Your Perfect Year(107)

“Oh, hello!” the jeweler said in delight. “You’ve heard, then?”

“Um, heard what?”

“You know—that it all worked out.” She laughed. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not getting you at all. What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” Bernadette Carlsen replied, sounding amused. “Your boyfriend came here this morning and bought the rings! He didn’t hesitate for one second when I showed them to him, but simply went for it. I gave him the envelope as well.”

“What?” Hannah’s head was spinning. “It can’t be!”

“I did wonder myself, since you’d said he’d be coming on May 11. But he said his curiosity had been so aroused that he just couldn’t wait until then.”

“But it can’t be true!” Hannah said, more loudly than she’d intended.

“Um . . .” The voice on the other end was more hesitant now. “Did I do something wrong? Shouldn’t I have given him the rings and the letter—should I have made him wait until May 11? I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“It can’t be true,” Hannah interrupted, “because my boyfriend’s dead.”

Bernadette Carlsen said nothing.

“He died, you see?” Hannah continued, a little calmer now. “That’s why it’s impossible that he came to buy the rings.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Hannah said. “I called to tell you that there was no need for you to reserve the rings anymore.”

“Yes, but . . .” She paused. “So who was the man who came into my shop earlier?”

“That’s what I’d like to know! Did you ask his name?”

“No, of course I didn’t. I simply assumed he was your boyfriend. He had the diary with him and even showed me the entry. It all seemed so straightforward.”

“What did he look like?”

“Hmm, good looking, if you ask me. Tall, dark hair, a touch of gray here and there, late thirties or early forties. And he had extremely blue eyes—they were striking.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. “That fits.”

“Fits what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So you don’t mind that I sold him the rings?”

“No, not at all.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m so terribly sorry to hear about your boyfriend. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t worry,” Hannah said. “There’s nothing anyone can say.”

“Then, um . . .” Bernadette Carlsen’s embarrassment was clear.

“Please don’t worry about it. I mean it.”

“Okay, then I hope you . . . well, that you’re okay.”

“Thank you very much.”

They said goodbye and hung up. Hannah stayed slumped on the floor, staring into space. What was going on here? She had just discovered not only that Simon had written a novel ages ago and kept it secret from her, but also that some guy was wandering around with the Filofax, following the entries.

Bernadette Carlsen’s description fit with that of the “customer” who had visited Sarasvati. And it also matched the description of the man in the Lütt Café last Friday—on a day and at a time that were also noted in the diary—who had stared at Hannah so intensely that it made her feel strange. It must have been him; she was sure of it.

It couldn’t be merely a series of coincidences—that was impossible. Something was going on here! Even if it wouldn’t bring Simon back, Hannah was determined to do everything she could to find out who it was.

Fine. This man was living Simon’s “perfect year,” and Hannah hadn’t the slightest clue who he was. One thing she did know. Or two, to be precise. First, he had not only the diary but now also the engagement rings. Whatever he wanted with them. Second, he would show up at Da Riccardo on May 11 at eight o’clock.

He had it coming to him then!





57

Jonathan

Monday, March 19, 6:23 p.m.

Yes. Jonathan N. Grief had a guilty conscience. He had told a lie. And that just wasn’t his way; it never had been. But he’d been given no choice, so he justified it to himself as a necessary white lie, to have led the jeweler to believe he was someone he was not. To have boldly claimed that he was the owner of the diary and therefore the legitimate recipient of whatever had been left for him there. He’d had to make that claim, hadn’t he? After all, it was a matter of . . . of . . . of . . . Of what, exactly?

He didn’t even know for certain that all this had anything to do with the woman in the café. It would have seemed more than peculiar if he had said to the jeweler, “I’m the one these engagement rings were intended for—but could you tell me who arranged for them to be here? A woman with red hair, perhaps? And while you’re at it, do you know her name and telephone number? I’d like to call my future fiancée!”

Sitting in his reading chair, he wondered whether he was in his right mind to be chasing delusional dreams like this. He now owned two rings that clearly hadn’t been meant for him. He had paid for them with his own money, although the moment the jeweler told him they cost five hundred euros precisely, it had suddenly struck him that this was what the money tucked away in the back of the diary was for. He’d been beset by scruples. Buying someone else’s rings might almost be acceptable. But spending his or her money—that was where it went beyond mere fun.