Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

atmosphere that a certain confused, Seneca-revering publisher seems to find particularly welcoming,’ Celia remarked, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. ‘So he’ll be making regular visits then?’

      I smiled. ‘That’s what he said.’

      ‘And you don’t mind?’

      I shrugged. ‘Not at all. It’s fine by me.’

      Celia took a bite of cookie and nonchalantly returned to the paper. ‘Oh good…’

       Chapter Eleven

      Nate’s visits were most definitely regular—increasingly so as autumn took Manhattan in its colourful hold. He began to visit my shop most weeks—usually on a Thursday afternoon when he could sneak out of his office—and our friendship seemed to grow with each new conversation. I couldn’t help it: I liked him, from the easy way he seemed to breeze through life, to his delight at meeting some of my customers, and the utter regard he had for my profession. He liked nothing better than watching me and my team at work, mug of Old F’s finest decaf in hand, and I found myself looking forward to his visits as the days and weeks passed. This was the start of what promised to be a beautiful friendship: the optimist and the (admittedly happy) pessimist, drinking coffee and surrounded by flowers on the corner of West 68th and Columbus.

      Just after lunchtime one Thursday in the middle of October, the small silver bell above Kowalski’s front door heralded the unexpected arrival of Nate. After nearly two months of his visits, I was becoming more accustomed to his arrival, its effect on my pulse rate marginally less devastating than it had been in the beginning.

      ‘This is a surprise,’ I said, wrapping paper around an enormous bunch of assorted blooms and foliage for Mrs Katzinger, who arranges the flowers in the local Episcopalian church, two blocks south of Kowalski’s. ‘I thought the world of publishing waits for no one?’

      ‘It doesn’t,’ Nate grinned, his cocoa-brown eyes sparkling like a cheeky schoolboy’s, ‘that’s why you have to have escape routes planned. Today, just so you know, you are a retired history professor I’m trying to sign up. You have a fascinating manuscript on late eighteenth-century industrialists that I’d love to get my hands on.’

      I ignored his double entendre and attempted to maintain my jovial air. This was not lost on Mrs Katzinger, however, who raised an eyebrow with the merest hint of sly humour.

      ‘Well, Mr High-Powered Publisher, I’ll do my best to decline your generous offer,’ I smiled back at him, our banter sending a shiver of joy right down my spine. ‘After all, a professor of my calibre can’t be bought, you know. But I’m glad you could pencil me into your schedule. Right, is that everything, Mrs Katzinger?’

      ‘I think so,’ she replied, her face reddening as a million and one things raced through her mind. Mrs Katzinger is one of those people who are always busy, always flustered and always on the way to several other places at the same time. Marnie reckons she probably even finds sleeping an exhausting pursuit. To that end, she is pure New York—something I wasn’t quite prepared for when I first arrived here. Whereas in England people are just busy, in New York they are manic. Even getting a take-away coffee is a time-consuming activity in their crazy day. Ed jokes that even the homeless guys in the church-run shelter near his apartment have packed-out schedules: he once helped out at the soup kitchen there (when he was trying to date a girl from the congregation) and he said everyone in the line was complaining about how much precious time they were wasting standing there.

      Mrs Katzinger handed me her money, shaking her head. ‘Thank you for this, Rosie. You have no idea how busy I am, what with the church flowers and the coffee morning next Thursday. You would not believe how long it’s taking me to find a good deal on cupcakes.’

      ‘Have you tried M&H on 88th?’ I suggested.

      Mrs Katzinger’s face lit up. ‘You know, I haven’t. That’s another stop on my journey then!’ She scooped the bundle of flowers into her matronly arms and bustled out of the door, the silver bell jangling a noisy farewell as she hurried away.

      ‘You are a fountain of knowledge,’ Nate observed. ‘Much more than your average florist, eh?’

      ‘Absolutely. It’s all part of the service Kowalski’s offers to the neighbourhood. Therapist, City guide, advisor, life coach—and sanctuary for escaped editors, of course,’ I grinned.

      Nate’s eyes flashed. ‘And an irresistible one at that.’

      Blushing, I decided an urgent change of subject was in order. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Love one, thanks.’ His gaze remained disconcertingly fixed on me as I powered up Old F, who provided the necessary afternoon decaf after a little gentle coaxing. Then we sat down on the sofa.

      ‘I was talking about the store being irresistible, by the way, not me,’ he said, and instantly I felt stupid for thinking he meant I was irresistible. As he spread his tailored jacket over the arm of the sofa and stretched out his long legs, I found myself admiring again his effortless style. Moss-green V-neck sweater and pristine white T-shirt underneath, smart yet casual nut-brown trousers and polished expensive brogues—Nate was every inch the man about town. ‘I love this place, Rosie. I feel like I can relax here, you know? Be “me”—whoever that is.’

      ‘Glad to be of service to you—well, my shop is, at least.’

      Nate shook his head. ‘It isn’t just the store. It’s you. Let’s face it: Kowalski’s is you. But I’d like to hazard a guess that if I met you anywhere else, it would still feel like I didn’t have to pretend with you. My life—’ he broke off, as if unsure of how to phrase the sentence. ‘Uh…so much of what people see when they look at me is what other people have prescribed, you know?’

      I didn’t. ‘Not really, sorry.’

      ‘At Gray & Connelle I’m the boy-wonder: the editor who signed three New York Times Bestsellers during his first month at the company and quickly rose to the top. To my parents I’m the blue-eyed boy—difficult, I know, as my irises don’t quite fit the bill—but I’m incapable of doing wrong, as far as they’re concerned. To Caitlin, I’m—well, I don’t exactly know what I am to her, apart from a constant source of disappointment and frustration, it would seem. And as for Mimi—it’s like she’s already storyboarded my existence for her reallife family blockbuster. The only person who accepts me for who I am—who asks nothing more of me other than that I just show up for coffee once in awhile—is you. Don’t give me that look, Rosie; I mean it. Ever since I started coming here, things have been falling into place, you know? I’ve had so much all my life; I’ve never wanted for anything. But it’s all been just—stuff. You see the real Nate, I think; perhaps more than any other living soul. And I want to discover who he is. I like the version of me that I see in your eyes. That’s why I had to see you today.’

      I was flattered by what he said, but still I struggled with the picture Nate painted of me. I’m not wise: in many ways events of my life have attested to this fact. I guess I’m just interested in people, in their stories and personalities.

      It never ceases to amaze me the number of stories I hear in my day-to-day dealings with the good people of my neighbourhood. There are at least a hundred different people I could tell you about who visit my shop, from occasional customers to people we see week in, week out. Some of them, like Mrs Katzinger and Mrs Schuster, were Kowalski’s customers long before I was here. Like Gloria O’Keefe, for instance, who told me her grandmother bought flowers from Kowalski’s right from when she was a little girl, and Mrs O’Keefe is now a grandmother herself, buying flowers for her own grand-daughter’s birthday. But there are also a lot of people who have appeared since I took over the business.

      Take Billy Whitman, for example. He started coming to my shop at