With Love from London(39)
“That hat,” he said pacing beside me. “Where did you get it?”
I reflexively touched its wide brim, confused and a little worried. Had I displeased him somehow? His mouth was tense—his lips pressed together tightly—and there wasn’t a hint of kindness in his eyes.
“Bonnie…gave it to me.” I paused. “Is something the matter? I assumed that you…bought it for me?”
He shook his head, neither answering my question nor confirming the source of his frustration. “She shouldn’t have given this to you.”
“Oh,” I said. I lifted the hat from my head and set it on the chaise longue, feeling like a child who’d been caught wearing her mother’s prized necklace without permission.
Frank sighed, then retrieved the hat and walked inside, closing the sliding door with a forceful shove.
It must have been a gift he’d purchased for me. I wasn’t supposed to find it yet. Of course. He’d only been upset because I’d ruined the surprise. That, and maybe he had a bad day at the office.
But as the sun dipped below the horizon, taking its warmth along with it, my skepticism grew. I shivered as the wind picked up, rustling the palm trees overhead, as if they were whispering a secret—a secret I wasn’t privy to.
* * *
—
In the following weeks, Frank was mostly absent. There were several business trips I knew about, of course, but also the late nights at the office that took me by surprise. One evening, I’d even planned a special dinner for him and made my mum’s meatball recipe, but his plate sat on the dining room table for three hours and got cold.
“He’s such a good man,” Bonnie mused one morning as she fixed me a plate of raspberries with heavy cream for breakfast—my favorite. “He works very hard, so he can spoil you, Mrs. Baker!”
I reminded myself that American men were more devoted to their careers. I thought of Roger Williams, the playboy. He spent his days meeting women, and his nights forgetting them. I grimaced at the memory, and yet, if not for Roger, I wouldn’t have met Edward, which, in some ways, made me wish I hadn’t met Roger.
“Bonnie?” I asked, picking at my bowl of berries.
“Yes, dear?”
“You know Frank quite well, don’t you?”
She smiled from the sink, where she was loading the dishwasher. “Well, he’s been my employer for fourteen years now, so yes, I suppose so.”
“It’s just that,” I begin, “he got so upset with me the other day, over the silliest thing—that straw hat.”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you have any idea why?” I took a deep breath. “The way he looked at me, the way he spoke…I’ve been playing it over and over again in my mind. There was resentment in his eyes.”
“No, no,” Bonnie replied. “Mr. Baker does not resent you! He loves you!”
I shook my head. “But…”
“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Baker,” she said, returning to the sink. “He’s just been working too hard, that’s all.” She smiled. “It takes its toll on a man.”
I sighed, trying to resign myself to the matter. “You’re right. It was probably just a bad day.” I scooped the final raspberry into my mouth, then brought my dish to the sink.
“That’s the spirit,” Bonnie said, turning back to the dishes.
I decided to put the matter out of my mind—and my worries along with it. That morning I went on a walk around the neighborhood, eventually finding a nearby café, where I sat at a corner table, drank coffee, and wrote to Millie. The croissants aren’t nearly as good as they are in London, but I like some of the other items in the case, like bagels, which are these unusual, doughy things that look like the second cousin of a doughnut, except that they’re not fried. Americans can’t get enough of them! I also tried an avocado for the first time yesterday. It was soft and strange, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.
I set my pen down before I could write what I really wanted to: Did you return Edward’s jacket? Did you…see him?
I sighed, tucking my pen and paper back into my bag. I’d left my book at home, so I picked up the newspaper and checked the neighborhood listings, happy to see a nearby estate sale planned for the afternoon.
The address led me to a grand Craftsman home a few blocks away. The door was open, so I let myself in to find table after table of meticulously sorted items that the late owner must have collected over a lifetime. From fur stoles and vintage jewelry to home décor and art—every piece appeared to be of high quality, and my heart fluttered as I took it all in. This is better than Harrods.
I spent hours combing through the tables, letting my eye guide me, weighing each selection in my hand.
The indecision that had burdened me since arriving in California instantly vanished. I saw a box of earthenware the color of the ocean and claimed it as mine. I looked through every book and selected the first editions. An iridescent vase stamped FENTON’S enchanted me, as did the Art Deco jewelry. I tried on geometric brooches and bangles, imagining myself in the Golden Age of Hollywood. And there she was, my new American tradition—or maybe alter ego—hunting for treasure from the past.
Frank had given me his checkbook, but I had never once used it. That day, I pulled it out and paid for it all.