Your Perfect Year(101)

“I like crazy stories.”

“I don’t. At least, I didn’t . . .” He paused and looked wide-eyed at Leopold.

“What’s up now?”

“Sarasvati!”

“What does the psychic have to do with it?”

“Life adviser,” Jonathan corrected.

“Whatever. What made you think of her?”

“She said that sometime this year I’d meet a woman I might even marry.”

“And you seriously believe it? And that this was the one?”

“No idea.” Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. But this much is clear: my life’s been turned upside down since I found that diary.” He brightened suddenly. “Wait. I have an idea!”

“And that would be?”

“The diary! That’s it! It’s all connected. The diary, this café, the woman I’ve just seen—it’s all connected.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, slowly, from the top: Why are we sitting here?”

“Um . . .” Leopold looked at him in confusion. “Because we came here together?”

“Wrong!”

“Wrong?”

“We’re here because it was set down in the Filofax. Whoever wrote that, it’s his or her birthday and they wanted to celebrate it here.”

“Sorry, but I’m still not getting it. What are you trying to tell me?”

“It’s simple!” Jonathan jumped up from his chair. “I’ll simply ask everyone here if it happens to be their birthday.”

“How’s that going to help you?”

“Process of elimination! If there’s no one here whose birthday it is, then the woman I’ve just seen could be the one!”

“The one what?”

“For one thing, the one whose birthday it is—the H in the diary. And also, she could be the one who wrote the diary.” Jonathan was delighted with his clever deduction.

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“You’re talking bullshit.”

“I don’t care,” he replied with a laugh. “I don’t give a damn.”

“Just let me get this straight: so you’re saying that if no one here is celebrating their birthday today, it could be that the woman you’ve just fallen head over heels in love with is also the author of the diary.”

“You got it!”

“But even if it is her, it doesn’t get you anywhere. You don’t have any idea who the diary belongs to.”

“Exactly.”

Leopold sighed. “Then I don’t understand how you think it will help you find the woman.”

“Neither do I,” Jonathan admitted, still smiling. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“I’m sure you will.”





54

Hannah

Friday, March 16, 3:47 p.m.

“Hannah! Hannah! Hannah!” No sooner had Hannah entered Little Rascals than four little kids stormed up to her and wrapped themselves around her legs.

“Hey, careful! You’re going to knock me over!” Hannah realized she was fighting back tears. Apart from that one attempt, when she’d abruptly left after only a few minutes, she hadn’t been here for three months. That was an eternity for little children—at their age it must feel like ten years. Yet here she was getting such a warm welcome from her tiny charges, as though she were the most important person on earth.

Her wildly churning emotions included shame. She had simply abandoned these children, who’d become so attached to her in such a short space of time. Left them and hidden away in her apartment to wallow in self-pity, forgetting what really mattered in life. And what really mattered was the joy and happiness these children gave her on a daily basis—and which it seemed she had also given them in return! Yes, Simon had rejected such joys, but that didn’t give her the right to do the same to the people who were important to her.

Before Hannah could lose herself in a sea of self-reproach, a pair of arms suddenly caught her from behind and held her tight. Now it was impossible to prevent a tear escaping. She knew who it was without turning.

“Mama!” She did turn, of course.

“Darling.” Her mother’s voice trembled as she gently touched her hand to her daughter’s cheek. “I’m so pleased to see you here!”

“I know—you simply couldn’t handle the little terrors without me.” Hannah’s attempt at a joke was swallowed by the cracks in her voice. It took a huge effort to prevent herself from breaking out in uncontrolled weeping in front of the children, who were watching the scene intently. Sybille, normally the embodiment of vitality and joie de vivre, looked as worn out as Hannah felt. Her red hair, which her daughter had inherited, looked lifeless and seemed to be threaded with far more gray than Hannah remembered. Her skin was pale and wan, her light-green eyes devoid of their usual shine. Hannah once again felt a pang of shame—was this her doing?

Her mother drew her close again. “It’s all going to be better from now on,” she whispered.

“Yes, it will,” Hannah replied, her voice also a whisper. She drew back from her mother and smiled bravely. “After all, it’s my birthday today!”