‘I do,’ said Violet with an ounce of frustration in her voice. ‘You’re married to that store and I’m here to tell you it won’t always make you happy.’
The letter in her pocket had already seen to that. Cleo sipped her hot chocolate, not willing to concede just yet. ‘It’s made me pretty happy so far. It led me to you, didn’t it?’
‘That’s true. If Robert hadn’t bought me a sweater I was allergic to and I hadn’t returned it, we may never have set eyes on one another.’ Violet had returned the sheep’s wool sweater that had given her red, sore eyes and a terrible rash around the neck. Cleo had found a replacement in an alternative yarn she’d knitted herself in a wine colour and only just placed on display. They’d chatted for so long, Cleo had ended up having dinner with Violet, who was pregnant and making the most of her alone time before her second child arrived. They’d bonded over pizza in Greenwich Village, swapped numbers and been friends ever since. Friendship was like that… sometimes it was built over years and sometimes it clicked in an instant.
‘All I’m saying, Cleo, is that you need to get out and about a lot more. Tonight’s party is very casual, there’s no seating plan where you’ll be lumped next to someone. Just bring a bottle and mingle with whoever you like.’
‘Oh relax, stop stressing. I’ll be there.’
‘Great, and what are you wearing?’
Cleo burst out laughing and threw her takeaway cup into the trash. ‘I’m wearing jeans and a woolly sweater.’
‘Not now, what are you wearing tonight? It’s casual but you’ll feel odd if you don’t dress up a bit.’
She’d fully intended to go straight to Penn Station without getting changed. She’d brush her hair and her teeth and spruce her make-up up a bit, but the temperatures outside in the evening were quite unforgiving towards the end of November and she didn’t fancy teetering around in anything other than warm clothing and sensible shoes.
When the bell above the door to the store tinkled, Cleo knew she’d been rescued. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Yes.’ Violet let out a sigh.
‘I’d better go. But I’ll be there tonight and I will make an effort, I promise.’
Back at herapartment that evening, after she’d called her Grandpa Joe as she did at least three or four times a week, Cleo rummaged through her wardrobe in the desperate hope she’d find something appropriate to wear to Violet’s party. Finally accepting she wouldn’t get away with jeans and a nice sweater tonight, she pulled out her faithful little black dress. Last year she’d sewn sequins around the fraying neckline, hoping to keep the garment wearable for a few years yet. Cleo had curves that some dresses in the stores didn’t allow for and finding this dress when she’d first arrived in New York had been a godsend. It was comfortable and flattered her natural shape and she’d ended up returning to the store to buy the same design in a wine colour.
She showered and changed, pulled on her dress, and made an extra effort by wearing the pearl-drop earrings her grandma had given her. She ran a brush through her freshly washed, dark-blonde hair, which always darkened that bit more in winter and attracted natural highlights come summer. She’d thought about fashioning an updo but knew she’d be warmer if she let her wavy hair fall about her shoulders tonight, and it’d also be easier to neaten up when she pulled off the hat she’d need to wear to keep the November chill at bay.
Cleo critically examined herself in the mirror. Her blue eyes needed more lift these days so she applied a little eyeliner and mascara, and a shimmery eyeshadow Violet had persuaded her to buy. ‘Just cause you’re a knitter doesn’t mean you have to dress like an old spinster,’ her friend had told her. Cleo had retorted with the usual spiel about celebrities who had taken up knitting, how it was very fashionable these days, but Violet had just winked and said, ‘It winds you up every time, which is why I say it. I just want you to get out a bit more and have fun.’
And that’s what Cleo was doing tonight. After a panic that she had no alcohol to take to the party—or liquor as she knew she should call it by now—she retrieved the bottle of red wine she’d stashed away for Christmas Eve drinks at the café next door, and made a note to buy another. It was weeks away yet so plenty of time to replace it.
Bottle of wine ready, iPhone charged, and handbag packed, her heart sank again when she fished in the pockets of her scarlet coat hanging on the hook beside the door to find her gloves, and pulled out the letter. A little scrunched at the sides, she smoothed it out and put it on the kitchen table. She hadn’t even told Grandpa Joe about it yet. It wasn’t something you shared during a rushed conversation before heading out for the evening, and Cleo wondered what he was going to make of this latest development.
She left the letter and switched off the lights in the kitchen and hallway of her high-ceilinged apartment, with its large, bay window at the front of a brownstone that had been converted into apartments years ago. This was her home, a place of her own.
With the bottle of wine tucked beneath one arm, she walked down the steps to street level, greeting a city plunged into darkness. She set off towards Penn Station, past restaurants, store owners tucking away merchandise for the night, and she wondered whether she should’ve been prepared for the letter, for the moment all of this could change. After four years here, Cleo loved Manhattan. It had grown on her like a new sweater. It was still the same, loud, bright colour it always was, but she didn’t notice that any more. She noticed its fit, its comfort.
Could she ever say goodbye to all of this and be who she was before?
2
22 REDCLIFFE PLACE, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT
Dylan Bakersfield ended the call with Carla from the hospice and slumped down at one end of the table that seated ten and stretched from one end of the dining room to the other. He pinched the skin between his closed eyes and rested his elbow on the table. After burying his mom that day, surely he was entitled to five minutes before the merry-go-round of life began again.
‘We’re so sorry for your loss,’ Carla had told him. It was such a formal phrase, given how much time he’d spent at the hospice as they nursed his mom during the final stages of the cancer that had riddled her body. Most of his distress and upset had been at diagnosis rather than in the last few months, where he’d willed her to pass away peacefully, no longer in pain.
And now it was time to carry on, time to move forward for the first time in his thirty-six years without either of his parents in the world around him. His dad, Walter, died almost seven years ago, and being without him or his mom threatened to overwhelm Dylan if he let it.
‘Daddy!’ Jacob, his four-year-old, flew down the stairs.
Dylan hoisted Jacob onto his lap, and with one finger he squished the cute button nose his son had inherited from his beautiful mother, along with her blonde hair and blue eyes.
‘You’re in your smart clothes, why are you in your smart clothes?’ Jacob squished Dylan’s nose in return and made his dad laugh.
‘We’ve spoken about this,’ Dylan began softly. ‘Look out, here comes the other one.’ He braced himself when he saw his daughter, six-year-old Ruby, running towards him. Ruby had darker blonde hair, a shade or two lighter than Dylan’s own, and she had green eyes just like him.
The babysitter had given both kids evening baths and they were dressed in flannel pyjamas: Jacob with his favourite superhero set and Ruby with her much-loved, purple pyjamas with multicoloured animals printed on them. Dylan picked Ruby up, she was still light enough to scoop up with one arm, and his children sat on one knee each. He couldn’t wait to take his suit off. It wasn’t his usual attire for a stay-at-home dad and it made him as uncomfortable as the occasion.
