He stood up when I arrived. He pulled out my chair for me. He blushed when our fingers touched over the coffeepot, but he didn’t move his hand, and neither did I, so now we’re sitting here across from one another,almosttouching but not quite, and I think it might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
And, okay, the ploughman’s lunch is a crushing disappointment — pity the poor ploughman who had to go to work on a single slice of soggy lettuce alongside some pre-packed ham and plasticky cheese — but Elliot politely pretends not to notice, and I’m too nervous/excited to eat much anyway, so it’s all good.
It’s better than justgood, actually. From the moment we sit down, being with Elliot feels a bit like finding the missing piece of that puzzle you’ve been trying to solve for years now, and discovering it was in your pocket the entire time. We talk and talk; the words tumbling and overlapping as we attempt to bring each other up to speed on the events of our entire respective lives up until this shared moment, in a quiet little cafe with snowy footprints slowly melting onto the cheap lino floor and sticky tables covered with plastic cloths.
Elliot is 26, he tells me, and his family is from Florida, although he’s just graduated from law school in California. He’s spending a few weeks in England before going home to join the family business at some point in the presumably not-too-distant future — although that’s one topic of conversation I’m determined to avoid for as long as possible.
“But why Bramblebury?” I ask, puzzled, as a bored-looking waitress appears to pour us some more coffee. “It’s not exactly a tourist hot-spot; especially not compared to America or California.” I sigh, thinking of blue skies and palm trees; azure seas and golden sunsets. The America of my imagination is probably nothing like the reality of the place, but I refuse to believe it’s not significantly better thanhere.
And I’ve always thought reality was overrated, anyway.
“No, it’s not,” Elliot agrees, grinning. “Believe it or not, though, as soon as I saw it, it was love at first sight. And that was evenbeforeI bumped into you.”
He smiles shyly, and my stomach does a not-unpleasant little flip-flop as his words sink in.
“But why? What does Bramblebury have to offer that Venice doesn’t?” I ask, trying to sound like it’s completely normal for me to beflirted with by men with beautiful eyes and bewitching smiles. “Snow globes aside, I mean?”
“Oh, I totally came for the snow globes,” he assures me. “Which were one hundred percent worth it. But I also have a family connection to the area that I wanted to check out.”
I blink rapidly, suddenly convinced he’s about to do that very American thing, where they claim to be one-forty-eighth English, and descended from one of Henry VIII’s lesser-known mistresses.
“My great-grandfather was stationed near here during the war,” Elliot goes on, to my relief. “He died before I was born, but he used to talk about the place a lot, apparently, so I kind of grew up hearing about it. He said it was like a village from a story.”
“A horror story, maybe.” I smile, to show I’m joking, even though I’m not really, and fully believe Bramblebury to be the very armpit of England. “I guess it might have looked a bit better back then, though.”
“It looks pretty good from where I’m sitting,” Elliot says softly, making me blush. “But no, not a horror story. Maybe a biography, though? I was… “ He pauses, as if he’s trying to decide something. “I was thinking of maybe having a go at writing it, actually,” he says in a rush. “My great-grandfather’s story.”
He shrugs dismissively, as if this is no big deal. But he’s wrong. What he’s just said is a very big deal indeed. Or, at least, it is to me.
“Wait: so you’re a writer?” I say, leaning forward in excitement. “But I thought you said you studied law?”
“Oh, I did,” he replies. “But only because it was what my family expected, and… well, they were the ones who were paying.” He shrugs again, his cheerful expression faltering slightly. “But I’ve always wanted to write. I’m not sure I’d call myself a ‘writer’” he goes on, making scare quotes with his fingers around the word. “But, yeah; it’s something I’ve always done. Something I’ve always wanted to do more of.” He looks at me across the table, a lock of dark hair falling across his eyes, which are exactly the same shade of blue as the thick sweater he’s wearing, and currently filled with something that might be hope.
“I’ve never actually told anyone that,” he says, bashfully. “I always worry it’ll just sound stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” I assure him, a little too eagerly. “It really doesn’t. I’ve always wanted to write, too. It’s my biggest dream.”
“Really? So why haven’t you?” He reaches up and pushes the hair out of his eyes, which are fixed on mine, as if my answer to this question is of the utmost importance. I don’t remember the last time I was this interesting to someone.
“I’ve tried,” I confess. “Plenty of times. But it just never seems to work. I think… well, you know how everyone tells you to write what you know?”
Elliot nods.
“Well, I don’t know very much,” I tell him bluntly. “I don’t know anythingat all, really. Or nothing anyone would want to read about, anyway. I’ve spent my entire life in a bookshop, in a small town. I haven’t traveled, like you have. I haven’t been to Europe — or America. I haven’t been anywhere, really. I’ve just kind of stood still, in the place I’ve always been. I don’t have a story.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, Holly Hart,” Elliot replies immediately, his dancing eyes serious for once. “Everyone has a story. You just don’t know what yours is yet. And that’s fine. I’m not sure what mine is, either.” He shrugs, self-deprecatingly. “But I do know you’re not necessarily going to find it in Paris, or Rome, or any of those placesyou think you need to go to ‘find yourself’, or whatever it is you’re looking for. Maybe your story is right here.”
“In Bramblebury?” I laugh lightly, already feeling embarrassed by my little ‘poor me’ outburst. “God, I hope not!”
“Why not? My great granddad said he had a helluva time here, apparently. I bet if he was writing his story, he’d set it here.”
“Is that what you want to do, then?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation back into territory that makes me sound a little less unhinged. “You want to write his story for him?”
“Sort of. I don’t really have a lot to go on,” he says. “But I’d kinda like to give it a shot. And I can already see what he liked about the place.”
He gives me one of those smiles of his, and it feels like the first signs of spring, after a long, long winter.
“Is it the snow globes or the ploughman’s lunches?” I ask teasingly.
