“Jesus, Penelope.” Oliver’s brows furrowed as his eyes pored me over. “I think Graham is a genuine fool.”
I ran my good hand over the top of his soft comforter. “We’re all fools, but between Graham and myself, I was the bigger one.”
“There you are wrong. You’re not a fool, Pen. You may have lost yourself a little bit when you got with him, but you’ll get it back.”
“I’m feeling insecure right now, so I’m just going to take your word for it.”
“There’s a quote from Ernest Hemingway’s Men Without Women that goes ‘The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Agreed,” he said, throwing an arm over his head.
“It is unbelievably unfair that you can be poetic even in your inebriated state,” I teased.
His head lolled toward me and he gave me a devastating smile. It did something to my stomach, that smile. I needed an escape. I began to stand to leave, but he grabbed my good arm. “Do you need help?” he asked me as if he could be useful.
“No, thank you.”
“Good night, Popeye.”
“Night, Ernest.”
The next day, I sat with Oliver as he finished his work and got it ready for shipment. He placed it in a gorgeous blue velvet cloth case and several layered boxes. The last box he bound with linen twine and set that inside a shipping container full of plastic air pockets. It was all so beautifully done. I was so incredibly impressed with his whole setup. He left me at home to ship it somewhere up north and while he was gone, I got an idea.
It was a risk, but I decided it was worth it. With as much care as possible, I set the handbag Oliver made with his sister Zoe on his gorgeous bed, because the light was perfect in the room¸ and filmed it in several sequences, capturing all sides, making sure to get all details, and then returned the bag to its cabinet.
I edited the film and recorded a voiceover highlighting the details of the bag as well as the quality and even spoke about a brief history of his family. I did it in less than an hour then edited it all together. I watched the whole thing and was rather proud of it.
When Oli got home I called him into the room and showed it to him.
“Right. That’s insane, Pen. Did you do all this whilst I was away?” he asked, incredulous.
“I did! Do you like it?”
He nodded. “But what was it for?”
“I think you should market those bags, Oli. I think they would sell better than you could possibly imagine.”
“I don’t know, Pen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh no, I’ve made you uncomfortable. If you don’t want to do it, it’s not a big deal! This video I made on a whim.”
“No, that’s not it at all. Actually, I think it’d be nice to branch off and do something kind of different. Expand my horizons and all that.”
“I sense a but in there.”
“I’m just not sure Dad would want me to is all.”
“Oh, then never mind. No big deal.” I smiled.
“Let’s show Mum and Zoe, though, they’ll love it.”
“Okay, I’ll privately upload it on my server and when you remember, we can get to it.”
“Are you all packed?” he asked me, pointing toward my canvas suitcase.
I stood, balanced on my good foot and saluted him. “Aye, aye, Captain!”
“All aboard then,” he said and grabbed my bag, then looked at it. He smiled at me.
“Be right back,” he said, tossing my canvas bag back down on the bed.
He came back in with the bag and handed it to me.
I giggled. “What?”
“It’s yours. Take it.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “No way!”
“Why the hell not?” he asked, looking genuinely hurt.
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“Bollocks! It’s just a bit of leather. I can make another, and you obviously love it.” I shook my head but he pushed the bag at me. “It’s just been sitting in the cabinet for a year doing nothing. Just take it, Pen.”
I bit my bottom lip and pondered the gift. “What would you charge for this bag if it you were selling it?” I asked.
“What does it matter?” he asked.
“Just tell me. What would you charge for this?”
He wrapped his long hands around the backs of his triceps and shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe six thousand pounds?”
My chin dropped to my chest. “Six thousand pounds?”
“It does seem sort of ridiculous when you hear it out loud, but that’s what I would charge for it. When you put together the history, the grueling training, the tools, and the time, that’s what Finn leather is worth.”
“That is,” I told him, examining the bag, taking in the craftsmanship, then meeting his eyes, “understandable.”
He ducked his head and his cheeks turned pink. “Well, thank you, Miss Beckett.”
I handed the bag over to him. “As generous as it was to offer it to me, I couldn’t possibly take something with that much value.”
“You’re being a brat, Pen.”
I laughed. “Stop, Oli, it’s just too much. It’d make me uncomfortable.”
He sighed. “Right, well, I can’t allow you to feel uncomfortable. I’m English after all. It’d be a betrayal,” he teased.
He set the bag on my bed, grabbed my canvas one, and helped me into the car, loading everything in, including my oh-so-sexy scooter. Oli escaped back inside and locked everything up.
“Road tunes,” he ordered when he’d climbed into the driver’s side.
I held up my phone. “I made a playlist just for this occasion. Get ready to rock,” I told him, grabbing his jack cord and plugging it into my phone.
Blondie’s “The Tide is High” played and Oliver laughed.
“Sit tight,” I told him, bouncing my shoulders and shimmying in my seat, “it’s going to be an eclectic ride.”
“You’re kind of a trip, Popeye.”
Winking at his compliment, I broke into song and took my hair out of its ponytail, shaking out the curls. I stuck a dashcam on his dashboard.
