‘Yep, Cape Horn nearly killed me.’
‘And you have one brother?’
‘Michael,’ he said. ‘Married with three kids, lives in Chicago.’
‘And your parents are still alive,’ she said, reading the notes he had written in front of her.
‘Yes, very active, Age doesn’t faze them at all,’ he laughed.
‘You have been at auctions at Cranfields before, you wrote here.’
‘Yes, many, I always skulked at the back. But I did notice you before the day we spoke.’
‘Really? I never noticed you.’
‘I noticed you. I tried to talk to you before but you were always busy, rushing off, I never found a chance.’
Grace was quiet, she didn’t remember him. Why would she? He was just another person in the crowd, anonymous in his jeans and sweatshirt.
‘I remember you once, you were wearing a pale blue dress and you had a ribbon in your hair. I thought it was so pretty and carefree.’
Grace remembered the dress and the day her hair had annoyed her so much, she had taken a ribbon from the wrapping room and tied back her hair.
‘You should have said hello,’ she said softly.
‘I should have done many things, Grace.’
She hung up the phone and cried into her pillow, and then fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of Frank on his bike but wearing his suit, chasing her through the streets of New York, holding the sand crab in one hand.
When she woke up, she felt more tired than before. She sat up on the side of the bed and saw a note slipped under her door. She picked it up and opened the envelope.
Dinner tonight? Please say yes.
Francis William Thurlow.
Grace sighed and held onto the note. Then she went to the desk in her room, pulled out the hotel stationery, and sat down and started to write. She wrote enough to cover the six pages back and front and then rang the front desk for more. She wrote about her mother, Spencer, Leon, her drinking and her sisters. Her dreams of opening an art gallery, and her nightmares of Matthew. She was exhausted when she finished and took the letter over with her to Frank’s suite.
Frank had organised dinner in his suite, a cottage on the beach. The table was set up in the courtyard and for a moment Grace thought it looked perfect and then she remembered why she was there.
‘Champagne?’ he asked nervously.
‘Champagne is for celebrating, Frank,’ said Grace sadly. ‘Mineral water will be fine.
She sat at the table and felt the warm breeze blow over her face. She had dressed carefully. A simple, yellow printed Diane Von Furstenberg silk sundress with gold sandals. She hadn’t wanted to look like she wanted to give Frank any ideas, and this was the most demure dress she had packed. No makeup and no jewellery.
Frank poured her drink, placed it down in front of her and sat down. She reached into her bag.
‘You need to read this and when you are done, then we can talk.’ She handed him the envelope with his name on the front.
Frank opened the letter and read it in one sitting, not reacting to any of the explanations or emotions. When he finished he put it down.
‘The past is a son of a bitch, huh?’
‘Is that it? Is that all you have to say?’ asked Grace amazed.
‘What else is there? You have had some shit things happen to you, Grace, but then so has all of the world. It’s in your past and you have this extraordinary chance to start anew. Take it and run.’
‘With you?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.
