The fact that they were still good probably meant they were more preservatives than nourishment. So much for health food.
Satisfied that would tide me over until… I looked around for some kind of literature that might mention when breakfast would be served downstairs. The drawers were empty, but there was a flyer-style info sheet framed and hung on the wall. Seven o’clock. A little over six hours. I told myself I could make it if I kept myself distracted and drank the entire two-liter bottle of water that had been left as a thoughtful touch - for an additional five pounds.
I brushed my teeth, pulled out the clean clothes I’d planned to wear in the morning and, by that, I meant when it was light outside, and looked out the window to the parking lot below to make sure Romeo was okay. He was fine. I suppose I’d decided that Romeo was a male obscenely expensive and gorgeous car because of the voice. I reread the letter from the solicitor several times while questioning what in holy schmoly I was doing.
Then I turned on the TV, lowered the volume, and began the search one channel at a time. Talking heads and “Torchwood”. I didn’t know anything about “Torchwood” but I knew I wasn’t in the mood for world news in the middle of the night.
By six o’clock I’d found that, indeed “Torchwood” had been a distraction, and I was a guilty-pleasure-type fan.
A bath and fresh clothes went a long way toward making me feel presentable. Hopefully, breakfast would top me off and give me the confidence I’d need to complete the drive to Hallow Hill, with stops on the way for snacks. Lots of snacks. I’d learned a valuable survival lesson. Never be caught away from home without portable food.
At six forty-five I was sitting at a table by the parking lot window waiting for the breakfast bell. I had scrambled eggs with tomatoes and coffee. I’m not a connoisseur, but still, I wished I’d skipped the coffee. I said, “This bread is toasted on both sides.”
The server looked blank, but said, “Yes. Isn’t that the usual way?”
I said, “Not according to Sting. ‘Englishman in New York’.”
“Hmmm,” he said and moved off.
At seven thirty I returned the key to the pub bar and headed for the door with my tote over my shoulder, wearing the kind of thick black jeggings that hide a history of good times, an oversized white knit sweater that fell to mid-thigh, and a long aqua scarf that people say brings out the turquoise in my eyes. I was more nervous than excited, but eager to see what the day would bring.
“Good morning, Mad… I mean Rita,” said Romeo, as I got behind the wheel.
“Hey. So. Who’s driving? You or me?”
“I’m very sensitive and fun to drive on two-lane roads, but if you prefer to sightsee, I will drive.”
I decided I could test out Romeo’s sensitivity another time. Since he’d done such a good job of getting me thus far, I said, “You drive.”
“Excellent choice.”
“How far is it?”
“Four hours. Some of the roads are narrow and what some would call off the beaten path.”
“Carry on then.” I don’t know if Brits actually say that, but it felt like going native to say it out loud.
Half the trip was spent on the kinds of roads I’d only seen in sports car commercials. Curving and narrow blacktop flanked by gray stone walls cut across undulating hills complete with grazing sheep and buildings that looked like movie sets in period films. By eleven, we were pulling into the village of Hallow Hill.
It was a fairy tale. I found myself in amusement-park mode thinking what a marvelous job they’d done of recreating a charming English village and had to remind myself that it wasn’t a knockoff.
The center of the village was a large cobblestone circle surrounding a green with a garden in the center. The fact that there were no cars in sight added to the nineteenth-century look.
Romeo didn’t answer, but came to a stop in front of Hallows Antiques and Treasures.
“Would you like me to ring Miss MacHenry?”
“Um. Yes?”
“I should really park in the rear. Autos aren’t allowed here at the village center.”
Before I had a chance to answer, an Irish woman said, “Hello?”, in a charmingly pronounced accent.
I waited for Romeo to answer since Romeo had placed the call. When he didn’t, I finally said, “Hello. I’m Rita, um, Hayworth. I’m here about…”
“Oh, I know what you’re here about. Come in. The car can park itself in your garage.”
A series of short dashes indicated that the call had ended. I decided to bring my purse and leave the rest. After all it was headed to “my” garage.
“Romeo,” I said. “Do you know where, um, my garage is?”
“I do.”
“And will you be able to park there without any further assistance from me?”
“I will.”
“I’m taking the key fob thingy.”
“Very well.”
“That’s not a problem for you?”
“I don’t require the… key fob thingy to follow your instructions.”
“That’s kind of amazing.” I gave myself a mental shake when I realized that, in less than a day, I’d added talking to a car like it was alive to talking to myself. I wasn’t sure which was worse. “Alright. Watch my luggage.”
“Your luggage is safe with me.”
Not sure why, but I believed him.
I stopped and looked at every item in the display window then tried to see into the dark store beyond. It wasn’t huge and may have been made to seem smaller because it was crowded with all manner of collectibles. But my attention continually returned to the red shoes in the front window.
They were bright and glittery and seemed completely out of place, more like they belonged in a party store. Maybe that’s why they drew my attention.
“Mrs. Hayworth.” Turning toward the voice from the car phone, I saw a woman a few years older than I open the shop door and step out onto the sidewalk. “Welcome. Welcome. I’m Maggie. How was your journey then?”
“Very nice,” I said. “It’s, um, Ms. Hayworth.”
“Oh sure. Sure. O’course ‘tis.”
“But it doesn’t matter because I’d rather you call me Rita.”
“Very well. Rita’s a fetchin’ name. That scarf makes your eyes look very blue.”
I wasn’t sure whether to say thank you or not because saying my eyes look blue wasn’t necessarily a compliment. “That’s the consensus,” I said and hoped the correct response wasn’t thank you.
Waving me inside, she said, “Well, come have a look at your new life.”
That brought me up short.
Wait.
I agreed to take a plane ride and see what this was about. I didn’t agree to a ‘new life’. Granted, I did accept a one-way ticket. But I reasoned that I had enough socked away to get myself back in coach class, probably in a middle seat between two large smelly guys with advanced cases of armrest and leg spread entitlement.
I stepped in. Antique shopping wasn’t a hobby, but I had been in stores with old things. None like this. I didn’t have a dealer’s eye, but I did have a degree in art history that has done nothing but gather dust. God. It seemed like that was a hundred years ago. Some of that education must have soaked in because I felt like I could sense that some of the inventory items were were real treasures. Expensive. Rare. Unique. Maybe even all.