Fairytale of New York (14 page)

Mr K was inspirational. He seemed to be constantly surrounded by peace. He
knew
who he was supposed to be. I don’t know many people like that. I know an awful lot of people who are searching for that, though, and I’m one of them. Mr K had the ability to find tranquillity in the middle of the busiest times. One time we had a huge order to complete for a bridal show and I became so stressed that everything I attempted failed. Mr K didn’t shout, didn’t judge. He just walked up alongside me and put his arm round my shoulders.

‘Rosie, take some time. Find some peace now. Listen to Papa.’

I didn’t understand. I asked him
how
I could listen. A broad smile lit up his wrinkled features.

‘Ukochana,
listen to the flowers. They don’t say “Hurry”, they don’t fret or complain. Their colour says “Peace”.’

I didn’t really understand; I still don’t. But I did start to take time out in the middle of my work—to enjoy what I was doing for its own sake. And it works.

Sometimes I miss Mr Kowalski so much it makes my soul ache.

There are people you know all your life who never really make a difference to who you are; others arrive for a short time and change everything. Mr K was definitely one of the latter. He influenced so many people in his own, unassuming way. I actually saw it happen: from the customers that he talked with, to the hours he spent listening to Marnie when she first started at the store—most of which consisted of her pouring her heart out to him while Mr K took it all in—and the way he still encouraged the best out of his former apprentice Ed, always urging him to push his creativity, whilst remaining fiercely proud of everything he did. Not to mention the way he helped me, of course.

Right from the very first day I walked into the store that I would one day call my own, Mr K saw something in me that everyone else had missed. My confidence was at rock bottom; in many ways I’d lost sight of what I was capable of, but Mr K saw it as plain as day. Unlike Ed, or Marnie, or even Celia to begin with, Mr Kowalski never asked why I had come to New York. I suspect he had his theories, but he just accepted me for the person I was.

Mr K was so much more than a father figure to us all. He was confidant, teacher, friend, even devil’s advocate at times. And I needed all of that. My own father had never been around enough to bother about how my life was going and, when he eventually abandoned his family, he stopped
bothering about me at all. In fact, the last contact we had was when he wrote to inform me that he was emigrating and didn’t want to stay in touch. Meanwhile, Mum always had a million and one things to worry about, what with a business to run single-handedly, and my brother’s seemingly genetic capability for causing trouble to contend with—not to mention the pressure of keeping it all together when Dad left.

I think Mr K’s faith influenced a lot of what he did, although I would always contend with him that it was also because of the type of person he was. I remember him smiling at me, his sharp old eyes seeing more than he’d ever let on.

‘Ah, Rosie. Always questioning, always sure of your own belief. It’s good to be an enquirer, but sometimes you have to accept things that are greater than your comprehension. I am what I am because of who Papa is; that I try to make the world a better place is due to my love for Him. You cannot separate the two.’

After all his years of hard work and sacrifice for his family, Mr K had only a year in Warsaw to enjoy his retirement before he died. To me it seemed like such a meagre recompense for a lifetime of work, but his daughter, Lenka, wrote to me after his death to say that he’d never been happier than she saw him during that short time spent in his beloved homeland. Lenka sent me a small leather-bound journal that Mr K had filled with pressed wildflowers—something he did every day during his retirement. I have it on my bedside table and look at it often, reading Mr K’s notes in his elaborate handwriting around the beautifully preserved blooms makes me feel close to him again somehow.

I bound the bouquet now and stepped back. Pulling a chair up, I sat down and checked my watch. It was nine forty-five.
I rubbed my eyes as lack of sleep began to creep up on me. I didn’t hear the door open.

‘You look beat,’ Ed said from the doorway. He might not have held a white flag, but I knew a ceasefire had been signalled.

‘I am. I didn’t sleep well. James is here for a few days and I think I’m conscious of him being there when I’m asleep.’

He held out a mug. ‘Old F sent you this.’ There was the merest hint of a smile. ‘May I bring it in?’

‘Of course.’ I rose to meet him. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll take Mr Jacobs’ order, if you like. I could—uh—do with heading home for a shower.’

‘Sure. Take all the time you need.’

Ed nodded and made to leave. He stopped in the open doorway and, without turning, spoke over his shoulder. ‘You know you’re my true friend?’

