With Love from London(53)

“No, no,” I say, momentarily flattered that I’d passed as one of his twentysomething pupils. “I’m…not a student. I actually came here about something else.” I reach into my bag and pull out my copy of The Last Winter.

He grins, eyeing the book in my hands. “Ah, such an overlooked gem. It’s been years since I’ve dipped into that one. If I didn’t have so many bloody papers to grade, I’d—”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, quickly getting to the subject at hand. “And that’s why I’m here. It might sound crazy, but I’m sort of…on a mission to find the person who once owned this book.”

He cocks his head to the right, then turns to look at the expansive bookshelf spanning the wall behind his desk. “I have my own copy somewhere in here, so I can assure you, the book isn’t mine.”

“Yes, I know,” I continue. “I just hoped you might recall something”—I take a step closer—“about this particular one.” I hand him the book. “Look inside. There’s a name.”

He scratches his head. “I’ve had so many students over the years, I’m afraid it’s impossible to remember them all.”

“Right, of course,” I say defeatedly, reaching for the book, but he doesn’t hand it back. Instead, he pulls out the reading glasses in his shirt pocket and slips them on before examining the writing on the inside cover. “Daniel Davenport,” he says, looking up at me with a glimmer of recollection in his eyes.

“I know it’s been so many years, but…I couldn’t help but wonder if you might remember him.”

He flips through the pages, stopping to read some of the notes, before looking up at me with wide eyes. “I do know this book.”

I press my hand on his desk, eager to hear whatever he might say next.

“Yes,” he continues. “These notes in the margins…I’d almost forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“One of my students gave it to me at the end of that semester.”

I search his face for understanding. “Gave it to you?”

“Yes,” he says. “I made an announcement about donating used books for future classes. At the time, we were experiencing shortages at the campus bookstore due to order issues with our book supplier. Several students offered, but I distinctly remember this one.” He opens the book again to examine its pages. “He said it was marked up, and he didn’t know if it would be acceptable to pass along. I remember reading a page or two and thinking just the opposite. The notes were quite insightful.” He hands the book back to me, then turns to his computer, where he begins typing. “Let me just have a look at our alumni database.” More typing. “I’m probably breaking the university’s privacy rules right now, but a literary mystery is a worthy cause,” he adds with a wink.

I smile, waiting in rapt attention as he shifts his screen for me to see. “It seems that the fellow you’re looking for is right here in London, at the Snow Goose.”

“The Snow Goose?”

“A pub down in Mayfair.” He smiles. “According to our records, he owns the place. A rather curious use of an English literature degree, if you ask me, but to each his own.”

My eyes brighten. The Snow Goose.



* * *



—

A blast of cold air hits my cheeks as I step off the tube. So much for the sunshine. Dark clouds have moved in, and as I check Google Maps, I feel a raindrop hit my cheek. I quicken my pace as the rain intensifies, but it’s no use; within a minute, I’m soaked. I look right, then left, and just ahead, I see it—the glow of lamplight, a quaint blue awning, and a sign hanging over the entrance with an artistic rendition of a coat of arms. The Snow Goose.

It’s noisy and packed inside, as if everyone within a five-block radius has chosen this pub to wait out the rainstorm. Fortunately, I notice an open seat at the bar, and I make a beeline to snag it before hanging my soggy jacket on a hook under the counter and smoothing my wet hair.

“What can I get you, miss?” the bartender asks.

“A dirty gin martini, please.”

I watch as he scoops ice into the cocktail shaker, remembering how Nick would ask for cheese-stuffed olives—even at dive bars, which always read as tone deaf to me.

“Here you are,” the bartender says a moment later, sliding the drink my way. A bit sloshes out on the napkin.

“Is your owner—Daniel—here, by chance?” I ask, before taking a slow sip.

He shakes his head, pointing to his right ear. “Sorry, sweetie, you’ll have to say that again.” There’s a loud group of men to my right, and one releases a boisterous chortle every few seconds.

I lean in closer. “Your owner. Is he here?”

“Ah, yes. Sorry. You must be his date.”

“No, no,” I say quickly, then pause, nervously tugging at the edge of my sleeve. “No, I’m not his date. But I…would like to speak to him…if he’s available.”

“Yeah, sure.” He looks toward the kitchen. “Give me a moment, all right? I’ll go see if I can round him up for you.”

Daniel might appear any minute, and then what? Salt stings my lips as I take another sip, and my mind, once again, turns to Nick. At first, I push the memory aside, annoyed with myself for letting rogue thoughts creep in. After all, I’d cried my tears, and there were no more left. So why am I thinking about him now? I recall one of the many self-help books I’d turned to after Nick left, and a particular passage comes to mind. “Trauma isn’t a single event, but rather an ongoing process. The brain wants to move on quickly, to stomp out any memories associated with the trauma. But the heart wants to understand.”