Had it been another day
I might've looked the other way
And I'd have never been aware
But as it is I'll dream of her tonight
August, 1963 (two years earlier)
"Since it's Sunday and it's stopped raining, what do you say we whip up some bread pudding?" Grandma Bellamy believed in getting an early start, even on Marisol's first morning in Sussex.
Marisol stretched her arms over her head and swallowed a yawn, squinting from the shaft of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. "You know it's still Saturday in California, right?"
Grandma Bellamy pressed a well-thumbed recipe book into Marisol's hands. "Jet lag hates fresh air and exercise, love, it's the only thing for it."
Within an hour the kitchen was fragrant with nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves. Marisol sat at the mahogany kitchen table, skimming through the Steinbeck travelogue her father had given her for the 5,000-mile journey across a continent and an ocean from Northern California to Southern England. She'd spent most of the flight with the book closed on her lap, turned to the window with her head resting against the fuselage so the businessman next to her wouldn't notice her eyes brimming with tears.
"Your troubles won't follow you if you don't let them." Her father had turned philosophical on the drive from Sonoma to the San Francisco airport. "And when you return, you won't come back to the same old thing. Because you will have changed. Your perceptions will have changed. The river will be flowing while you're gone and you won't come back to the same river."
"I love you, Dad. I'll miss you," she'd said, holding back tears as she waited to board the Pan Am 707 to New York. He'd slapped her on the back so hard her bones rattled and said, "You're a Hemingway, you're tough." Sometimes it felt like her father should have had only sons.
Pushing the Steinbeck aside, Marisol rested her forehead on her crossed arms and closed her eyes, still groggy from passing through eight time zones. When her head was clearer, she would phone her friend Angela so they could meet for lunch and a little shopping on Regent Street. And her twin nieces had been in London all summer. She couldn't wait to get her hands on them.
Alone with her thoughts and the sound of her breath in the private cocoon her arms made, Marisol didn't realize her grandmother had come into the kitchen until she felt the hand rubbing a comforting circle between her shoulder blades. She straightened. "Oh. I almost dozed off again."
"I'm so happy you're here, Pet. The twins have gotten so big! Lucy is as precocious as ever, like her mother, and Sophie is tender-hearted like you were at that age." Grandma handed her a small framed photograph. "This was last month, mind you. They change so fast."
Marisol's reed-thin older sister Margo and her athletic-looking husband Nick were posed at the beach, each holding one of the girls. Everyone squinting into the sun with wind-tousled hair.
"You look so much like your sister in this photo, don't you think?"
They had the same nose, she and Margo. The same little upturn at the end. The same eyes, cornflower blue. The same full lips. But that was where the resemblance ended, at least as far as she was concerned. Where her sister was tall and delicate, Marisol was shorter and curved. They were both blonde and fair, but Margo's hair was sleek and straight while hers was thick and wavy and unruly. You get that from your father's side, everyone said. She had her father's cheekbones. And, sometimes, her father's melancholy.
"I can't wait to see them," Marisol said. "I've missed you, Grandma. We had such good summers here."
Grandma opened the French door to the garden. Her black and white border collies, Lily and Ramsay, bounded inside and over to Marisol, nudging her with wet noses. "That reminds me," Grandma said. "I'm making a mosaic table and I need your help with the design."
"Really? What's it made of?"
"Tiles, sea glass, bits of shells. We'll go to the shore tomorrow and see what the tide brings in." She moved to the oven and cracked the door. "Here we are. When it cools we'll wrap a loaf for you to take to Mrs. A for her tea. You don't mind, do you love? Off you go!"
Ten minutes later Marisol strolled down the quiet lane cradling a loaf of bread pudding wrapped in a towel. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass and the honeysuckle that grew on the other side of an ancient stone wall. A beautiful late summer day, the sky a cloudless blue. A light breeze ruffled her hair and yellow cotton sleeveless dress.
The drone of a small propeller airplane made her look up to see a dozen black swifts diving for flying insects. She watched them climb south and to the sea, gradually disappearing from view.
An older passenger van was parked haphazardly next to the high hedge in front of Mrs. A's house. As Marisol drew closer she spotted messages written all over the sides and windows. The van was nearly covered with words, numbers, and hearts, in shades of red and coral and pink.
Fascinated, she began to read to herself as she closed in on the van:
I love you Johnny!
Ringo—Quit Maureen and call Esme!
Paul very imp. call me JU 2 3651
Bournemouth loves you!
Slow Down Neil!
Neil! That was a name she recognized. Mrs. A's grandson. They had played together every summer until he got too old to spend so much time in the country with his grandparents. So this beat-up van covered in love notes was Neil's?
She circled the van, pausing to read the bright pink writing covering the rear windows. She read 'We Love You Yeah Yeah Yeah!' and shook her head in bewilderment. 'George loves Diana 4ever' was scrawled inside a heart. She lifted a finger to touch the top of the deep red heart. Lipstick?
Just then she caught the briefest reflection of someone behind her. Without warning, a hand closed over her left shoulder and a low, soft voice rumbled in her ear. "Hullo, love."
