Close to Destiny (A Magical Love Story)

Chapter 69

June 1

There was more to Victoria's diary than those few final excerpts I had read in haste, but after the flood of emotion had overwhelmed me, I decided to take a step back. I'd stuffed it into the bottom of my overnight bag and promised myself I would only read more once I had returned home.

For me, home at this point was the apartment in the East Village. I dropped my bags in the hallway and made a beeline for the shower. It was 10:30 a.m. I had enough time to freshen up and still arrive at Will's gallery by noon. In spite of the exhaustion of an overnight flight, I couldn't think of sleep.

For the first time in a long while, I didn't throw on the first piece of clothing I saw. Instead, I dug through Blanche's closet until I found the lavender empire-waist sundress her ex had bought for her, and she had never worn. I wound my damp hair into a bun, stuck a pencil through it, and with my heart pounding, hurried to the door.

Excitement surged through my veins as I took the steps two at a time and joined the crowd on the Union Square platform for an uptown train. Home. It was so good to be home. But even more than that, the desire to see Will bubbled uncontrollably from within.

Faces of all colors and forms, dim stations, outbursts of laughter and arguments, the sugary scent of one of those coffee-caramel concoctions: All of these familiar sights and sounds repeated themselves until I was exiting at Columbus Circle and walking, or nearly running, farther uptown. With each step, the feel was more residential, calmer. My heart was still racing, and I was trembling in spite of the hot sun baking dangerously into my pale skin.

And then I had arrived. Too soon and not soon enough. I wouldn't wait a second longer or I would fall victim to the cowardice that would push me back downtown to my safe haven.

I took a deep breath, stepped inside and walked to the counter with as much confidence as I could muster.

"Good morning," said the young woman with perfectly painted red lips that matched her flowing cotton blouse. "May I help you?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Will Delaney."

"Sorry, but he's not in."

"Do you know if I could find him at home?"

"You're the friend of his... the one he met in London, right?"

"Yes, you could say that." I felt heat rising into my face.

The woman smiled uncomfortably.

"What is it?" I asked, almost in a panic.

"Well, I'm not sure I can help you, unfortunately. You see, I'm not sure where he is. He left New York a few days ago. He said he needed some time away and then took off."

"That can't be. I mean, I believe what you're saying, but he can't just take off and leave his gallery indefinitely in the hands of... well, of his employees... without telling them what's going on. He is the owner."

"Yes, but so am I. We're co-owners, business partners. Of course, this makes things difficult for both of us."

"He will be back, won't he?" I said, almost to myself. "But when?" I was gripping the counter as if it alone was the only thing that could hold me in an upright position.

"I'd like to think so," the woman said, shaking her head. "He didn't say he was leaving forever. Recently, he seemed distracted, and in the past he's talked about wanting to take a sabbatical. It's not completely unexpected."

"You have no idea where he might be?" I pleaded. "Maybe a clue..."

"Will is such a private person. Even being his business partner doesn't give me access to much privileged information. The only thing I do know is that one of his closest friends in London passed away not too long ago. He's been in a daze ever since. Maybe he returned there to visit with friends."

"I saw him in London. But he left and then sent me a letter from New York. I guess it's possible he returned, but it doesn't seem likely."

"Look," the woman said, smiling kindly, "how about if you leave me your number, and I'll give him a message when he returns."

"But what if he doesn't return?" I asked, unable to hide the anxiety I must have been wearing all over my face.

Neither of us had an answer to that question.

After spending a good part of the afternoon crying my eyes out on Jean's bench in Central Park, I made my way slowly back to the apartment as if I were heading to prison. Through eyes still blinded by tears, I sent my article to the magazine, unpacked my suitcases and threw a load of clothes into the washing machine. I moved through the apartment like a robot, accomplishing every necessary task. It was only when I freed the black hat from its bag that I started crying hysterically again. For Will, Zachary Taylor, Destiny, myself... for all of us.

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