Floyd greets Laurel with a kiss on each cheek. She smiles brightly and says, “You look lovely. Really Christmassy.”
And he does. He looks handsome and jolly. The holly green of his jumper suits him. But under her chest her heart races, her breath comes tight and hard.
“And you look beautiful as ever. I love your jacket.”
“Thank you.” Laurel runs her hands down the silk velvet and forces another smile. “Where’s Poppy?”
“Upstairs,” says Floyd. “Wrapping your gift.” “Oh, bless her.”
“Come in.” He ushers her into the kitchen. “Come. I’ve got a bottle of champagne chilling. Can I interest you in a Buck’s Fizz?”
Laurel nods. A small drink will calm her nerves.
Floyd seems tense, too, she notices, not his usual effortless self. She watches him closely as he pours her drink, checks that the glass is fresh from the cupboard, that he doesn’t hide it from view as he pours in first the champagne and then the orange juice.
He raises a toast.
“To you,” says Floyd. “To wonderful extraordinary you. You are the most remarkable person, I think, that I have ever known. I am honored to call you a friend. Cheers, Laurel Mack. Cheers.”
Laurel smiles tightly. She feels that she should reciprocate in some way. But all she can think of to say is, “Cheers. You’re pretty fab, too.” Which sounds utterly pathetic.
She glances upward to the ceiling. “Is Poppy coming down?” she says, her voice catching nervously on the last word.
Floyd smiles at her. “Should be,” he replies simply. “Should be.”
“Here.” She hands him the bag with his gift in it. “You may as well have this now. Save taking it to Bonny’s.”
He opens the shaving mirror and he makes all the right noises and all the right gestures. And then he comes toward her with his arms outstretched and she flinches as he hugs her, feels her breath catch, adrenaline pulsing through her. She is ready to push him from her, ready to escape. She can’t imagine that she’d ever found this man’s touch pleasing. She can’t imagine she’d ever found this man anything other than terrifying.
“Here,” he says, handing her an envelope. “Open that first. I’m just popping out to my car to get your other gift.”
“Oh,” she says, “OK.”
He stops in the doorway and looks at her. A small smile plays on his lips. “Good-bye,” he says.
She hears the front door open and close.
 |
The house, now that Floyd has gone, is completely silent.
She glances down at the card in front of her and she opens it.
It has a picture on the front of a dove in flight. It is strangely un-Christmassy. Inside the card is a letter. She begins to read:
Laurel,
I sense that you are tiring of me. I sense that you have worked out what a hundred women before you have worked out. That I’m not the man for them.
That is fine. Because I have worked out that I am not worthy of you. And that I must let you go. And before I let you go, I must also unburden myself of an appalling, unthinkable truth. I have something of yours. It was not given to me; rather, bequeathed to me in a terrible sequence of events. I need you to know that when I first came into possession of this precious thing, it had been horribly abused by another person and for five years I have tended and cared for this possession. I have polished it and nurtured it.
And now it is time to return it to you. I am glad we had this time together. Time for you to see me not as a monster but as a normal man. A man worthy of your affections. If only for a few short weeks. It has been an extraordinary experience for me after so many years in an emotional wasteland. A precious gift. I cannot thank you enough. And I am glad you have had a chance to get to know me, to hopefully view me as a man capable of being trusted with your most precious possession.
My study door is unlocked. On my desktop computer I have left you a video message. Simply press play and I will explain everything.
Yours, always and in good faith,
Floyd Dunn
Laurel rests the card on the table and looks through the kitchen door. Slowly she walks toward Floyd’s study. She sits in Floyd’s chair and grasps the mouse tentatively. As she touches it the screen comes to life, and there is Floyd, dressed in the same jumper he wore this morning, his face paused in an expression of terrible grief. She clicks the play button and she watches his confession.