“Just go with it!” I yelled over the music.
He shrugged his shoulders. I checked my makeup in the mirror and flipped it back up then bent forward to turn on the camera. I hoped to use a sped-up version of the footage as part of a montage for the beginning of my next vlog since the girls loved Oli, not that it was surprising, and were requesting more of him. I was happy to oblige.
He turned down the music and asked, “Right. I have to stop for petrol, use the toilet, get sorted. Need anything?”
“That was quite possibly the most English thing you’ve ever said. You’re only missing ‘bugger’ and ‘bloody.’ And no, thank you.”
He stepped out of the car and turned around. “Don’t roll down your window for any of these bloody buggers,” he teased.
“There you go.”
He smiled. “I’m serious, though.”
I saluted him again. “Yes, sir.”
He closed the door and filled the tank, then stepped inside the gas station.
We hit the M4 in record time and arrived in Bray Village in about forty-five minutes. We pulled onto his parents’ gravel drive as butterflies attacked my stomach. I took deep, even breaths to control them. I don’t need this. Please, go away, I begged them. Oli rolled down his window and pressed a button on the receiver box outside a pair of swooping wood gates.
“Bankside,” a posh woman’s accent greeted, “can I help you?”
“Mum, it’s me. I’m a bit early.”
“Oliver!” she shouted. “Come quick, George, Oliver’s here.”
We heard shuffling through the small speaker. “How’s it?” a man’s voice asked.
“Dad, open the gate!” Oli shouted into the receiver.
He sat back i
n the car and looked over at me, happily shaking his head in bogus impatience. The butterflies ensued at an exponential rate. What is wrong with me? I turned off the dashcam and stuck it into my camera bag.
The automatic gate shifted open slowly and our tires popped and cracked against the gravel drive. The house was a cream brick with gables peppered over several terra cotta sweeping rooflines. He pulled around to the left and parked his car facing the river. I waited for Oli to open my door, which was something Graham had never done for me. With every kindness Oliver offered me, the love I thought I felt for Graham fell through to the earth in small bits of burning ash. Oliver was a soothing reminder of what Graham should have been. I was beginning to hope things I wasn’t supposed to hope for with Oliver, which was confusing as hell.
“Ready?” he asked, reaching for me and helping me out of the car.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“What’s wrong, Beckett?”
“I’m not sure?” It came out more as a question than a statement.
“You okay?”
“I just want to make a good impression,” I told him.
“No worries, Popeye. They’ll love you.”
My scooter wouldn’t roll over the gravel, so Oli tucked an arm behind my back and swooped me up beneath the knees. I whooped at the movement and felt my cheeks burn when I spotted three faces in the windows of a pair of French doors facing the gravel drive. My hand went to the seat of my heart-print flowy pleated shorts.
Instead of putting me down in front of the doors like I thought he would, Oli signaled with a nod of his head for his parents to open the doors for me, so he crossed the threshold with me in his arms. I was both thrilled and mortified at the act.
I squirmed down from his arms and he laughed at me, helping me stand, even boldly straightening out my shorts in the back.
He stood. “Mum, Dad, Zoe,” he greeted. “This is Penelope Beckett, a Yank with a terrible mouth who hates English cooking.”
I felt my face flame. “Oli!” I scolded. I turned toward his family. “Those are atrocious lies. I do not have a terrible mouth and, truthfully, though I’m not necessarily a massive fan of English cooking, I would never say that I hated it.”
“How’s that for a qualifier?” Oli prodded.
I refrained from socking him in the mouth, but just barely.
His family snorted and laughed, used to his shenanigans apparently.
“Oliver Finn, you’ve made this poor girl uneasy, you cheeky git,” his mother scolded. She kissed his cheek and faced me.
I stuck out my hand for his mom and introduced myself. “Eleanor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She shook it and smiled so large I genuinely worried it would stick that way. “Mutual, darling.”
When she let go, I reached for Oliver’s dad’s hand and he shook it as well. “George,” he introduced himself. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you. It’s so nice to meet you.”
I turned toward Zoe. “Hello, love,” she greeted.
Eleanor invited us all to sit at her kitchen table for a cup of tea, so Oli helped me to the table and we all sat.
“Oliver told us what happened, dearie,” Eleanor said, gently patting the top of my arm cast after setting my cup in front of me.
She pushed a creamer pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes my direction and I took it from her, helping myself to two lumps and a bit of milk.
“I told them about your fall down that sunken terrace,” he said, not mentioning Graham directly. He let that be my call, which I appreciated. My stomach filled with butterflies again as he looked at me. Oh my God! You have to stop this!
“Yes, it was a terrible night,” I explained to his family. “Penny takes a tumble and all that. I was a little distracted that night.”
“You look to be on the mend, though,” Zoe said kindly.
“I know,” Eleanor said. “How’d you get your hair this way, love?” she said as she reached out to finger a curled wave.
“Takes practice, and now that I have the cast, lots of time.” I laughed. “I enjoy it, so that helps.”
