Two large armchairs sat invitingly on either side of the fireplace and on the coffee table in between them there were more books and a few medical journals. A photographic book on Prague, a biography of a leading politician and a book on motivation written by a gold-medal-winning skier called Tyler O’Neil.
On the shelf in front of the bookcase were several photographs. She stepped forward and took a closer look. She recognized Debra in one, with a younger girl who was presumably Ethan’s niece. Next to that was a photograph of four men standing on a snowy slope in ski gear. She recognized Ethan Black. Who were the other three men? His brothers? There was another photo with about twelve people grouped together, laughing.
Whoever they were, Ethan seemed to have a big family and lots of friends.
She felt a stab of envy. No doubt his Christmas would be full of laughter and eggnog. Not that she particularly liked eggnog, but she would have liked to have a busy, noisy Christmas.
Harriet resisted the temptation to sink into the comfortable armchair and lose herself in one of those books. Books had always been a comfort to her. More than comfort. There were times when reading came close to an addiction.
When things had been tough at home, Harriet’s solution had been to remove herself
from life and disappear. She’d chosen to be invisible. Sometimes physically, by hiding under the table, but sometimes psychologically by diving into a literary world unlike her own.
As a child she’d liked to sink into the pages and lose herself for hours at a time. When she was reading, she didn’t just leave her own life behind, she stepped into someone else’s. There were times when she’d read for hours without noticing the passage of time or the onset of darkness. When it grew too dark to read, she simply switched on her flashlight and read under the covers so that she didn’t disturb her sister, who was sleeping in the next bed. At school, she carried her book around. When things were difficult, the weight of her bag would comfort her. It helped just to know the book was there, waiting for her. At various points in the day she’d feel the edges bump against her thigh, reminding her of its existence. It was like having a friend close by, telling her I’m still here and we can spend time together later.
Even now, more than a decade on from that difficult time of her life, she found herself instinctively reaching for a book when she was stressed. Comfort was different things to different people. To some it was a bar of chocolate or a glass of wine, a run in the park or coffee with a friend.
To Harriet, it was a book. Now, when she was feeling uncomfortable and unsettled in a stranger’s home, was one of those times.
There, on the shelf in front of her, was an elaborate edition of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. It was one of her favorite stories, particularly at this time of year. She loved reading about Scrooge’s transformation. It gave her hope.
She reached to pull it from the shelf and then paused.
If she started reading, she’d find it difficult to stop and she had work to do. Later, she could read.
Regretfully, she stepped back from the bookshelves, gazing at them the way another woman might salivate over chocolate.
Fliss had never been able to understand how the mere thought of reading could lift her spirits and make her feel excited.
Tearing her gaze away from temptation, she picked up her case and carried it upstairs.
It was a duplex apartment, and in many ways it felt more like a house. Certainly more like a house than her apartment did.
If she stopped and listened she could hear faint sounds of street noise coming from far below, but the place was remarkably quiet for Manhattan.
Even as she had the thought, Madi barked and Harriet put her case down and shook her head.
“No.” She spoke firmly. “Quiet.” She knew that patience and consistency were the secret to training a dog.
Madi looked at her and wagged her tail but didn’t bark, so Harriet picked up her case again and hauled it upstairs.
There was a master bedroom suite that was obviously Ethan’s, and she glimpsed a walk-in closet that had been cleverly converted to a mini gym. There was a rack of free weights, a bench and other pieces of exercise equipment.
So even though his nutrition left something to be desired, he did work out.
Tearing her gaze away from the big bed, she left the room and found the spare room.
It was spacious and comfortable, decorated in dark forest greens, with a rug on the oak floor. There were cushions and the bed was draped with a warm, velvety throw that invited the occupant to snuggle.
This room was much smaller than his, but large enough to house a desk by the window and have its own small bathroom. It also had another wall of bookshelves.
It was another point in his favor that Ethan was a book lover.
She put her case inside, removed her laptop from her backpack and placed it on the desk by the window.
By the time she’d settled herself down, she’d decided that she was in love with Ethan’s apartment. It wasn’t as big and showy as the one her brother Daniel owned on Fifth Avenue, but it was elegant and comfortable, full of sunlight and character. And books. There were books everywhere. Some of them were stacked in piles on the floor because there wasn’t room on the shelves.
Who couldn’t be happy living here?