"Holy sh..." She whirled around and stumbled against the bumper of the van, nearly dropping the bread. A tall, slender young man in tight jeans and a faded black T-shirt held her by the shoulder. It was definitely not Neil. His hand slid down her arm to steady her.
Fueled by an adrenaline rush, her senses were on full alert as she stared up at him. Dark, shining hair, unfashionably long. A day's growth of stubble on his jaw. Wide brown eyes calmly assessed her. Warm fingers wrapped around her bare arm. He smelled like someone just blew a candle out, mixed with clean cotton and a tinge of sweat. Full lips twisted in what looked like more of a smirk than a smile.
"Looking for someone?" He spoke with a lyrical accent she couldn't quite place.
"No. Well, yes...I'm..." She looked at his hand on her arm and her words became a jumble.
A brief flicker toward the van and his gaze settled on her face. "Listen, love, I'll sign for you, no problem, but it's no joy getting lipstick off the windows so if you wouldn't mind just telling me what it is you want to say, and we'll go from there."
"Uhh...I'm sorry, what?" She stepped back and shook off his arm, her heart still racing. She didn't bother to keep the annoyance from her voice. "I nearly dropped the bread pudding."
He leaned around the van, peering up and down the lane. "Did you walk here?" He glanced back at her, noticing the bundle in her arms. "Oh thanks love, I'll have it then, ta," he said, reaching out.
She hugged the loaf of bread tighter. "Oh no you don't."
He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels as he scrutinized her. "Is it for one of the others then, love? Because I'm the only one here."
Marisol looked pointedly at Mrs. A's dark green Ford Anglia parked in the courtyard with the trunk open. "No, you're not." She made an attempt to sidestep him and he stopped her by circling his fingers around her wrist. She stared at his hand on her arm, then at his face. "Are you kidding me?"
His perfectly arched dark eyebrows were knit in a frown. "This is a private home, love. The other lads aren't here with me."
She attempted to shrug his hand away but he held her fast, waiting for an answer. This was ridiculous. "Look buddy, this is getting weird. My grandmother just phoned Mrs. Aspinall so I know she's home, and if you don't stop manhandling me, I know a couple of grandmothers who are going to kick your—"
As he listened his expression underwent a complete transformation, from wary to baffled to amused, and he suddenly threw back his head and laughed.
She tilted her head, staring at him. "Is something funny?"
"You're American," he pointed out, still chuckling.
"Mostly."
He dropped her wrist and ran a hand through his hair. She watched it fall perfectly back into place across his forehead. "Eh, it's been a day," he muttered to himself.
Marisol pointed at the front door, half-convinced he would grab her again if she made any sudden moves. "So...Mrs. Aspinall?"
"Right. Be my guest." He made a broad gesture toward the house and grinned. And for the second time, she almost dropped the bread pudding.
"Marisol Hemingway! Cor, how long has it been!"
Her head jerked up at the sound of a voice she knew instantly. An older version of her childhood friend was standing in the doorway of his grandmother's home, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a toothy grin. "Neil! What are you doing down south? I can't believe it!"
Halfway across the courtyard, Neil lifted her off her feet in a bear hug. The best hug from a man she'd had in a long summer of no man hugs.
"I brought you some smashed bread," Marisol said.
"Come again?"
He set her down and she held out the slightly battered loaf. "From my Gram."
"Oh. Right. She rang and said you were nipping round. It's been yonks!"
"Years and years," Marisol agreed. "Look at you! You grew up!"
He grinned. "And you...well, I can't really call you Flatsy Patsy anymore, can I?"
Marisol gave him a shove. "I chased you halfway to Essex when you called me that."
Neil's blue eyes sparkled. "Should've let you catch me. How's Margo?"
"Still happily married."
"That's unfortunate." He glanced over her shoulder. "So you've met my mate, Paul?"
Marisol looked back toward the Anglia. The scruffy van guy was now sitting on the edge of the open trunk, long legs crossed at the ankles, watching with undisguised interest.
"Kind of..."
"Great! I'll tell Grandma you're here." With that, Neil disappeared inside the house with the bread pudding.
She watched him go with a little smile. Who would've thought she'd run into Neil on her first morning in England? All grown up and good-looking. His friend wasn't bad-looking either, but he definitely had a screw loose and needed to learn some manners. Like how not to stare at strangers and manhandle them. When she turned around, Neil's friend was still staring. Only now he was doing it from about a foot and a half away. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" she said, throwing a hand over her heart. "You have got to stop doing that."
"Could we have another go?" he said, his hand extended. "I'm Paul."
She looked at his hand and then shook it. It was a good hand, much larger than hers, not too rough, not too smooth, and not sweaty. "Marisol."
"Marisol," he repeated. He kept her hand in his while his gaze moved over her face as if he were trying to memorize her.
She felt her cheeks warm as he studied her. Now that he was no longer losing his nut over that van, she realized he was genuinely attractive, with his long dark lashes, straight nose, and full lips curving into a tiny smile. His eyes were a rich amber color with flecks of gold, and his long hair was styled forward in a fringe.
