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I brush my hand over the top of Penny’s head. “Thanks, cupcake.”
I must be an idiot, I realize as I head back to the cottage. My flight to New York leaves at two, but I already know I won’t be catching my connecting flight to Heathrow. No, I’m going to track down Ms. Takahashi in Brooklyn and make her explain to me how she could make love with me like she did last night and simply vanish the next morning without a word.
This isn’t over. Far from it.
* * *
When we arrive at the airport, Hamish pulls the car up to the passenger unloading zone, and we both get out. He retrieves my suitcase from the boot while I hug a tearful Penny goodbye and shake hands with Will. The two of them came along for the ride.
“Oh, come here,” Will says, pulling me into an embrace. He pats my back. “I’ll buy you a pint when we’re next in London.”
“Goodbye, Uncle Connor,” Penny says through her tears. “I’ll miss you.”
I pick her up and hug her. “I’ll see you soon, before you even have a chance to miss me.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise.”
After we say our goodbyes, I head into the airport, check in, pass through security, and take a seat near my boarding gate. As I sit waiting to board, I reread my aunt’s text. God, I wish Kennedy hadn’t seen it. I can just imagine how she felt after reading that awful message—defeated, crushed all over again. It infuriates me, and I’m tempted to call Angelica right now and give her hell, but my focus now is on Kennedy. I’ll deal with Angelica personally, face to face, when I’m back in England.
Right now, all I can think about is getting to Kennedy. I need to tell her it doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks. She and I love each other, and that’s all that matters. Everyone else can go to hell.
I listen with half an ear as the airline staff announce the boarding schedule. When they call business class, I grab hold of my hand luggage and go stand in the queue. I go through the motions as I count the minutes until I’m in New York.
It’s a short flight to JFK International Airport. Once there, I collect my luggage and then make my way through the terminal and out the front doors, where I flag one of the waiting taxis.
I acknowledge the driver with a curt nod as he takes my luggage and sets it in the boot.
“Where to, pal?” he asks in a heavy New York accent.
“Two-ten Normandy Lane, Brooklyn.”
The driver pulls into traffic, and off we go.
It’s not long before we pass from Queens into Brooklyn, and I get my first view of the borough. It has a different feel to it than Manhattan does. It’s more accessible, not nearly so crowded. It has a real sense of community, with quaint restaurants and shops. The streets are bustling with the sound of traffic and people going about their routines.
The taxi driver stops in front of a three-story red brick building. “Here you go,” he says. “Two-ten Normandy.”
I swipe my credit card to pay the fare.
We both get out of the vehicle and walk around to the back. He opens the boot and pulls out my luggage.
“Do you want me to wait?” he asks.
“No, you can go. Thanks.”
As the car pulls away, I stand on the pavement and gaze up at the building. Despite its age, the property is tidy and well maintained. There are flower boxes attached to the windows on the ground floor. Smooth stone steps lead up to the front entrance.
When I reach the door, I’m about to press the intercom for Kennedy’s apartment when a young couple come out the door, laughing uproariously. I catch the door as it’s swinging shut and let myself in.
The foyer is clean and uncluttered, the floor polished spotless. It smells citrusy, like lemons. I walk over to a wall of brass post boxes and skim the residents’ names.K. Takahashilives in apartment 2B.
Grabbing my suitcase, I climb the stairs to the second floor and locate apartment 2B, which is to my left at the end of a short hallway. The exterior of her apartment is charming. Besides a door mat featuring a bouquet of flowers, there’s a sign hanging on her door that says, “Welcome.” A small child-sized chair sits next to her door, holding a potted plant—presumably fake.
I ring the bell and wait for a response, but there’s no answer. So I knock. Again, nothing. It’s possible she’s out.
The door to the flat directly across the hall from Kennedy’s opens, and an elderly lady with short white hair stands in the doorway, watching me warily. “Can I help you?” she asks in a wavering voice.
