With Love from London(10)

When we stepped out of the car a few minutes later, saxophone music billowed out of a nearby club. Inside, we found a table, and Frank ordered a round of martinis. I busied myself with the olives in my glass as he recounted his successful business deal and explained that he’d be returning to California soon. “Maybe you could…come with me,” he said nervously. “To visit.”

“Oh, Frank,” I replied. “That’s very…kind of you, but we’ve only just met.”

“I know,” he conceded. “But I can’t imagine leaving London…without you.”

I realized, for the first time, that Millie was right about more than one thing tonight. “You’re…very sweet,” I continued, backpedaling. “And I have enjoyed your company, to be sure. But you must understand that this is…a little too soon for me to be making such big decisions.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, reaching for my hand. “I don’t mean to rush you, it’s just that I…I’ve never met a woman like you, and it pains me to think that we’ll be separated by an ocean.”

Unable to find my words, I took a long sip of my martini.

“But listen, there is another option,” he continued. “I can stay for a few more months. My boss would be fine with it. There’s certainly more work to be done here. We could…take our time, get to know each other more. How would you like that?”

“I, well…” I gulped, unsure of what to say. “Frank, please don’t change your plans on account of me.”

“But don’t you want me to stay?”

“Well, sure, yes, I want you to stay. I mean, I’m not saying that I want you to leave.” My words sounded disjointed and ambiguous. But to Frank, they were a siren’s song.

“Then it’s settled,” he replied confidently. “I’ll extend my stay, and we’ll spend more time together.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d just agreed to, but suddenly Frank ordered another martini for each of us, and we were toasting our future.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night,” he said, beaming. “Anywhere you like. The Ritz, even.”

I couldn’t help but feel flattered by Frank’s interest in me. He looked at me like I was a titled heiress, not a Harrods salesclerk who grew up in the rowdy East End. But tomorrow night was off the table. I was having dinner with Edward.

I shook my head, but he persisted.

“Then how about the following night?”

“All right,” I said, unable to think of an excuse.

I ordered two takeout coffees before we left, and when we walked out of the club to the street, Frank eyed me curiously. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“I know,” I said. “This is for the—”

“Let me take you home,” he said, leaning in closer to me as his driver pulled up to the curb.

I shook my head. “Thank you, but I’m fine. I’ll just…hail a cab.”

“Please, it’s no trouble.”

When I declined a second time, he handed me a few pounds to cover the cab fare. I felt equal parts guilty and relieved. Payday wasn’t until next Friday, and my pocketbook was growing thin.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” Frank said, helping me into the cab. I waved to him as we drove off.

“Here,” I said, handing a coffee to the driver.

“For me, really?”

I nodded.

He took a sip. “Miss, how did you know that I needed this? I’m working the late shift for the first time since my wife had a baby.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“She’s a perfect little girl,” he said. “I just hope she’ll have the life, the opportunities, of a lady such as yourself.” He paused. “I want to give her the world, and yet, I’m a humble cabbie.”

I smiled. “I can tell how much you love her, and that in itself is enough.”

“Aye, I do,” he said. “Listen to me gabbing on and on. Where to, miss?”

I recited my address and watched as his eyes widened in the rearview mirror.

“You see,” I began. “A woman can’t help where she comes from, but she is in full possession of who she becomes. Be sure to tell that to your little girl.”

The driver smiled. “I will, miss.”

I sipped my coffee and pondered my peculiar evening that began in disgrace and ended in the most unexpected of ways. I smiled, thinking of Frank and his earnest affection, and Edward…mysterious Edward.

In front of my block of flats, I paid the fare and thanked the driver, who tipped his coffee cup to me with gratitude as I stepped out onto the street. The temperature had dropped below freezing again, and I was grateful for Edward’s coat as I rounded the building and followed the path to the staircase that led up to our second-floor flat. I passed our little garden plot in the alley, where Millie grew herbs and tomatoes in terra-cotta pots during the summer months. Come spring, this miserable canvas of dirty snow and mounds of hardened earth would erupt into a symphony of life—mint, oregano, thyme, and flowers, too. Oh, how I missed the flowers.

As I reached for the key in my pocketbook, my eye caught a patch of lithe green daffodil shoots, bursting up through the sleepy soil with the determination of a thousand springs. Before long, they’d bloom triumphantly.