The Last Little Blue Envelope Read Online Free Page B

Richard’s only took about five or ten minutes. Keith was very chatty when they first got into the car, rattling on about his plans for Break the Bank . Ginny nodded and tried to act interested in “the collaborative writing process, you know, based on our collective disillusionment with the traditional financial structure, you know, hearkening back to the communal voice in theater that we haven’t had since, you know, the seventies.”
    The rain had let up a little. Now it was fine and misting. Ginny fixed her gaze on the view—the rain, the glimpse of Christmas trees through open windows, the guy with the shopping bags of wine hanging off the handlebars of his bike, begging for disaster. When they pulled up to Richard’s, Keith let the engine run for a second, then reached for the key to turn off the car.
    “So, I’m off home for the next day and a half,” he said.
    “Where is that again?” Ginny said. She was trying to sound casual and unbothered, but her voice was dry.
    “Reading. Just doing the Christmas thing. I’ll be back on Boxing Day and we should . . . we’ll do something.”
    “Cool,” she said. “I’ll be here. Thanks for the . . .”
    She waved her hand to indicate the general miracle of automotive transportation.
    “No sweat,” he said.
    She was halfway up the cracked steps when she heard the car door open. He was leaning sideways across the front seats and waving to her to come back. She returned and leaned down into the opening.
    “Thank you for the book,” he said. “Merry Christmas, yeah?”
    “Merry Christmas,” she replied. And then she turned and skipped up the steps so he couldn’t see the tears that fell freely down her face.

Pairs of Shocks
    The next morning, Ginny woke up in a cold room. She stared straight up the wall, at the strange landscape Aunt Peg left behind—the wall of trash she had collected up and collaged, a jarring vista of different materials, some wrinkled, some smooth, some reflective, all different colors and words and shapes and materials. It was probably supposed to look like something, but from this angle, it was all confusion.
    She was not going to mope. She was going to get up. Today she had to do what she really came here to do. She was in London. It was Christmas. She had a letter to get.
    In the kitchen, Richard had left a cheerful note against a mug about how happy he was to have her here, and how she should think of this house as her own. She opened up her computer, half-expecting a long message from Keith, with an excruciating explanation of the day before, but there was nothing from him. He was on his way to his grandmother’s now. There was one from Oliver, confirming that he would be at the café above Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road at two P.M. That was what she needed to focus on. Getting the last little blue envelope, and getting on with her life.
    She arrived at Charing Cross a full two hours early and wandered down the street of book and music shops. Foyles was a massive place, with a large, urban-folksy coffee bar—heavy wood tables and real cups and wine and cookies and indie newspapers. It was very crowded, so she waited in the corner until a table was free, then claimed it and sat.
    At exactly two o’clock, a tall guy stepped into the café. That’s probably what Ginny noticed first—his extreme height. He was well over six foot. Ginny wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but he turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. He had an angular face and almost jet-black short hair. He wore a long black wool coat, which looked very well-made and expensive, and under that, a gray dress shirt and slightly loose black pinstripe pants. He had a well-worn leather bag with him, strapped over his chest. His face was pale, and he was thin, with dark, intense eyes. Though he had to be somewhere around her age, the effect made him look older and placed him in some unknown territory between stockbroker and rock star. He was, without