Two for the Road, page 7
The bus chugs along, and it’s as though Zane is right here with me. Maybe I can just shut everyone out for the next ten days and pretend it’s just the two of us after all. Just him and me, together.
Chapter Seven
Day 1, Sunday, 1:30 p.m.
Cambridge
Pain sears through my neck. I open my eyes, blink a few times and pull off my headphones before I remember that I’m on the bus. But the bus isn’t moving, and it’s eerily quiet. I’m alone. Outside the window is a row of terraced Edwardian-style homes, ivy crawling up and around the front doors, extending to the second-story windows.
A clang makes me jump, and I look to the front of the bus. The doors open, and the top of Taj’s head appears.
“You’re awake,” he says, taking off his square sunglasses.
“You scared me,” I say.
“Boo.” He waves his fingers in the air, then crosses his arms over his chest again, his tanned, toned biceps stretching the band on his polo shirt. “Come on. Up you get.”
I blink a few times, stretch and tilt my head to the right. Pain shoots from the base of my skull down through my neck to my shoulder. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting. You could’ve just gone ahead. I think I’ll just stay here, read my book, actually. Wait for everyone to return.”
“Nope. Can’t leave anyone on the bus. Insurance risk.”
“Is that even true?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t. Come on, up you get.” When I don’t move, he claps his hands twice, like I’m a dog. He turns and disappears outside. I debate staying put because what does it matter to him if I see whatever town we’re in, but unfortunately, defiance is not in my nature. Also, I have to pee.
My bag is poking out from beneath the aisle seat. I pull it up, sling it over my shoulder, then grab my book off the seat, just in case. As I step out the door and down onto a parking pad of fine-crushed gravel, sunshine warms my face. The sky is unbothered by clouds. I squint and shield my eyes with my hand. Sure, we’re in a parking lot, but it’s the most beautiful parking lot I’ve ever seen, surrounded by brick walls bathed in lavender pea-like blossoms. Off to the left, the narrow road sneaks between two-story Edwardian townhomes, their windowsills painted white, purple crocuses shooting up the glass. Taj is leaning against the bus, reading a book. The Sweet Hereafter.
“Dark choice,” I comment, pointing to his book.
“Keeping it real.” He tucks the book into the back of his pants, which I find both odd and impressive. “Let me guess, you’re reading Austen. Pride and Prejudice?” He sounds bored.
“No,” I say defensively. Totally thought about bringing it, though.
“Hmm,” he says, appraising me. “Let’s go. I’m starving and I’ve been waiting forever for you to wake up. Angus and the group are heading over to King’s College Chapel—I’ll catch you up.” He starts walking toward the narrow road ahead, but I’m not budging.
Not a church.
Not yet.
I’m not ready.
He turns back, notices I haven’t moved and lowers his sunglasses, his dark eyes on me. “You coming?” He nudges his sunglasses back into place.
“You know, I’m good. I’m—”
“Yeah, you mentioned that. In the name game.” An eyebrow appears over the top of his sunglasses.
I squint up at him, wishing I’d thought to pack my sunglasses in my purse rather than in my suitcase. “What I mean is, I’m happy to just find somewhere to eat in town, read my book and meet everyone back on the bus.”
I catch up to Taj, and he starts walking again. As we reach the end of the road, he turns left.
“Nope, not gonna happen,” he says.
We make our way down a little easement between another stretch of row houses and a spontaneous patch of buttercups.
“Why not? I’ve got my phone for directions and time—” I reach into my bag only to realize I’ve actually left my phone on the bus. “Never mind—I don’t even need a phone. Just tell me what time to be back on the bus and I’ll be there. I’m sure there’s a clock tower where I can check the time, right?”
Taj gives an exasperated sigh. “Unfortunately for both of us, Wilkenson Tours discourages its patrons from random roaming. It’s called a guided tour. If you wanted to wander on your own, you should’ve taken a different holiday.” His voice is cool, like he doesn’t particularly care why I booked this tour. Not that I was about to share my soulmate story with him anyway.
“Trust me, the thought’s already crossed my mind,” I say instead.
“The thing is, you haven’t got the best track record, have you? Last one to the coach this morning…” His tone is teasing. “You can argue your point all you want, but part of me keeping my job is making sure that I don’t lose any passengers.”
“Alright, alright,” I say, feeling too tired to argue.
“Great.” He claps his hands together. “Then can you walk faster?”
A block or two down the way, the row houses are replaced with three-story buildings, the street level occupied by shops. To my right a black sign says Tilda’s Tea Room in gold writing. A soft pink building the same shade as Charlotte’s nails offers embossed stationery. A souvenir shop with large glass windows features pens, flags, T-shirts, socks, teacups and dozens of other tchotchkes, all emblazoned with the union jack. British accents fill the air. Everything feels totally different from home.
I skirt around a row of wrought-iron chairs facing outward into the street outside a pub and inhale the scent of greasy fries. “I don’t see what the rush is,” I say.
“This”—he waves a hand between us—“is the only time I get to myself. When I’m not driving the bus. And you’ve just eaten up two hours of it by sleeping.”
