“Yes, my family have a cabin there.”
“A cabin?” I think of the keys in his bag.
“When I was a child, we used to go out there for most of the summer to fish and swim.” He pauses, a wistful look in his eyes. “I’d love to take a son of my own there one day, teach him to sail, how to catch mackerel.”
Wants a family, tick. Hunter-gatherer type who can catch food in emergencies, tick. Access to cabin for cabin-themed fantasy, tick, tick, tick.
“It sounds idyllic,” I say.
“I’ll take you there,” Jasper says eagerly, crossing the room to stand beside me.
“What, now?” I tease.
“No, no, it’s too dark now,” he replies earnestly, “but tomorrow. I could take you there for lunch—on a date.” He looks shy all of a sudden, which is sweet.
“I—” I feel myself grinning. “I would love that.”
We move back to the sofa and share stories about our lives and our families. I tell him what I’m doing in Jersey: the travel article I’m writing, my parents’ story. I show him the coin around my neck, my mother’s album. I have told this story so many times I can recite it as though on autopilot.
“That all sounds incredibly romantic,” Jasper says, his sea-green eyes attentive to my tale. “You’ve got to believe in destiny when you hear a story like that.”
Believes in destiny, tick, tick, tickity, tick.
Telling the story prompts a flutter of panic about my looming deadline and doubt over whether the photos and my perspective on the story are going to be enough. Monica’s strange version of events replays in my mind. Maybe I should try and meet Bad Granny before I leave? Even if there had been bad blood between my mother and her, she might remember what happened more clearly than Monica, she might have something to contribute.
My mind is drifting, and I force my concentration back into the room, asking Jasper to tell me more about his family. He tells me his sisters are all fiercely protective of him, that part of the reason he set up the kitchen business was to prove he could do something on his own.
“My entire family told me law was the right fit for me: I had the right degree, the right contacts, the right work ethic. But I just always loved kitchens. In some ways, it felt like a calling, the way you hear priests talk about their jobs.” This comparison makes me smile.
“You should talk to my mother for the travel piece you’re writing. There’s nothing she won’t be able to tell you about this island or its recipes.”
“Oh?” It comes out as a strangled-sounding oh, as the image of Maude Le Maistre prostrate on the chaise longue forces its way to the forefront of my optic nerve.
“She will love the fact we met through a suitcase. We’ll be the talk of her pétanque club.”
“Um, speaking of which, I’m afraid I have a confession to make, Jasper,” I say, pulling my lower lip between my teeth.
“This doesn’t sound good.” He frowns. “Is there a boyfriend after all? You only have four months to live? An allergy to kitchens?” He raises his eyebrows in a comical expression.
“No,” I say with a mirthful sigh. “It’s about your case. I’m afraid some of the things inside—well—there’s this dog where I’m staying, Scamp, and I stupidly left your case slightly open, and your jumper and one of your trainers came to a rather sticky end. I will replace them, of course.” I feel slightly guilty about blaming everything on Scamp, but he did maul the jumper; it’s only a slight fudge.
Jasper pauses for dramatic effect, and then says, “I think a jumper and a shoe are a small price to pay to have met you.” He holds eye contact for a moment, and then his eyes dart down to my lips and back. It’s a tiny movement, but it makes me suspect he might be thinking about kissing me. I cannot believe how well this is going. Most men this attractive might be arrogant or conceited, but Jasper is neither; he is earnest and charming—everything I had hoped he would be. If only everything could freeze right here, then I wouldn’t be able to do anything to ruin it.
“You know, I still haven’t actually been to the loo,” I say, springing up and clasping my hands together. “Sorry, I got distracted by the kitchens before.”
* * *
*
The bathroom is covered in what looks like very expensive wallpaper, decorated in geometric gold shapes. There are framed articles from magazines, photo shoots of kitchens I assume must be Jasper’s, and a certificate for his grade eight piano, which makes me smile. I stare at myself in the mirror. Why am I running away to the loo, when everything is going so well?