The Light Over London(27)

She blinked. How had she gone from sitting at home on a Saturday afternoon to being at a pub planning a dinner she hadn’t intended to give? And yet, somehow she found herself saying, “Does Thursday at eight work for you?”

“It’s a date.” Liam frowned. “Or rather, not a date. An academic exercise? A historical puzzling?”

“A diary inspection,” she suggested, oddly comforted by his floundering.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll call it that. Well, I’ll leave you ladies to talk, and I’ll see you on Thursday, Cara.”

Cara and Nicole watched him get up from the table and retreat to a booth on the opposite side of the pub.

“He’s so charming,” said Nicole.

Cara sighed. “In a bumbling, academic sort of way.”

Nicole shot her a look. “Making him the complete opposite of Simon, which, I’ll remind you, is a good thing.”

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s a good thing or not. My divorce was only finalized a few months ago. I just uprooted my entire life. I’m not looking for anything right now.”

“I know the last couple years have been tough, but you can’t just pull up the drawbridge behind you, Cara. You need to see people.”

“I see people,” she said. “There’s Gran, and I’ve met a few of my neighbors. Charlotte, who lives on the other side of me, seems nice.” She made a mental note to invite Charlotte and her husband over for a drink one day, if only to quash any future needling from Nicole.

“Then tell me truthfully that you aren’t lonely,” said her friend.

Cara opened her mouth to protest but shut it again. She was lonely. She didn’t notice it so much in the routine of the day, when she had work and errands to keep her busy, but at night and on the weekends it washed over her in waves. It was why she’d cried when Nicole had appeared on her doorstep. It was why, in a strange way, a tiny part of her was looking forward to the idea of cooking for someone else.

Nicole covered Cara’s hand with hers. “Start with dinner with the hot professor.”

“Nicole, it’s not a date.”

“Oh, right, a diary inspection.” Nicole laughed. “You two are made for each other.”

Cara scowled, but she couldn’t help but be excited. Whether it was because she might be one step closer to finding out who wrote the diary or because it was Liam who was going to help her, she couldn’t really say.

26 February 1941

I’m becoming talented at subterfuge. Today was my day off from Bakeford’s and I convinced Mum that I was going to have lunch with an old friend from school. Instead, I boarded the bus and got off at St. Mawgan, where Paul was waiting for me.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted me. (I don’t mind it when he calls me “darling.” It sounds so much less silly than when Kate says it.)

He took my elbow and led me around a corner. He stopped and touched my lower lip with his knuckle. “We’re out of sight. May I kiss you?”

I nodded, and so he did.

I don’t know if I’ll ever become used to Paul kissing me. His lips are soft and he can make my legs feel as though they’re about to crumple beneath me.

He took me to lunch at the Star Inn. At first I was worried. St. Mawgan is so close to home that there was a risk someone might recognize me, but I felt sophisticated sitting at a table in one of the big bay windows, a glass of hock at my hand. We spoke about our lives. I asked him to tell me about his time at Cambridge, and he made me laugh with stories about nearly falling into the Thames at the Boat Race and stealing a friend’s car at midnight on a wager that he couldn’t drive from Cambridge to Trafalgar Square and back in under two hours. (He won.)

He’s fascinated by my life in Cornwall, even though I can’t imagine how anyone could find it anything but dull. I tried to explain how sometimes my life seems so small I almost want to scream, and he leaned over the table and took my hand.

“Where would you go?” he asked.

“Go?”

“If you didn’t have to be here.”

“But I do,” I said. “My parents would never let me leave.”

“But what if you didn’t have to worry about any of that? If you could go wherever you wanted in the world, where would it be?”

“California.” When his brows shot up, I explained about the postcard and the trees and how the sun seems to always promise to shine.

“Then you should see the orange groves for yourself,” he said.

I almost told him that it isn’t just seeing them. I wanted to live there, an entire world away from everything I’ve known. But instead I said, “It’s silly to wish for something that will never happen.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“So many reasons. There’s my job at the shop.”

“Mrs. Bakeford could find another girl to work behind the counter and do the accounts.” He smiled. “Although she’d never be as pretty as you.”

I tutted at him because no one calls me pretty, but I was more pleased than I could say.

“What about Kate and my friends?” I asked.

“They’d write.”

I shook my head. “My mother would never let me.”

“Darling, one day you’ll stand up and think to yourself, ‘I’ll just leave and no one will stop me.’ And then you’ll wonder why it took you so long.” His voice held such conviction—as though he knew it would come to be.