“Wow, that’s rude,” I say, looking straight ahead. It’s not like I want to be hanging out with him either.
He sighs and I look at him just as he looks at me. I can’t help noticing how smooth his skin is. “Don’t take it personally,” he says a bit more gently. “It has nothing to do with you and everything with the fact that the stops on the tour are my chance to do what I want. And what I want is a roast beef sandwich.”
“Well, I need a bathroom. I really have to pee.” I look around for any signs of a public washroom. “Also, if you’re always trying to get rid of the people you’re in charge of, maybe you’re in the wrong career.”
“This isn’t my career,” he says without emotion.
“Whatever you say,” I say under my breath.
We reach the town square. Set on the commons in the center are row upon row of stalls, all of them covered in striped awnings—blue and white followed by yellow and white, then green and white, then red and white. There’s a flurry of activity and sounds of people laughing, chatting, and a faint sound of an acoustic guitar.
“Ah, it’s your lucky day,” Taj says.
“I think we both know that’s not true,” I grumble.
“Market’s in town,” he says, just as I glimpse a sign that says the farmer’s market is open every day except Christmas and New Year’s Day. Then he points: “And there’s a portaloo for you.”
I hurry in the direction Taj pointed. When I’m done, I walk back into the sunlight, passing a flower stand where tulips, hyacinth and narcissi create a rainbow of colors. I do love a farmer’s market—not that I plan to admit that to Taj. The Ann Arbor one sets up downtown every Saturday and Wednesday, and I try to get there once a week to pick up fresh flowers before opening the store.
I find Taj a few stalls over, under a blue-and-white-striped awning. As I get closer, the air fills with the smell of sweet caramel.
“Here, try this,” Taj says, holding out a long red-and-white wrapped piece of dough to me. “Churro.”
“Is this British?” I say, feeling a twinge of excitement at trying my first British snack.
“Spanish, I think. Maybe Portuguese. When it tastes this good, who really cares?”
“Aren’t you supposed to show me British things?” I ask, taking the churro from him.
“I’m not supposed to show you anything. I’m the coach driver, remember? Just take a bite.”
The warm, sweet dulce de leche mixed with the fried dough is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. “Wow. Thank you.” I hold the churro out to him, realizing how intimate it feels to be sharing this snack with a stranger, but he shakes his head.
“It’s for you. You seemed hungry.”
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t had a thing to eat since the late-night snack on the plane at least twelve hours ago. I savor the pastry, feeling almost instantly better.
We cut through the market toward a stone-and-brick bridge with a wide sidewalk on one side, concrete balusters connecting to form a railing. At the end of the bridge, people are gathered on a terrace outside a white building with black letters that read THE ANCHOR. Bleeding heart flowers spill out of hanging baskets, their bright pink popping against the white of the building. It’s the first of several buildings along the water. The concrete is rough on my skin as I lean over the bridge and out toward an island of green grass and canopy trees.
After the last bite of my churro, Taj points to my chin. “You have a little…” I quickly wipe, feeling embarrassed.
“What’s that?” I point at the long thin wooden boat with flat platforms at either end that comes into view. In the middle a couple is seated, holding hands, their legs outstretched. At the back, a man stands on the wooden platform, holding a long pole that he uses to push against the river bottom, to propel the boat along.
“Ah,” Taj says. “A punt. It’s quintessential Cambridge. Great way to see the town. Goes along the College Backs—that is to say, it sails along the backs of the eight colleges that make up Cambridge. It’s a bit touristy, if I can say that, but it’s really not to be missed, in my opinion.” He looks at me and smiles. “Hmm, guess I do know a thing or two about the town.”
I wonder whether Taj actually wanted to be a guide but instead got stuck driving the bus and that’s why he’s such a grump. “When do we do that?” I ask.
“We don’t,” he says, looking amused.
“We don’t? But if it’s ‘not to be missed’ ”—I air-quote—“why isn’t it on the itinerary?”
“It is. On the itinerary. You slept through it. Right before the group had lunch there.” He points to the Anchor. “Best sticky toffee pudding in town, which I missed because of you.”
Punting looks relaxing. Romantic even. My thoughts go to Zane. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is there a chance he might join us before we leave Cambridge? England’s tiny compared to America—maybe he’ll get here sooner than he thought.
“Wait—” I say, registering what Taj has just said. “I thought you just finished telling me that you don’t hang out with the group.”
“I don’t, typically.”
“Then how do you know the Anchor has the best sticky toffee pudding?”
“Says so right on the sign.” He laughs. “Come on.” As we walk, the bridge narrows into a strip of sidewalk. People laugh outside a café on the corner, and we weave through the oncoming pedestrians, walking onto the road, then back onto the sidewalk.
“I feel like I missed the best part of this town”—I swerve to get out of the way of a guy hurtling toward me on a bike—“and I’ll never be back. Can you give me the CliffsNotes?”
“The what?”
“A summary. The highlights.” Maybe I can convince him to give me a walking tour so we can skip the chapel altogether.
“Uh…no.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch as it falls back into place on his shoulders, trying to figure him out. One minute he’s an amateur comedian, the next he’s a total grouch.
