P.S. It’s Always Been You: A Second Chance Romance

by Lauren Blakely

  “I do. Of course I do. But I’ve only wanted to write to further my career as an art historian. A book makes me more credible, increases my value. I’m not like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve done everything. You’ve climbed every mountain, you’ve written massive best sellers, you produce and star in your own TV shows—you’ve left your mark. My God, you’ve saved a life. Probably more than one. But me?” She taps her chest. “I’m still trying to figure out what my mark is. I’ve been radioactive in my field, it feels like, but finally my luck might be turning.”

  “We can make new luck together,” I urge, hoping she will reconsider. There has to be a way. Another path. “Maybe you can take a sabbatical. You can do some research from the road. We can be together that way. It’s crazy, but maybe not. Maybe it’s what Edward and Greta would have done. What if my next book is some journey I embark on in the US? Some place you’ve been wanting to go for your research. We can be together more.”

  She purses her lips, takes a breath. “I want to be together, Hunter. But this is a lot to think about. You’re asking me to quit.”

  “No,” I say, my voice rising in volume because I want to make us work. I need to find a way. “I’m saying maybe take a few months off. We can figure it out.”

  She takes my hand. “You live in a world where you have complete control. I live in a world where I get a paycheck. And don’t tell me you’ll provide my paycheck, because neither one of us wants that.”

  I hold up my hands, surrendering that point. But I won’t stop trying. “Think about it.”

  The cab pulls up to Sorvino’s on Sixty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue. The address tugs at my mind, but I’m not sure why.

  When we get out of the car, I point to the building. “Does this address seem familiar to you?”

  Her eyes turn playful. “Maybe it’s an old moon-pie factory?”

  I snap my fingers, grab my wallet, and fish out the receipt from this morning. The frequency seems to change; the air starts to buzz. “The price of the sign was sixty-two dollars and five cents. And we’re on Sixty-Second and Fifth.”

  35

  Presley

  The sky is raining caterpillars.

  Bus tires are made of yarn.

  Tree branches droop from the weight of titanium leaves.

  And Pat fed us another clue?

  The last feels more unlikely than the most unlikely of scenarios.

  We’ve already figured out where the last letter was. So why on earth would he drop that detail? That random, pointless detail?

  “It has to be a coincidence,” I say, trying to make sense of this new wrinkle as I stand on Fifth Avenue outside Sorvino’s.

  “But that’s a helluva coincidence.”

  “Yes, true. But how would he know we’d be here? And look, even if he did—maybe we mentioned it somehow—this place is not and never was a Broadway theater.”

  “We didn’t mention the gala, Presley,” Hunter says, low and ominous. Cue the foreboding music.

  “What are you saying, Hunter?”

  His eyes swim with questions. “I’m saying something is up. It’s like when I’m out in the wilderness, and I can sense someone or something nearby.”

  “But life is full of coincidences. We met in the first place because of coincidence. We happened to be in the same museum at the same time.”

  “True.” Then he shakes his head, doglike. “Enough about Pat.” He takes my hand. “Let’s talk about all the things I’m going to do to your beautiful body on those long weekends when I’m back in New York.”

  As we go inside, he whispers possibilities in my ear. My mind swirls with images of midnight encounters, stolen Saturdays, and Sundays lolling in bed with this man. We’ll wander through Central Park, and pop into art galleries and museums. He’ll have to leave for work, and I’ll put him on a plane, my heart heavy but also full, since when he returns, he returns to me.

  Once we’re inside, a waiter circles by, and Hunter grabs two glasses of champagne then toasts to us. As the bubbly tickles my nose, I watch a woman with big brown eyes drop a kiss on a man’s cheek then swing our way solo, sweeping Hunter into a hug. She can only be his mother. She has the same eyes. Chocolaty, warm, inviting.

  “Mom, I want you to meet someone. This is my date. Presley Turner,” he says, proudly. “Presley, this is my mother, Barbara.”

  I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. I’ve never met her before, and I want to make a good impression. I want to be worthy in her eyes.

  She turns to me, her smile knowing. “Pleasure to meet you, Presley. I’ll have to introduce you to Jesse as soon as he’s done.” She gestures to the man she just kissed.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, and I look forward to meeting Jesse too,” I say.

  As Barbara extends a hand, Hunter continues talking. “Actually, Presley is more than my date. She’s the woman I’m in love with. I leased a place in the city so I can see her more when I’m in town.”

  His mother squeals then covers her mouth. “Forgive my exuberance,” she says when she drops her hand. “Does this mean you’ll be cutting back?”

  Hunter chuckles. “You’ll never stop, will you?”

  His mother’s smile exudes hope, and she echoes, “Does it?”

  I step in to answer for him. “I don’t know that anyone can pry him away from his adventures. Or that anyone should. I’m just glad I’ll get a little bit of him. But I’ll share him with you.”

