“Stop it. We’re just friends, okay?”

Maddie dropped the garment bag she was carrying onto the couch and sat down.

“No, seriously, Mom. This all seems awfully romantic to me. You send each other notes? He sent you a tiara?” Maddie looked at the flowers in the vase on her counter. “Did he get you those flowers, too?”

Vivian adjusted her tiara.

“No, I bought myself the flowers.”

Maddie’s eyebrows went up.

“You bought yourself flowers? That’s unlike you, in a good way. Anyway, I think this guy is seriously falling for you.” She stared at Vivian, all mockery gone from her face. “Are you falling for him?”

Vivian didn’t let her smile flicker.

“Madeleine. I’m not a ‘falling for a stranger on vacation’ kind of person. You know that.”

Maddie sighed.

“I know, I know. I just want you to be happy, Mom.”

Vivian hugged her daughter.

“I know you do.”

But when Maddie left, Vivian sat back down on the couch with a thud.

She couldn’t be honest with Maddie, but she had to be honest with herself.

Yes, she was falling for him. Even though she wasn’t a ‘falling for a stranger on vacation’ kind of person. Even though he was over five thousand miles away.

She thought of the note he’d included with the tiara and smiled to herself. Maddie didn’t know the half of how romantic it had all been. But it wasn’t just the tiara and the notes. It was the way he saw her, for who she was. The way he listened to her. The way he celebrated her.

Well. She was doing what made her happy now, wasn’t she?

She poured herself a glass of wine and picked up a pen.

Chapter Seventeen

Malcolm pulled into his garage after a long day at work. They were in the midst of plans for Trooping the Colour in June, in addition to monitoring the daily ups and downs of Parliament, and all the other regular government business. Speaking of, a hilarious thing had happened that day in an ambassador’s audience with the Queen that he dearly wanted to tell Vivian about, but it was too sensitive for a postcard.

She’d texted him that fantastic photo in her tiara last week in the middle of the night, and the next morning, he’d told her how fabulous she looked and how he was glad it looked like she was enjoying her gift, but she hadn’t responded to that. He hadn’t exactly expected her to; the two of them weren’t much for texting. But the tiara picture was a special occasion; maybe his bit of gossip he couldn’t share with anyone else could be one, too?

When he reached into his mailbox, he felt the corners of the postcard there and smiled. Maybe her postcard would give him another excuse—not excuse; reason, he meant—to text her.

He walked in the door of his flat and sat down on the couch.

Malcolm—Thank you for the tiara, and everything you said. Since I made one big leap of faith recently, I’m going to make another one now: I’m falling in love with you. It feels ridiculous to say that—we’ve only known each other for a couple of months, after all. But now you have me thinking about what makes me happy—a dangerous thing to think about!—and I realized one of the answers is you.

Vivian

 

He must have read that too quickly. He must have gotten it wrong. He read the postcard again and dropped it face up on the coffee table.

This was impossible. Why did she tell him this? What did she expect him to do with this? They lived over five thousand miles away from each other. How was he supposed to handle this?

He went into his kitchen and poured himself a finger of scotch.

She couldn’t have fallen in love with him. She liked him a lot, sure; he liked her a lot, too! That’s why his original idea that they visit from time to time and have a fun week of adventure and good food and excellent sex was such a good one!

Why did she have to spoil everything by bringing emotions into it?

And no matter what he felt for Vivian, he couldn’t uproot his life! He was too old for that! He had a job, and a flat, and a car, and a nephew who still needed his guidance. People like him didn’t just do things like “fall in love,” especially not after a Christmastime holiday with a visiting American. The whole idea was ridiculous.

He dropped a magazine on top of the postcard so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

Two weeks later

Malcolm walked into his flat with Miles. They were having one of their old-style weekend days—they’d spent the morning playing tennis and planned to watch a football match later this afternoon. For now: lunch.

He’d stopped to check the mail on the way into the building, but there was nothing from Vivian. Every day, he hoped he’d get another postcard from her, one that said she’d been joking, she hadn’t meant it, or better yet, pretended she’d never said it in the first place, and was just another one of her funny, warm, heartfelt postcards, and they could continue on like they had been. But it had all been silence.

He hated that now every time something happened throughout the day that he wanted to tell her, he had to catch himself and remember that he couldn’t. He was angry at himself that life felt so stale, flat, and unprofitable without Vivian to write to and think about and plan for. He still caught himself sometimes; he’d slow down as he walked by postcard racks, searching for one he didn’t already have, before he remembered.

He wished there was something he could do to make it go back to the way it was.

He sighed and dropped their sack of sandwiches and crisps on the kitchen counter.

“Beer?”

Miles flopped on the couch like he was boneless, in that way teenagers did. From looking at him, you’d think he was completely exhausted, and not like he’d beaten Malcolm in two out of three sets, and had pushed for more.

“Do you even have to ask?”

Malcolm laughed and shook his head. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, even have to ask. He opened two bottles and brought them over to the living room, along with the food. And a stack of napkins.

They turned on the football match and ate while they both looked on and off at their phones, and Miles flipped through one of the magazines on the coffee table. They didn’t say much, but it was a good silence.

In the past couple of months, they’d talked a lot. He’d asked Miles challenging questions, about what would happen if he failed, about what his backup plan was, about how he would support himself in the years to come. But Miles had had answers, thoughtful answers, to all of those questions. He hadn’t made this decision on a whim; he’d thought a lot of these details through, he knew what the dangers were, and he was ready for them.

Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and shook his head at the news alert, then sighed when he clicked on it and read the whole article. Parliament couldn’t just take a break on the weekends, could they? This was going to make his week much more complicated.

“What’s this?”

Malcolm looked up. Miles had Vivian’s postcard in his hand.

Fuck.

Malcolm reached for it, but Miles was faster than him. He jumped up and kept reading as Malcolm tried to snatch it away.

Fuck fuck fuck. Why had he left the postcard on the table in the first place? He knew why—he didn’t want to pick it up and have to see it again, so he’d just left it there and covered it with more and more magazines. When did Miles decide he was so interested in reading magazines that he got to the bottom of that stack?