13 Little Blue Envelopes(58)

looked like the back of a purple dragon rising from the bottom edge of the envelope. Now that she was on the water, she understood exactly what it was supposed to be—it was an island.

Granted, a strange picture of an island, somewhat blurry and completely the wrong color. But it was an island nonetheless.

She broke the seal and opened it.

263





#12



#12

Ginny,

Harrods is the kind of thing I think you only

find in England. It’s in a beautiful old building.

It’s traditional. It’s bizarrely organized and more

or less impossible to find anything—but if you

look hard enough, everything in the world is in

there.

Including Richard Murphy.

See, Gin, when I first arrived in London, I was

still on my adrenaline rush. But after a few days,

I realized that I was homeless, jobless, and

broke—which is a really bad combination.

You know me . . . when the chips are down, I like

to go try on fabulous, expensive things. So I went

to Harrods. I spent an entire day having makeup

put on me in the cosmetics department, trying on

dresses that cost thousands of pounds, sampling

perfume. After about eight hours of this, it

finally dawned on me that I was a grown woman

wandering aimlessly around a store like a little

kid. A little kid who had run away from home in a

snit. I had done a serious, potentially disastrous

thing.

I was down in the food hall by that point. I saw

a tall guy in a suit loading a basket with about



fifty containers of incredibly expensive African

honey. I wondered to myself, Who does that? So I

asked him. And he told me that he was putting

together Sting’s holiday baskets. I made some

terrible joke about honey and stinging, and

then . . . then I started crying. Crying over my

whole stupid life and my situation and Sting’s

African honey.

Needless to say, I startled the guy. But he

reacted well and sat me down and asked me what

was wrong. And I explained that I was a lost,

homeless American yo-yo. As it turned out, he had a

spare room that he was about to place an ad to

rent. He offered to cut me a deal—I could stay

there for free until I had some money.

Since you aren’t stupid, I know that you have

already realized this guy was Richard. I moved

into his spare room that day.

Now, I bet I know what you’re thinking right

now. You’re thinking: Well, duh, Aunt Peg. What guy

isn’t going to take advantage of some moron woman

pulling a damsel in distress? And that’s a good

question. Admittedly, I was taking a risk. But

there was something about Richard that I trusted

from the moment I met him. Richard is not exactly

like the usual gang of delightful idiots I tend to



spend my time with. Richard is practical. Richard

likes to have a steady job and a steady life.

Richard does not really understand why wall paint

comes in any color aside from white. Richard is

reliable. Richard never charged me a dime of rent,

either.

It wasn’t long before I had a serious crush

going on. And though he tried to be subtle, I knew

he liked me, too. And then, after a while, I

realized that I loved him.

We lived with this happy arrangement for a few

months. We never acted on it. It was always just

there, under the surface, in the way we passed

each other the remote control or said things like,

“Is that the phone?” I told him I’d always dreamed

of having an attic studio in Europe, and do you

know what he did? He managed to find an old

storage room on one of the uppermost floors of

Harrods. He snuck me in every day so I could paint

and I kept all my work in a cabinet there.

Then one night, he did the worst thing

possible—he told me how he felt.

Now, some people—nice, normal, sane people—

might be thrilled to know that the great guy that

they are in love with loves them back. Because I am

not one of these people, I reacted somewhat badly.



While he was at work one day, I packed up my

things and left. I was gone for months on the

route that you just followed. But when I knew

something was wrong with me, it was Richard I went

back to. It was Richard who took care of me. It’s

Richard who brings me cans of Coke and ice cream

while I sit and write these letters. He makes sure

I take my medication at the right times because

sometimes I get a little confused.

Only one more envelope to go, Gin. There is a

very important task contained in that envelope—the

most critical one of all. Because it is so big and

serious, I am leaving it entirely up to you when

you decide to open it and take it on.

Love,

Your Runaway Aunt