Having made that decision, I managed to get a couple of hours of work done, struggling to stay focused while reading a manuscript about a romance and murder on a cruise ship, but getting through it nonetheless. At half past eleven, I phoned Stella, the proprietor of Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, to find out if Mr. Delaney was there.
“He sure is, hon,” she declared. “Poor man. Spends hours just sitting on the porch and looking out at the front gate. I think he’s hoping against hope that his wife is going to walk up that path. Bless his heart.”
Upon hearing this, I wasted no time in getting to Catcher in the Rye. While waiting in line, I perused the menu on the board, trying to decide which sandwich would best give the message of comfort and support. The Pavarotti—Genoa salami, prosciutto, provolone, and roasted red peppers on toasted Italian—seemed a bit too intense. I briefly considered the Van Gogh—turkey, sliced Brie, and apples with honey mustard on a French baguette—but decided that the tanginess of the apples combined with the creaminess of the Brie and the bite of the mustard wasn’t homey enough. Then I spotted the Mother Hubbard—a grilled ham and cheese on whole wheat—and I knew I’d found the right one.
When I paid for my order, the cashier handed me a card with the name Elizabeth Bennet. One of the delights of patronizing Big Ed’s sandwich shop was seeing which fictional character I’d be assigned. Sometimes they weren’t flattering and I’d sneak up to the pick-up counter in shame when Big Ed bellowed, “Miss Havisham” or “Nurse Ratched.” I groaned aloud the day I’d received a card reading, MEDUSA, in bold block letters.
“Thanks,” I told the cashier with a smile. “Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite novels.”
I mused over Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s happy ending as I watched Big Ed slather grainy mustard on a sandwich. Wrapping it in wax paper, he shouted, “FRODO!”
A tiny gray-haired woman wearing a pink tracksuit stepped forward and reached up to toss the card with her fantasy identity into the basket on the counter. “Thanks, Ed,” she said, taking the bag he held out. “I hope you were heavy on the mustard.”
“You betcha, Winnie. The zing in that sandwich will have you zipping all the way to your Curiosity Shop.” The portly sandwich maker winked at me. “And how are you today, Mizz Bennet?”
“I am well, good sir,” I said in a formal British accent. “Pondering romance, as usual. Speaking of which, did you get a chance to talk to Nell at the festival this weekend? Her bakery kiosk was right next to yours.”
Big Ed blushed, his plump cheeks flushing a dark shade of red. “No, we were too busy. Folks lined up all day long.” He busied himself with preparing my sandwich order. “I’ll ask her out on a proper date when I’m ready.”
Watching Big Ed, I wondered why he didn’t just let Nell know how he felt about her. If I’d learned anything over the past weekend it was that people don’t always know how much time they have together. Logan Delaney had no idea that when he’d said good-bye to his wife as she left for the book festival, he’d never see her again. What words might he have spoken if he’d known?
I grabbed Big Ed’s arm and, quoting Jane Austen, implored, “‘Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!’”
He stared at me in astonishment as he handed me my lunch, and then, seeing that my line was delivered in all seriousness, he paused to consider my words.
“You’re right.” He nodded solemnly. “I’ve wasted enough time makin’ up excuses. It’s been easier to love her from a distance. There’s no risk in that, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to love her up close and personal. Like Ms. Austen suggests, I’m ready to seize me some pleasure.”
Chapter 8
I SAW LOGAN DELANEY BEFORE HE SAW ME. THEN AGAIN, I’m not sure he was seeing much of anything. Stella hadn’t been exaggerating when she said that the grieving husband hadn’t moved from the B and B’s front porch. Despite the chill in the air, he was seated in a rocking chair in the far corner, dressed in a wrinkled button-down shirt and jeans. Even as I passed through the gate at the end of the brick path leading up to the porch, Logan just rocked and stared, his gaze passing through me as if I were a ghost.
Walking softly, as though a loud footfall would spook him, I maneuvered around an enormous urn overflowing with mums, pansies, and trailing ivy and took the chair next to his. A small glass table separated the two rockers, and I set the bag from Catcher in the Rye on its surface and unpacked Logan’s lunch. I spread out a napkin to serve as a placemat, peeled back the paper from the grilled ham and cheese, and opened a bag of potato chips. I then twisted off the cap from a bottle of water and cleared my throat.
“Mr. Delaney, I’m Lila Wilkins.” I willed him to look at me, but he didn’t move a muscle. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I met Melissa this past weekend and I thought she was lovely. I liked her from the get-go.”