By six o’clock, the store’s closing time, Cleo felt the weight of the day as she locked up and then bustled through the early evening crowds towards her apartment in Greenwich Village. Inside, she turned up the thermostat. She watered the poinsettia and leaned in to smell one of her favourite flowers. She’d been putting it off, but decisions about the Little Knitting Box needed to be made, and she mentally ran through the options as she leaned on the wall beside the plant pot in the large bay window, looking out at the city, down at people scurrying this way and that trying to find their path home.
One option was to relocate. But there was no guarantee the new position would mean business as usual. She’d be an unknown, which could work to her advantage and attract new clients and old, but it could work the other way and she could find herself closing down in the months to follow, maybe making such a huge loss she’d not even be able to pay rent. She could choose to sell off all the stock now and close, find herself an entirely different job, one that would cover the rent so she could stay in Manhattan. Or the third option was to sell off the stock, not find a job, return to the UK, and find work there. Her dad would be glad to have her home for sure, and it would be nice to spend more time with him.
Cleo went over to the round wooden table, switched on the laptop, pulled out a chair, and sat down. She drummed her fingertips as she waited for the computer to warm itself up enough to brave the investigations she needed to make. She brought up spreadsheet after spreadsheet to try to see anywhere she could cut costs in order to take the hit a relocation would inevitably cause—her rent for the store now was a steal and anywhere else would eat up the capital and revenue in a big way, so she’d have to allow for that. She moved on to Google to search again for a new store location, plus all the added extras she would need—store front sign painting, the physical move itself, equipping a new premises with shelving, advertising materials—it all mounted up and left her with a headache to rival the beat of the music in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Her phone ringing paved the way for an escape from the task and she snatched it up, glad of the reprieve.
Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of Dylan’s voice. ‘How are you?’ Did she sound as nervous as she felt? She was already thinking about his green eyes that had looked into hers as though she was the only girl in the world and butterflies fluttered in her tummy as if he might be able to read her expression down the phone line.
‘I’m good, thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call before now. It’s been a crazy week. I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘It’s fine.’ She moved away from the computer and walked over to the window where she rested against the sill. The windowpanes were colder now; the air in the city was promising a proper New York winter. She moved her fingers across the bottom pane to wipe away the condensation.
‘I had a visit from my ex,’ he went on, ‘and to be honest it’s all I’ve been able to think about the last few days.’
Her excited feeling at him calling took a nosedive. ‘Oh?’
‘I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say she likes to play games.’
Her initial misgivings had given way to common sense that maybe Dylan was someone she wanted to get to know better. And now, silently, she urged him to please, go into detail. She wasn’t interested in games but it was like dangling her favourite, home-made mince pies in front of her and then telling her she couldn’t have one.
‘How was your day?’ he asked, as though he hadn’t just mentioned his ex-wife.
Cleo told him she’d hired an assistant to help over the Christmas period, she said she hadn’t decided what to do about the store yet, but neither of them mentioned his part in the entire conundrum and it didn’t bother Cleo. It was almost as though they were both detached from the thing that had thrown disarray into her life.
‘So to answer your question,’ he said. ‘Yes, I would like to see you again.’
Cleo felt her stomach tie itself in knots. She wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or scared.
When she didn’t say anything, he said, ‘I’d like to go out again, if you don’t think I’m a complicated wreck. I did just bury my mom, my ex-wife is a challenge, and I have two very lively young children.’
‘Now you put it that way, maybe I’m not so sure.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m kidding!’ She spoke quickly when she suspected he hadn’t picked up on her dry, English sense of humour. ‘I’d really like to.’
‘Robert has invited me to Thanksgiving,’ he said.
They’d invited her to the dinner too, but she didn’t want that to be the next time she saw Dylan. She hadn’t breathed a word about their kiss to Violet, which had been hard, but she wanted to get her own feelings in order before anyone else became involved.
‘Have you been invited?’ he asked her now.
‘I have.’
‘I can’t make it, I’m afraid. I have the kids and this is their first Thanksgiving without their Grandma Connie.’
‘Violet and Robert will understand.’
He paused as though deliberating the right response. ‘I was wondering whether you’d join us. It sounds as though Violet and Robert have a houseful, but if you still want to go then that’s fine too. Just as long as you don’t hook up with any more of their friends.’
‘Hey! That’s the first time it’s happened. I don’t make a habit of it, you know.’ Absentmindedly, she drew a heart in the condensation of the apartment window as she smiled and gazed down at the streets that had quietened a lot since she came home.
‘So how about it?’ he asked. She imagined his dark blond hair, messy on top if he’d been tussling with the kids, neat if the kids were otherwise occupied. ‘We’re going to the Macy’s Parade first and then it’ll be home for the big feast with all the trimmings.’
‘I promised Violet.’ She’d been to the parade with Violet last year and had loved every minute, but this year Violet would be at home preparing for the big party and Cleo had decided she wouldn’t brave it either.
‘She’d understand, surely?’