“Are you always like this on the tour?”
“When I’m starving, yes.”
I wave an arm behind me. “Hello. You just got me a churro. Why didn’t you get yourself one?”
He pats his stomach. “Holding out for the roast beef sandwich. Which I would’ve had two hours ago if it weren’t for you.”
For a whole minute we have blissful quiet. Then Taj claps his hands together and looks at me, pulling off his sunglasses. His eyes gleam.
“Cambridge’s claim to fame is football,” he says. “It’s the birthplace of the sport. Soccer to you,” he says, faking an American accent.
“Great. What else?” As we turn onto another street, a flicker of turquoise catches my eye, and I look up at the multicolored bunting fluttering back and forth in the breeze across the street from top of building to top of building. This town feels like it’s straight out of a fairytale. I can’t believe I forgot my phone. There are so many things I want to capture right now.
“Let’s see…it’s home to thirty-one-and-a-half colleges.”
“Come on, there’s no half a college,” I say.
“Well, what would you call a college on wheels? Surely it doesn’t get the same value as permanent ones.”
“Are you kidding?” I turn to face him, and he stops so we’re face to face. His lashes are really distracting—they’re so long they nearly touch his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” He gives a slow grin. “I stole that line from another guide. Good one, though, right?” We turn and we fall back into step together.
“What guide?” I say, wondering if it’s Zane. Is Zane funny? Would his tour be peppered with quirky things like that? Would it be weird to ask Taj things about Zane?
Taj shoves his hands in his pockets, and keeps walking. “A driver never tells.”
I roll my eyes.
“I saw that,” he says.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” I say, but I laugh to cover my embarrassment.
As the street narrows, the buildings get closer and the sun disappears. I shiver, folding my arms across my chest as we pass a small storefront with peeling red paint and a large window filled with worn books, their edges frayed, their spines creased. Across the bottom of the window are a dozen brown paper bags, skinny and tall like the kind Mom would pack my lunches in when I was a teen. Their tops are folded, and £5 is written in red marker across the front of each. But that’s not what has my fingers tingling.
A copy of Love in the Time of Cholera sits in the bottom left-hand corner of the bookshop window. It’s an illustrated version—a salmon-colored cover with birds, flowers and fruit in grays and reds edging the four sides of the book, García Márquez’s name in large gray uppercase at the top, the title in white cursive underneath. A sign.
“I have that same book in the window of my bookshop,” I say, squeezing my hands into fists to get the blood moving. What are the odds that the first bookstore I see on this trip has the very same book that’s in the window of my shop? It’s got to be a sign. Except—this is where I should be sharing this with Zane, not Taj. Although if Zane were here, he’d be leading the tour. But if Zane were here, I never would’ve let myself fall asleep!
“Fascinating,” Taj interjects sarcastically, then immediately adds, “Sorry. I’m being an arse again.” But it’s too late—my entire upper body gets hot with embarrassment. I look away.
A red metal sign, THE MYSTERIOUS BOOKSHOP in white lettering, creaks as it swings ever so slightly over the entrance. Over the door is another sign that reads Anna and William James’s Bookshop. The fact that there are two names to the store, and that Love in the Time of Cholera is in the window even though it doesn’t fit with the mystery theme, both confuse and intrigue me.
I wonder what Anna and William’s story is. How they met. Who are Anna and William? I close my eyes. Anna, in her twenties, studied English Literature at Cambridge. She did one of those haunted walking tours of the city. William was the guide who asked her out at the end of the tour. Her parents, both snobs, wouldn’t approve of her relationship with a townie. When William realized she was keeping the relationship secret, he broke up with her. Years later, she realized he was the one. So she signed up for his tour, and when she arrived at the meeting place—an empty storefront on St. Edward’s Passage—there was no group. She looked around, then saw him. William saw she had signed up, so he cancelled the group. There was only William. Still in love with her after all these years. It was this very spot—this empty storefront—that became their bookshop. A combination of their two loves: books and ghost stories.
“Hello”—a tap on the shoulder breaks me out of the story. “Anybody in there?”
I open my eyes to see Taj looking at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Just wondering how Anna and William met,” I say.
“Who?”
I point to their names above the doorway. “Do you mind if I pop in there for a moment?”
“I do,” he says, putting a hand to his chest as though I’ve just driven a spear into his chest with my request. “I really, really do. I’m starving. Why can’t you just be a normal passenger and want to catch up to the group? I’ve never met someone who’s decided she doesn’t want to be on the tour on the very first stop of the tour.” He’s flailing his arms around and nearly hits a woman passing by. She turns and glares at him. I laugh.
“Come on,” I whisper, putting my hands on my hips. I’m practically begging but I’m so tired, it’s like I need the comfort of the bookstore as a reset. “I’m just asking to pop in there for, like, five minutes. It’s not going to kill you.”
He shakes his head. “Five minutes here, five minutes there. It all contributes to a slow, painful death. I know your type.”
My mouth hangs open. “I’m not a type. I’m a paying customer on this trip, and you’re out of line.” I’m done being polite or letting his rude attitude slide. I’m sure my face is red—I can feel the sweat pooling behind my ears.
