through the tunnel of grief. I’d even had sex with a new man.
Was this what closure was? Not boxing the loss away but living with it. In a new space. Being able to cherish the memories and still think about tomorrow . . . and hope?
I reached for my purse and found the napkin with Martin’s number. I picked up my phone, but nerves bit. I set it down, showered. I picked up the phone again while blow-drying my hair.
I put it down.
As I combed my hair I thought of his words.
“Four more days at this hotel. I’m checking out on Monday. But seriously, Ellie, call. Anytime . . . I can make long distance work.”
What if I didn’t call? He did not have my number. We’d be ships that had passed in the night.
For a moment I wished I had given him my number. So it would be up to him.
But it wasn’t. I wandered around my boxed-up house fingering his smooth gold cuff link. It was a sign. I took a deep breath and called him.
The phone rang five times. I heard his voice.
“You’ve reached Martin Cresswell-Smith. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
I hung up, trembling slightly from a punch of nerves that was intoxicating.
The movers arrived and I went out for breakfast while they loaded the truck. I googled Martin from the coffee shop. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? He had a LinkedIn profile that said he owned a private development company—CW Properties International. It linked to a company website with his bio. The website looked slick. It listed a portfolio of developments past, pending, and proposed. Images of his various sales teams around the world. A photo of Martin seated behind a massive glass desk in a voluminous Toronto office with a brilliant view of the city skyline. Contact info. He had no social media profiles. I liked that. It showed professionalism to me. Discretion. I broadened my search to the Cresswell-Smith name in Australia. A link to a story came up about Jeremy Cresswell-Smith. The brother Martin had spoken about—ex–rugby player and son of Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. I had his dad’s name now.
I searched the name Malcolm Cresswell-Smith and followed the links to a company website and also found news stories about shopping malls and other real estate stuff. Then I discovered a business-magazine feature on Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. From the date on the article, it appeared that Malcolm Cresswell-Smith had retired several years ago. He lived with his wife on a horse farm in the Hunter Valley, not far from Sydney. His son, Jeremy, ran the company—Smith and Cresswell Properties—and his daughter, Pauline Rudd, was involved in marketing. She was also on the company board. No mention of Martin.
I sat back and looked out the window. Pedestrians passed by the coffee shop hunkered into coats, with umbrellas pointing into a brisk winter wind filled with sleet. So Martin really had been cut out. Like he’d said.
I felt a twinge of emotion for him.
I dialed his number again. Got the same message.
I left the coffee shop thinking that at least he had my number now from my missed calls. He could phone me. I was sure he would.
But three days later, on Sunday evening, when Dana came by my new apartment to crack open a housewarming bottle of wine, Martin still had not called.
THEN
ELLIE
Just over two years ago, January 13. Vancouver, BC.
“The elevator? You have got to be kidding me.”
I shook my head.
“Crap, Ellie.”
“I know. Most risqué thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Dana laughed and raised her glass. “Cheers to that!”
We’d opened a second bottle of wine and were sitting on my new balcony in our down jackets under an outdoor heater, our Ugg-covered feet up on the railing. Beyond the deck cover, rain fell softly in the January darkness. I’d told her about meeting Martin, and that I’d googled him, and he looked legit.
“He sounds too good to be true,” she said.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Maybe he is—I mean, too good to be true.”
I gave a shrug. “Might come to nothing anyway. I hate myself for calling, though. I feel cheap. Stupid for thinking he might have actually wanted to hear from me again.” I sipped my wine. “I knew better, it’s just . . . hoping, you know? That there was actually some spark, something special.”
“Hey, you’re doing great. Maybe there’s a valid reason he hasn’t returned your calls,