here, I’ll do it, Gigi,” Violet says, holding out a hand to me. “I used to take a lot of pictures.” Jenny rolls her eyes, then throws a leg over the bike. Violet shoves the lens cap in her pocket, pushes her sunglasses up on her head and evaluates the scene. She crosses the street so the sun’s at her back and uses the camera to follow Jenny back and forth as she rolls about ten feet in one direction, then ten feet in the other. Repeats several dozen times. Eventually Jenny leans the bike up against a car and takes the camera from Violet without even a thank you.
“Alright off we go,” Angus says, swinging a leg over his bike. “The goal here is to avoid falling into the canal.”
Nelle turns to Violet as she rides across the street. “Oh, Vi—maybe we should turn back?” she says nervously.
“What’s he talking about? What’s wrong with the water?” Violet asks.
“It’s wet,” Taj says drily. “Let’s go.”
I laugh as Taj finally hands me the last bike, a mint-green one with a white basket and matching bike helmet dangling from the handlebars. I look over to Charlotte’s bike to see if hers also matches her cottage, but hers is black.
“Mine matches,” I say to Taj, wondering if he saved this one specifically for me.
“Yeah,” he says. “Not everyone has bike-colored eyes,” he teases. My heart rate quickens, even though I haven’t even started pedaling. He picked this bike to match my eyes?
The sycamore-lined road snakes back and forth past detached Georgian homes with large lawns and tall fences. We all ride in a line, following Angus. At the end of the hill, he takes a sharp right off the main road onto a paved cycling path. On one side is a green expanse between the path and the road. On the other is a canal, a little wider than the road, oak trees casting shadows over the surface of the water. My front tire hits a stone. I wobble and grip the handlebars tighter.