“You’re beautiful, Penelope,” Eleanor complimented. “What say you, George?” Eleanor asked her husband.
He smiled sweetly. “You’re just lovely, dearie,” he concurred.
This is the way of the English. Very complimentary, almost overly so, but oh-so genuine and kind. The eight months I’d gotten to spend there before Graham had left me introduced me to a style of speaking that I had never experienced. I’d grown to really love and respect the English because of it. They were such a wonderful people.
A tall, balding man came into the kitchen towing three children with him. One of those a baby no older than six months or so. I itched to hold her. They were a loud, overdone theatrical performance when they came through. The two older children, a boy and a girl, squealed and ran to their grandparents then realized Oliver was there and ran over to him in shouts and giggles, pulling on his sleeves and kissing on his cheeks.
It took a moment for them to realize a stranger sat amongst them.
“Right. Who’s this then?” the man asked. He turned to Oliver. “Oli, you’ve brought a girl home with you?” he asked. He sounded perplexed.
Oliver laughed.
Eleanor leaned toward me. “Oliver’s not brought a girl home since,” she hesitated, “well, in several years.”
I knew who she meant but kept my mouth shut. “I’m a novelty, eh?” I asked, elbowing Oli playfully.
“In more ways than the one,” he teased.
“I am unique,” I acknowledged, hoping they caught the self-deprecation in my tone.
Oli winked at me and I breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason it felt really important that his family liked me.
Oli remembered himself. “Arthur, this is Penelope Beckett. Penny, this is Arthur, Zoe’s husband.”
Arthur had a jolly face with exaggerated features. His smile was something for the record books and even though he was balding, he was still a handsome man.
“A pleasure.” Arthur introduced himself by offering a hand, which I took.
“Arthur, likewise.”
Arthur sat down next to his wife and gave her a big kiss on her cheek. Zoe laughed.
“How do you two know one another?” Arthur asked me.
All the blood drained from Zoe’s and Eleanor’s faces. I’d wondered if they knew, and their expressions were confirmation of it. I took a deep breath.
“Oh, I dated Oli’s best friend and we recently broke up. Oliver’s been a good friend to me through it all,” I explained away. It was more an attempt at making sure none of his family felt awkward than to diminish what was going on. What was the use of dredging up all the horrifying details? It would do none of us any good.
“Oh, that’s terrible for you,” Arthur offered kindly.
“It’s okay,” I told him through a watery smile. “Rather, it will be okay,” I told him, trying to keep myself together.
Recognizing the emotion in my voice, Arthur changed the subject.
“Come for a visit, have you?” he asked Oli.
“Yes, wanted to see the rug rats,” he said, kissing the top of his baby niece’s head.
“They are gorgeous,” I told Zoe, which made her beam.
“This is Imogen,” Oli said, bouncing the baby in his arms, which earned him a happy squeal. “This is Archie and Sophia.”
“Hello, darlins!” I told them. “Come here,” I ordered.
Sophia bounced in front of me and Archie followed behind. I reached for my bag but realized I’d left it in the car.
“Oh, Oliver! I’ve left my bag. Can you get it for me?”
“Your wish is my command,” he said, handing the baby over to her mother.
“I’ve brought presents,” I told them. “I never go anywhere where children are without any.”
Sophia clapped. “I love pressies!” she told me.
Archie was appropriat
ely excited for any pre-pubescent boy, which is to say he was dying inside but couldn’t actually show it or he’d betray himself as not being the man he wanted everyone to think he was.
Soon Oliver emerged with my bag and I dug out my gifts. I turned to Zoe. “Oli promised me they were allowed candy,” I told her. She laughed and nodded. I turned back to the kids and handed both of them a bag full of funny and sweet candy.
Sophia jumped up and down, and I teared up at the pleasure it gave her. Archie’s face bloomed a little.
“Thank you,” he told me.
“You’re welcome, sugar.”
“Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Sophia exclaimed.
“That was very sweet of you,” Zoe told me. She smiled at her children.
“I have a few nephews and nieces back home. I am quite up to speed on what makes them happy.” I sat back in my chair. “Is there anything better than watching happy children?”
“No, indeed,” Oliver chimed in, enjoying his nieces and nephews. “There is not.”
“May I?” I asked Zoe, gesturing to Imogen.
“Of course not, dearie. Go on then,” she said, handing over the baby.
Oliver helped me situate Imogen on my lap where I could hold her comfortably and smell the top of her beautiful baby head.
“The fountain of youth,” I told the table. I kissed Imogen’s neck and she giggled, making me so happy inside.
I kept Imogen on my lap and we all chatted for half an hour before Eleanor and George got up to start dinner preparations. Zoe and Arthur stood to ration out the candy I’d brought and to clean up any messes their children might have caused, which left myself, Oli, and Imogen at the table on our own.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
I looked at Oliver. “I believe this was just the trick,” I told him, cooing at the baby in my arms.
He smiled that sort of smile that screamed contentment. It was the most mellow I’d ever seen Oliver.