He still held her hand. She tried experimentally to pull it free but he wouldn't release her.
"Sorry I was sort of on edge before. Things got a bit fraught up in London this morning." His accent made his words almost indecipherable to her ears, or maybe she was distracted by watching his lips moving over the words.
"A bit fraught?"
"You could say we've had a rather avant-garde morning with the mobs and the photographers and the police and the bit with the geese. I saw you standing by the van, and I thought...aw, hell it doesn't really matter what I thought." He glanced at the house, then back at her, and grinned.
And she felt like she might need a moment.
If she thought he was pretty before, it was nothing compared to the way his face changed when he grinned. It was like a light switched on behind his eyes, every trace of arrogance disappeared. His sharp features softened, his eyes crinkling the tiniest bit at the corners. That smile. It made her want to smile back.
"Marisol love, what a surprise!" At the sound of Mrs. Aspinall's voice, Paul let go of her hand and stepped back.
Mrs. Aspinall framed Marisol's cheeks with her hands, in that way of someone who has known your family since before you were born. "Just look at you. Aren't you the spit of your mother when she was your age?"
Neil was back, followed by two young girls. "Remember Lizzie? And her friend Molly."
Marisol sized up the blue-eyed brunette grinning up at her. "You can't be Lizzie! You were knee-high to a grasshopper when I saw you last!"
"I'm nearly eleven," Lizzie said, leaning in for a hug.
"Which is old enough to help the boys pack the rest of the lunch." Mrs. Aspinall turned back to Marisol. "You must come to the beach with us."
"Oh...I wish I could, but I literally just got here and I don't know what Grandma wants to do..."
"I'll ring her straightaway. Neil is only here for the afternoon, and you simply must join us." Mrs. Aspinall was back inside the house before Marisol could think of a reply.
"You should come." The low voice next to her ear sent a shiver down her spine. He'd done it again. She turned to see Paul smiling down at her. "It'll be fun."
"Oh...well, the thing is I only just..." She trailed off, distracted by the sight of Neil stopping beside Paul, holding out his hand, palm up, an impatient look on his face.
"The keys, Macca."
With his eyes never leaving Marisol, Paul slid his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a set of keys, dropping them into Neil's hand. "Can you tell me, Nelly, why it has taken you all these years to introduce me to my future wife?"
Excusez-moi?
Neil rolled his eyes and stalked off.
Your future what?
Before Marisol could form more words, Lizzie's friend Molly, a willowy girl with light grey eyes and strawberry blonde hair, bounced between them and grinned a crooked grin at Paul. "I want to sit by you."
"Is that so? You don't get carsick, do you?"
Molly giggled. "No."
Paul swung his attention back to Marisol as Molly skipped away. "Where were we?"
Marisol crossed her arms across her chest and tilted her head. "Does that line ever work for you?"
She watched him cock his head back at her, his brow furrowed. "What line?"
"The one about your future wife."
"Oh." His smile was angelic. "Why don't you come to the beach with me and find out?"
Marisol sighed and looked away, biting her lower lip against a sharp reply. She didn't really have the energy for flirting today. Or any day. But right now what she needed was another nap.
"Where in the States are you from?" he asked amiably.
"California," Marisol said, lifting her hair with one hand and fanning her neck with the other. She should have brought a rubber band to pull her hair up. It hadn't seemed nearly so warm when she'd left the house.
"Ah. I could've guessed. You have the whole California thing going on with the long blonde hair and blue eyes—" His hand described a circle in front of her as he gestured "—and what is clearly a bikini body under that dress. I look at you and I think California."
He stopped, scratched his jaw, and added softly, "Actually I look at you and I think—"
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Molly bouncing up and down on her toes in front of them again. "My mum says I can go to a show next year when I'm twelve."
Paul regarded the girl. "You're a persistent little red-headed thing, aren't you?"
"Girls, get in the car," Neil called.
Paul held open the door to the sedan while Molly and Lizzie climbed in. He flashed another grin at Marisol. "After you, my bride."
She took a step back, feeling a little woozy. It had to be the jet lag. The front door closed behind her, making her jump.
"It's all settled, love. I told Margaret we'd have you home by tea." Mrs. Aspinall handed a large picnic basket to Neil, who settled it in the trunk between a metal cooler and a stack of blankets.
A light breeze cooled her neck and she let her hair fall to her shoulders. This day was turning out to be nothing like Marisol had expected when her feet hit the floor of her grandmother's spare bedroom with the tiny pink roses on the wallpaper and the white-painted furniture. She'd expected to wander through the day like a robot as she'd done most of the summer, trying to seem cheerful while her grandmother distracted her with baking and art projects.
Mrs. Aspinall gave her shoulder a comforting pat. The girls giggled and jostled for position on the back seat. Paul waited by the open car door, looking like a lapsed choir boy. Southern England in late summer was turning out to be a lot more interesting than she could have imagined. A whole new river of people and sights and experiences. Nothing to do but dive in.