  Barbara casts her eyes toward her son. “I like her. Keep her.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  We make small talk about the event for a few minutes, then a tuxedoed man with brown skin and a dazzling white smile strides over. Vikas Winters claps Hunter on the back then pulls him in for an embrace. “So glad you could make it,” the older man says. “Did you narrowly race across a collapsing bridge before catching your plane?”

  “No. It was a bridge on fire. But I saved the whole crew,” Hunter says.

  “Not the neighboring town too? Slacking off, eh?”

  “Clearly I’ll need to up my game.”

  When they separate, Vikas cuffs him on the shoulder in that affectionate way fathers have with sons. Hunter was right. Vikas hasn’t replaced his dad, but he’s clearly become vital in his own right in Hunter’s life.

  “You look strange in a tux,” Vikas says.

  “You’re one to talk,” Hunter says.

  After introductions, Vikas kisses my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says in a lovely British accent.

  He surprises me—not the accent, because I knew he was born in New Delhi, raised in London—that he knows about me. “I hope it’s all good.”

  “It’s all great.”

  Hunter offers a sheepish shrug. “Remember when I told you I reached out to Vik about something recently?” He asks, reminding me of our conversation at the diner.

  “Yes, but you didn’t say what it was.”

  “It was the chute, and how after it malfunctioned, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I asked him for advice. Asked him what to do about the fact that I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

  My skin warms, and I lift my chin toward Vikas. “And what did you tell our wild adventurer?”

  Vikas grins impishly, like he has a secret. “It’s not what I told him that matters,” he says. “It’s what he tells you.”

  Hunter squares his shoulders and answers Vik, but he looks at me. “Don’t you worry, old man. I told her I love her. I told her I want to be with her.”

  The grin on his mentor’s face ratchets up ten more degrees. Vikas looks as pleased as the devil. “You’re a smart man.”

  Hunter wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Told you Pat was wrong. I am smart.”

  “You’re brilliant,” I say, dotting a kiss to his nose as his mother watches, looking thrilled.

  “On that note, we’ll excuse ourselves for a refill. So glad you’re in his life,” Hunt
er’s mom says to me, and I reply, “Me too,” then she tugs Vik away.

  A few seconds later, someone taps my shoulder. Expecting Hunter’s mother has something to add, I turn.

  But it’s my boss.

  What’s he doing here? “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Daniel is practically bouncing, his blue eyes like sparklers. “Given our Vikas connection, I thought it was vital. So I snagged a last-minute ticket. And then I came to find you. I have extraordinary news. It’s about Oliver, the London businessman.”

  “The gentleman you’ve been talking to?”

  “Yes. He handles a number of high-end estates here in the US, and I just struck a deal to partner with him. We’ll be able to expand. I’ll be able to start a whole new division dedicated to exactly the kind of work you’ve been doing on the Valentina estate—archival hunting through American art and collectibles.”

  Now I’m ready to bounce too. “That’s fantastic.” I’m beaming, I can feel it—this is a far cry from Corey Kruger letters.

  Daniel points at me. “I want you to head it up.”

  This is the kind of opportunity I’ve been searching for. Something big, something meaty. This is why I busted my butt—in hopes that someday I’d have this.

  “I’d love to,” I answer. Because what else would I say?

  He rubs his palms together. “Great. I hope you don’t mind that it involves some travel.”

  “Travel is cool.”

  “Actually, more than some,” he amends. “You’ll be on the road nearly all the time. Traveling all over the US. Visiting estates. Cataloging them. Going to small towns. The schedule will be unpredictable, and you’ll be working a lot of weekends. But there’s no one better to do it.”

  I glance at Hunter, and we exchange a moment of keen awareness at what this means.

  We now have two complicated jobs. Two complicated schedules. It will be twice as hard to make this work.

  36

  Hunter

  It’s not a lie, I swear.

  It’s the truth when I meet her gaze and say, “I’m happy for you. Take it.”

  When I say, “I’m so damn proud of you,” that’s the farthest thing from a lie.

  Same when I haul her in for an embrace, whispering into her ear, “Told you you were a superstar.”

  And I mean it when she pulls back, lashes wet, with a question or protest on her lips, and I say again, “Take it.”

  Then Daniel tugs her away, saying he wants to tell her about the job, to call Oliver, to share more details.

  “Go,” I tell her with a smile. “I want you to.”

  But that . . . that is the lie. I don’t want her to go.

  And yet, I have to let her. This is her dream. I thought it was writing books, but I was wrong. Her dream is more houses, more art, more history. It’s cuffs rolled up, pencil on her ear, iPad at the ready. It’s recording details, learning, cataloging.

  Her words from earlier today echo a reminder of her true heart’s desire.

  There’s also a part of me that would love to explore this country. Take a road trip. Stop in small towns. See all the little artifacts and art and collectibles that tell you about the people there.

