The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

beans into a grinder and turned on the kettle. At my blank expression, he said, “A French press.”

I glanced behind him to the counter to make sure there wasn’t a regular drip machine or a Keurig. “As long as it has caffeine, I’m good.”

He shook his head slightly as he scooped in the coarsely ground coffee and poured in hot water, then pressed down the lid.

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” I said.

“Some things are worth it. I suppose that’s why fast food was invented in America. It’s not so much the taste and experience, but the haste in which it can be prepared and consumed.” He pulled out two mugs and a pint of milk and set them on the counter.

I wanted to argue with him, but I was useless before my first cup of coffee. And he was probably right.

Leaning against the counter, he said, “I already spoke with Arabella. She didn’t want to disturb you if you were still sleeping.”

Another text vibrated my phone, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“She’ll be here shortly to go over some of the outfits she’s selected for the exhibit, although she’s sure Nana will have her own opinions and will most likely request more or different ones. There are quite a few boxes down in the storage room that I will be happy to bring up after work, but there are plenty already in the spare room down the hall to get you started. Arabella thought you might use Nana’s memories of when she wore each outfit and what was going on in London at the time as a framework for your article—her words, not mine.”

Colin turned around and poured milk into the largest mug, then poured in the coffee before handing it to me. I accepted it gratefully and took a sip before looking up with surprise. “How did you know how I like my coffee?”

He looked at me over the rim of his cup. “I suppose I have a good memory.”

There was something in his voice that made me look away, feeling as if I’d just been scolded.

“Why did you decide to become a freelance journalist? At university, you and your camera were never apart. I thought you wanted to be a famous photographer.”

“I did. Once. And I still love taking pictures—I actually brought my Hasselblad with me, and I’ll take photographs of Precious and the clothes for inspiration. I know Arabella will use the magazine’s professionals for anything that will go in the actual issue. But I still love photography—can’t really imagine ever stopping.” I took another sip of my coffee, feeling the steam brush my nose. “I guess at some point I realized that the written word is sometimes needed to complete the story that a photograph has begun.”

I allowed a smile to creep across my face. “I’m surprised you remembered that about me.” I’d almost used the word “embarrassed.” Not because he had remembered so much, but because I hadn’t remembered very much about him. That had been intentional. Because there was a lot about Colin Eliot that I’d wanted to remember and hold on to. Or would have if life was different and I was meant to have long-lasting relationships.

“Like I said, I have a good memory.” As if to change the subject, he said, “I forgot to mention—there are several boxes containing miscellaneous items that belonged to my grandmother Sophia stored at my parents’ town house in Cadogan Gardens. Papers and letters, maybe a few photographs—that sort of thing. Arabella thought they might be helpful for your article.”

I nodded eagerly. “Definitely. They could provide some background for the era. When can I go collect them?”

“It would be easier if I brought them here—I still have my ancient Land Rover.”

I smiled in surprise. “I remember that—your parents gave it to you when you went to university. And it was practically prehistoric back then, right?” An old memory hit me. “I remember being driven back to my room more than once from the local pub. You were always the designated driver, I think.” I stared at him, recalling something else. “Did you drink?”

He reached for my empty mug and turned his back to refill it so I couldn’t see his expression. “Someone had to be sober. You couldn’t even manage a pint before your knees went soft. You’re also rather talkative when you’ve been drinking.”

“I am?”

“Quite,” he said, facing me again and returning my now-full mug. “You once accused me of being a misogynist for carrying you up to your room when your feet didn’t seem to be working properly.”

“I don’t remember any of that. What else did I say?”

He was silent for a moment, thinking. “You talked a lot about someone named Rob. You’d been engaged, I believe.”

The light seemed to dim in the kitchen, but I knew it had nothing to do with the ceiling fixture or the clouds outside. The gloom came from inside of me, from the dark place that I liked to keep hidden. Until someone said something and dimmed the light.

“I told you that?” I asked, my voice sounding thick and unnatural.

“Yes, you did.”

I turned away, spotting a small fishbowl on the counter by the sink, two fat goldfish swimming around inside, happily oblivious that they were headed right back to the place they’d started. “We broke it off.”

“I gathered.”

“He’s married now with a baby girl. He has my dad’s old job teaching English at the high school and coaching the football team.”

“And that’s not the sort of life you wanted.”

I slid my chair back and stood before rinsing my empty mug in the sink. “No,” I said softly.

Colin didn’t ask why, as if he knew I wouldn’t say any more. He joined me at the sink and placed his mug next to mine. “Well, then. I need to get to work. George is with Laura and Oscar, and Arabella will be here soon. I’ll see you later this evening.”

I nodded, not ready to meet his eyes,