My wounds still stung from what he’d said earlier, but I smiled. ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied.

‘I have
news,
Rosie!’ Celia sang as she flew into the shop and swooped to land on the sofa by the window. She was brandishing a beat-up newspaper, which turned out to be a copy of the
New York Post.
‘Look, look, look!’ she pointed excitedly as I sat beside her.

‘Where did you get this paper, Celia?’ I asked as I surveyed the torn, coffee-stained page, which, by this point, was being held about three inches from my face.

‘Somebody left it on the subway train. But that’s not important. Look here!’

‘Hey, great! Bloomingdale’s sale starts Tuesday!’ I exclaimed in mock delight.

Celia whisked the paper away and gave me a stern look. ‘Rosie Duncan, you do
not
deserve me.’

‘But you’re stuck with me anyway, aren’t you? OK, OK, I promise to be nice.’ She brought the paper back and I had to suppress my amusement when I saw exactly what had elicited her attention. ‘You mean you’re reading “Gloria Weinberg’s Word on the Streets” column now?’

Celia pulled a face. ‘You know I can’t abide the woman, Rosie. She dares to describe her gossip-mongering as journalism. She is an insult to the written word. But this one thing caught my eye…’

Underneath a suitably glitzy photo of Ms Weinberg was the heading ‘NY—Oh My!’ and the piece below read:

BIG news of a BIG day in the City…I have it on a VERY reliable authority that the ladies of New York are soon to lose yet another eligible bachelor (
sob
!). Word on the street is that rising star of the publishing fraternity Nate Amie has proposed marriage (at last!) to stunningly beautiful girlfriend Caitlin Sutton. The buzz goes that he poured his heart out to her at her family’s deluxe Long Island residence. My source confirmed that the Sutton family are overjoyed and expect the happy couple to wed in a lavish, star-studded ceremony early next spring. Whilst we single ladies mourn the loss of another adorable young man, we have to send our hearty congrats to the beautiful couple and wish them every success for what is sure to be a very prosperous future.

‘So, no prizes for guessing who the reliable source was, then,’ Celia grinned.

‘Who?’

‘Mimi Sutton, of course!’ Celia studied my expression and took my hand. ‘Rosie, honey, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just he didn’t say anything about it yesterday when he—’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ Celia retorted. ‘Because it’s not true! I met Mimi last night and it was all she could talk about. She said “wheels were in motion” to
make
Nate’s decision
for
him. This was obviously what she meant.’ She stopped. ‘You could at least try to see the funny side of this, Rosie. Nate is too laid-back for his own good. He’ll be Mr Caitlin Sutton before he’s even realised what’s happening. Or, at least, that’s what Mimi’s counting on.’

‘Brent said something about Nate and the press yesterday,’ I began, as a dim recollection formed in my mind, ‘but I can’t remember what it was. He was very concerned about you, though,’ I changed the subject almost as speedily as Celia usually does. I saw her eyes flicker and continued, ‘He says Old Bee Jay is there for you.’

Celia’s expression softened and she wriggled a little in her seat. ‘He is so
sweet.
He shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll call him later. But, Rosie, about your brother…’

Out-manoeuvred once again. I took a deep breath.

‘He sends his love, Celia.’ I saw her expression and stopped joking. ‘He mentioned some trouble he’s in. To be honest, I don’t want to know.’

Celia squeezed my hand. ‘Frankly, Rosie, it’s best you don’t.’

There was something about her tone that sent the little voice in my head muttering worriedly. I decided not to press Celia for any more; in any case, I got the impression that she had no intention of enlightening me further.

‘Gracious—look at the time, honey! I gotta go. I’ll call you tonight. Will you be coming by tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course. Any preference on cakes?’

Celia was already halfway to the door. ‘No—no, I’ll trust
your impeccable taste as always!’ She grabbed me for a huge hug and paused for the briefest of moments. ‘Be careful, Rosie. Don’t get involved. You
mustn’t
get involved, OK?’ And with that, she hurried out.

Ed was gone a long time. When he finally reappeared he had company.

‘…Well, I never knew you were a Mets man. Look, I got tickets for the game next week—we oughta go.’

‘Sure thing, buddy—count me in…Ah, hi, Rosie. Look who I found on the sidewalk,’ Ed grinned. ‘Did you know Nate’s a Mets fan? And I thought I was the only sane individual left in this sea of Yankees.’

