I try not to let my surprise show on my face as our fingers intertwine. Somehow, despite the size differences, his slot in perfectly between mine, almost like our hands were made to fit together, two puzzle pieces of a whole. He spends the first couple of hours taking me around to all of his favorite spots: a vinyl record shop, a store that specializes in fossils made into fanciful kitchenware and jewelry, and, hilariously, a store that sells everything “fairy”: from gargoyles for your garden to crystal necklaces shaped like tiny Tinkerbells to a dragon wall-hanging that looks ready to bite me in the nose. Jack jokes about buying a gargoyle knocker, but I manage to convince him it’s way too ugly for his front door.
He tries to show me a pub where he used to go for Yorkshire puddings, whatever those are, but it seems to have closed down, and there’s a bookstore in its place. Naturally, that lures both of us inside, and for half an hour we lose one another amongst the shelves, until we wind up nearly tripping over each other in the New Poetry section, as we both reach for the same book by Isabel Galleymore.
Grinning, Jack buys me a copy, and then we’re back outside to weave through streets that make me feel as though I’ve stepped into a time portal and fallen through to the seventeenth century.
At lunchtime, we wander into an outdoor farmers’ market, where we stock up on fresh-baked bread that smells so heavenly it’s all I can do not to eat it right out of our grocery bag. The cheesemonger lets us try slice after slice of cheeses, some I’ve never even heard of before. We argue about stinky versus soft cheeses, and the merits of each one, before we compromise on a melt-in-our-mouths Brie and some soft white French cheese that I can’t pronounce. At a nearby shop, we choose some jamon iberico, a Spanish marbled ham, to go with the cheeses, and then Jack picks out a basket of blueberries to go with it.
On our way out of the market, he grabs a bottle of wine too, which at least explains the wine opener I’ve been carrying in my purse.
Then, splitting our purchases between us, we hike out of town, through a row of trees and up a grassy hill, higher, higher, higher, until finally, when I pause to catch my breath and look behind us, I realize the whole village is spread at our feet like a painting, the tiny church spire the highest point above the stone-, brick-, and wood-walled buildings in the low valley.
A cow moos from a neighboring field. Jack leads me to the fence that separates us from the cow, which has a funny step cut into it—“So you can cross the field,” Jack explains, as if it’s perfectly normal to not only allow strangers to trespass here, but to cut steps into your own fence to make their trespassing easier.
Jack spreads out a blanket he brought from the car on the grass, and we kneel beside one another, working in silence for a while as we slice the bread and cheese, lay out the meat and the blueberries. He opens the wine bottle and produces a couple of wine glasses from what I mistakenly assumed was a bag full of work supplies, since it looks like a briefcase to me.
Before we dig in, he pours us each a small helping of the fragrant, fruity wine, and lifts his glass to me.
“To inspiration,” he says.
“To inspiring people,” I reply, tapping my glass against his. The heady wine is some of the most delicious, complex wine I’ve tasted. I only take a small sip, afraid it’ll go straight to my head if I have too much. Then I take one of the open-faced sandwiches we’ve assembled and dig in, the mingled tastes of the smooth cheese, the sharply-sweet ham, and the crunchy, soft-in-the-center bread making me moan in delight.
Jack grins. “Suddenly I’m jealous of our luncheon. I thought only I made you make that sound.”
I swallow the whole mouthful in order to stick my tongue out at him. “Don’t make me regret thinking so nicely of you all morning.”
He fakes a gasp, and pretends to fan himself in shock. “Excuse you; I’m always lovely.”
“Not usually this romantic, though.” I sweep my arm across the horizon, taking in everything from the deep blue, cloudless sky overhead to the green hills, the trees just starting to turn yellow and red and gold, and the town that matches them, nestled in between all the greenery. “I mean, what is this, a movie set?”
“It’s easy to romance Americans. You’ve never been introduced to the charms of English village life.”
“And I suppose you’re an expert, having grown up in an adorable little hamlet like this one?” I resist the urge to stick my tongue out once more.
To my surprise, he goes quiet at that. Not in a sullen way, just in a contemplative one. He studies the village again, a wistful look in his eye. “Not exactly. Me, I grew up in a crappy, dingy little suburb of Newcastle.”