I pick up a card and turn it over.
It’s the Empress.
I’m not one to believe in hocus-pocus. But I get chills all the same.
“Hmm,” Pear says. “An odd one, that, since you’re so decidedly a man.”
“Read the meaning,” Prue says.
Pear scrolls through her phone. “Oooh, fertility and love,” she says.
“I think the universe is telling you to go on Tinder,” Prue says.
But that’s not it at all.
If the universe is telling me anything, it’s: “You’re ready. You know what you want. You knowwhoyou want.”
I don’t say anything to my sisters, as they will delight in mocking me for the rest of my life. Probably deservedly, as it’s ridiculous to take such profound meaning from a random piece of paper.
But I also feel like I’d be a twit not to take the hint.
I make a decision: I’m going to call Hope.
Hope
I find the cozy flat in Devon through an English grad school friend whose mother owns a handful of rental properties.
It’s in a historic limestone building in the center of Torbay with a private garden. It’s a one-bedroom twice as large as my studio in New York, and $800 a month cheaper. I sublet my apartment in Brooklyn and use the difference in rent to pay for my plane ticket to Heathrow.
All I bring with me is a large suitcase and a laptop.
I’ve booked tutoring sessions every weekday afternoon to keep money coming in. The rest of the time is my own, and I am going to finish my book.
When I arrive, I spend the first three days in London with friends. I don’t reach out to Felix or Pear. I need my brain fully focused on my writing while I have this precious time to myself.
As soon as I get to Torbay, I develop a routine. I open my laptop first thing in the morning—after the last eight months of predawn writing, I’ve rewired myself into a morning person—and, with a cup of tea and a plate of toast, pour all my energy into my book. It’s such a luxury to do this at a desk facing the garden in the warm yellow light of my living room, rather than inthe dark in my bed in New York. I keep the windows open and let breeze and birdsong float in.
Even if this book never comes to anything, I know I’ve made the right decision. I needed this. Mysoulneeded this.
The writing comes easily. Thousands of words a day—whole chapters done in one sitting. And the work is good. The sentences are sharp and my protagonist is vivid to me. Plot twists I hadn’t outlined unspool, themes I wasn’t aware I was interested in emerge. For the first time in years, I feel like a real writer.
At lunchtime I go into the village and eat at a cute local cafe. I begin to see the same people regularly, and they give me tips on all the best things to do—beaches to explore, coastal paths to wander, restaurants to try. I don’t know anyone here, yet I feel so much less lonely than I do at home in Bushwick. By the time I get back, it’s morning in New York, so I log on to Zoom to work with my tutoring clients.
After work, I take long walks, have pints at pubs while reading. On the weekends, after I do my morning writing, I take buses to other villages and beaches. My favorite activity is hiking along the paths that trail the seaside cliffs.
One Saturday I decide to do the three-mile hike in Maidencombe. It starts on a sandy beach, and from there you climb into a beautiful forest and walk along red cliffs over the sea. I’m famished by the time I finish the loop, so I decide to walk into the village to get something to eat. I find a cute thatched-roof tavern, order a Brixham crab and cucumber sandwich and a glass of rosé, and sit in the garden in the sunshine.
I realize that for the first time in a long time, I’m happy.
Not “content.” Not “doing fine.”
Happy.
I realize something else: I’m not going to renew the lease on my studio. I’m going to stay here as long as my tourist visa allows and finish my book.
I sit there smiling to myself, doing absolutely nothing except breathing in the sea air and relishing certainty. Making plans in my head.
And then I hear familiar voices.
