A Closed Heart by Oster, Camille (guided reading books TXT) 📗

you wish for a coffee,” he said a little overenthusiastically.

“Yes,” Julius conceded and took one of the tables. This one had a marble top. The furniture wasn’t uniform, he noticed. The Italian busied himself and brought a steaming cup before long. “Tell me, is Miss Jane Brightly a regular customer here?”

“The artist. Yes,” the man said proudly. “She comes very often, but I haven’t seen her today. So she may still come. You are an admirer, yes?”

“Yes,” he conceded. That was perhaps an apt description. He was an admirer of Jane. “I have one of the paintings.”

“As do I. Over there,” he said, pointing to an area behind the bar where Julius saw a familiar painting, the fog one she’d been working on. “She says when I go back to Italy, I will miss the dreary winter days. I don’t have the heart to tell her I will miss nothing of winter in England.”

“I’ll be happy to buy it off you.”

“Oh, it is not for sale. One never knows. Maybe she is right and we miss the bad weather.” With a smile, the man retreated behind his counter again to serve another customer.

Jane liked this place immensely. She’d told him that she came here most mornings, and he hoped he would catch her today. Luckily, this man didn’t seem to object to an admirer waiting for her.

As he sipped his coffee, he watched out the window, still trying to decode her perception of it. There were definitely some people he would label as artistic types—some he’d actually describe as disheveled. Jane seemed to have a duality to her in her regard for her fellow artists. Arrogant, she had said, but she still associated with them.

And then there she was, walking down the street. The coat was familiar, her hair loose. She looked completely different from the finer ladies walking with their parasols. There was no doubt she set herself apart from them.

His insides twisted at the sight of her. Nerves made him feel pensive. Here she was—like the sun coming out in spring. This was sheer nervous elation if he’d ever felt it.

The downcast look on her face suggested she was preoccupied with something. She didn’t notice the world around her—certainly not him staring at her. The bell chimed as she walked in. “Good morning, Giuseppe,” she said and busied herself taking her coat off. “Any mail?”

“Nothing this morning, but you have an admirer here today,” Giuseppe said proudly.

With that, she looked up and the Italian indicated towards him. Jane’s head turned and a look of surprise filled her features when she saw him. “Julius,” she said. No formality at all. Then again, after what they’d been together, should there be any? “What are you doing here?”

That wasn’t a question he could readily answer. What could he say? That he was in the neighborhood? There was an awkward moment as if she didn’t know what to do, then she decided to join him at his table. “I just thought I would see how you are?” Did that sound insipid and offensive? “You told me so much about Brighton, I felt I’d come see how it really is.”

“Oh,” she said.

Chapter 30

THE LAST THING SHE’D expected that morning was to find Julius at her café. It shocked her, and in truth, it dismayed her a little as she’d worked so very hard to put him out of her mind, and here he was.

“Well, I got some new rooms,” she said brightly. “It took a bit of trying to find the right ones.” She was babbling unnecessarily, but she didn’t know what to say.

Her coffee arrived, along with the bun she got most mornings. Giuseppe didn’t need to take her order, because she always had the same thing.

“How long are you staying?” she asked. Her plan had been to paint that day, but him being here suggested that was about to change. Had he come to see her? Of course he had. What other reason would he come for? But why had he come?

She looked at him and it felt as if it had been so long since she’d seen his face. He looked exactly like she remembered him, but now there were new memories to try to stow away in the back of her mind. This was refreshing everything she’d pushed away.

“I see you finished the painting,” he said, indicating to the one she’d gifted to the café.

“Yes, that happens.” Why are you here, she wanted to ask.

“I take it you haven’t taken on any new commissions?”

She shook her head and took a sip of the coffee. With him as company, she couldn’t savor it like she normally did. He was too distracting, and this felt a little overwhelming. Not that it wasn’t good to see him. It was simply that this worried her about how she’d feel about this. Still, she tried to eat her bun and he watched her every movement. Was he aware that he did this? “Do you want some?”

“No,” he said, seeming happy just like this. And very relaxed. The awkwardness seemed to have passed for him and now he appeared very content. Was it her that made him content? Actually, he seemed tired.

“So what have you been doing?” she asked.

“I’ve been in London.”

Oh, that was the reason. He hated London, and it must have worn him down. “Parliamentary committees?”

“Yes. I also took Atticus to the zoo.”

“Ah. He would have enjoyed that.”

It looked like there was something he wished to say, but he held himself back.

“I suppose I should show you the parade. It is our crowning glory. How long did you say you were staying?”

This time he shrugged. “A few days, I suppose. Atticus is spending time with his cousins.”

“He’d like that.”

“And as I can’t stand London, I thought I’d