  This is her chance, and I can’t stand in her way. I’ve had so many opportunities, and I’ve seized them all, bitten down and savored every morsel with no regrets.

  But my selfish heart is heavy because I don’t know how we’ll make this work. So I do what a man’s gotta do.

  I head for the bar, where Vik waves me over, a drink already waiting for me.

  He eyes my attire. “Your tux is better than mine.”

  “I’ve told you, you need to own one.” This is helpful. Distraction is helpful. Vik’s a charmer and always good for a chat.

  “I do own it, you little brat,” he says with a smile.

  “Brat? This is the thanks I get after I saved your life?”

  “Are you still on about that?” He bows obsequiously. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.”

  I laugh. “I require a thousand more, don’t you know?”

  The heaviest sigh in the world falls from his lips. “Lord help me. I’ll never get over this life debt.”

  I stare at the ceiling, considering. “No. You probably won’t.”

  “In that case, I see no reason not to add to it by asking for your jacket.”

  I look at him like he’s gone mad. “Why do you want my jacket?”

  “I like it better. I want to wear it when I accept my award.” He nods to the stage in the adjoining ballroom. “Do an old man a favor, will you?”

  “You’re not that old. And I don’t think we’re the same size.”

  He proffers a bicep like he’s Arnold Schwarzenegger. “I’ve been pumping iron.” He waggles his fingers. “Hand it over.”

  The woman I love is taking a job that’ll make it damn near impossible to see her. The last letters from Edward and Greta are gone. And an old man I don’t know led us on a wild hunt for who knows what reason.

  I knock back my whiskey, shrug, and take off my jacket. “Here you go.”

  His lips twitch as he removes his and hands it to me. It’s heavier than I expect. “A thousand thank yous,” he says.

  He slides his arms into my jacket, and it’s a little big, but he salutes me and turns on his heel, then pauses to say, “Now don’t snoop in my pockets.”

  He heads into the ballroom, and I follow, grabbing a seat at a table in the back where Presley can find me. I glance around, and she’s no longer in the lobby. Daniel must be chatting her ear off. Another look around, but I don’t see my mom either.

  Hmm.

  Well, there’s one more thing to do.

  Find out what the hell is weighing down this tux.

  I pat the material, sliding my palm over the satin lining on the inside jacket. Something round and circular sits inside the pocket. That’s odd.

  Well, there is that saying: follow the path that points to curiosity.

  Perhaps I should.

  Yes, I will.

  I reach inside and find metal.

  I take it out.

  It’s a compass with a latch on it.

  And the inscription . . .

  “It’s just folklore.”

  37

  Hunter

  I do the logical thing. The emotional thing. The only thing.

  I open that goddamn compass.

  Guests mill about, looking for seats. No one will notice.

  I flip it open, and my heart stutters.

  Paper. Letters.

  Yes.

  I glance around once more for Presley, but she’s nowhere to be found, and I have to know. I’ve always been a curious bastard. What’s in the box, what’s down the path, what’s over the hill?

  Gingerly I open the tightly folded sheet of paper and read the salutation. This is the buried treasure I was looking for.

  * * *

  January 1923

  * * *

  My Dearest Greta,

  * * *

  It is time. We have made all the arrangements. We have handled all the transactions. We will arrive during your Valentine’s show in Chicago next month. When the show ends, Jack will take Baron for a drink, ostensibly to discuss business, one circus man to another.

  * * *

  You must be ready.

  * * *

  While they are out, we will depart on the last train.

  * * *

  Please forgive me if I sound businesslike and too serious, but I can’t emphasize how critical the timing is. We must go immediately. There will be bedlam once we’re gone. I rely on you, wholly and completely, to do your part.

  * * *

  I know you will. I have all the faith in the world in you.

  * * *

  By the way, have I mentioned I cannot wait to see you again?

  * * *

  Be prepared to be adored every day for the rest of our lives.

  * * *

&
nbsp; I am only ever yours.

  * * *

  Edward

  January 1923

  * * *

  My Dearest Edward,

  * * *

  Adored, you say? I am willing indeed.

  * * *

  And I am yours, wholly and completely.

  * * *

  But to your point. You are not too serious. You are exactly as serious as one must be in this situation. And I promise—you have my undying word—I will do my part as I have always done.

  * * *

  Everything will be ready.

  * * *

  We will be at our trailers. Bags packed. One each. Only essentials. When you give me the word, we will go. We will run, faster than we’ve ever run.

  * * *

  Don’t you worry—I am a master of timing, and I won’t get hurt.

  * * *

  I shall see you on Valentine’s Day, and you'd better be prepared too. I’ll be kissing you for days.

  * * *

  Always,

  Greta

  38

  Presley

  “What do you think? You could travel around the country. We already have some great houses lined up. Some wonderful estates with fantastic collections,” Daniel says, his voice filled with sapphires, rubies, diamonds.