Nate smiled. ‘Hi, Rosie.’

‘Hi.’

‘Coffee?’ Ed walked behind me to get to Old F. As he passed he squeezed my arm and said, ‘Mr Jacobs’ wife was blown away by the bouquet, Rosie.’

‘Great.’ I tried to look busy and in control. Which was difficult as inside I was annoyingly flustered and shaky again. Why was that?

Ed made the coffee, followed by his excuses, before disappearing into the workroom. For a moment Kowalski’s was uncomfortably silent. Nate smiled again. I smiled back. I took a deep breath and moved over to the sofa. ‘So—flowers for the woman who has everything…any more thoughts?’

Nate looked both relieved and frustrated as he joined me. ‘Uh, yeah…I’m still trying to get my head round what you said yesterday…about my story, I mean.’

I took a long sip of coffee and braced myself for the answer that would inevitably follow my next question. ‘And?’

His brow furrowed and he appeared to be locked in a battle
with his thoughts. After some time, he turned to face me. ‘Rosie, I don’t know. That’s just it. I don’t know.’

‘Ah…Nate, look—don’t lay too much store by what I said. I mean, yes, it’s important for me to know what a customer is trying to say, but often they have no idea themselves. They just want to send a bunch of flowers. End of story. It’s my job to try and see beyond that.’

Nate’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘So what do you see in
this
customer, Ms Duncan?’

‘Er…’

Why is it that when you are presented with a genuine opportunity to say something truly profound, your mind goes blank? Here I was, faced with a gift of a question from this person who had all of a sudden appeared in my life and made everything—well—
weird,
and now I found myself unable to immortalise my position as Fount of All Things Wise.
Come on, Rosie!
chided the little voice.

‘I don’t know you, Nate,’ I began. ‘I don’t know how you feel about this lady. I’m presuming it
is
for a lady?’

Nate’s eyes were very still. ‘It is for a lady, yes…’

‘Well, I’m not sure what to say.’

The dark eyes remained intent on mine. ‘Please say what you think, Rosie.’

‘Um…it’s just that looking at you…well, you just don’t strike me as a man in love. Not truly, passionately, completely in love.’ I hesitated. Was that too much?

‘Go on,’ Nate insisted.

‘Or, at least, you don’t look like I imagine a man in love to look like. Not that I really know, of course…What I mean is I don’t…um…’ Mayday, mayday, mad Englishwoman in mortal danger of swallowing own foot! I chose a different
approach. ‘I haven’t seen that many people who really look like they’re in love. My maternal grandparents did—even in their late eighties they walked everywhere hand in hand and would frequently finish one another’s sentences. Sometimes it was like they only had one mind between them. But they were definitely in the minority.’ I made a mental list of people in my life: Mum and Dad, Celia and Jerry, James, Ed, Marnie…I could honestly say that I had never seen
any
of them truly in love with someone. ‘This may be wrong, but I reckon if you love someone you shouldn’t need a whole day to determine how you feel about them. You should just…
know,
I guess. That sounds really harsh, doesn’t it?’

Nate smiled but his eyes were far away. ‘No…you’re right. I
should
know. But I don’t. I—just don’t. People think I’m crazy; I mean, Caitlin’s beautiful, obviously. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not all it could be, you know?’

After another silence, the lop-sided grin made a fleeting reappearance. ‘So, what about you, Rosie Duncan?’

The question was a bolt from the blue. ‘Pardon?’

Nate let out a laugh at my befuddled expression. ‘Ha, sorry, did I floor you there?’

I swear he could hear my heart beating. ‘I—I thought we were talking about
your story.
’ Aha, nice move, there—the patented Duncan Dodge™—perfect for avoiding awkward questions. Sometimes it even works…But not today.

The dark eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, we were. But
your story
seems so much more interesting.’

‘Well, I’m not the one ordering flowers.’ A masterstroke.

My opponent held his hands up and laughed out loud, a sound that seemed to warm every corner of the store.
‘Touché
! I surrender! So we’ll talk about me and me alone, then. If that’s
the rule of our conversations I hereby agree to abide by them from now on. But I’ll remain intrigued: how do you know so much about what a man in love looks like?’