His eyes smile then, and the moment passes, but the word “joyful” reverberates in my head like the name of a long-forgotten friend.
As we walk around to the boot of the car, Ted says, “You do realize this suitcase is the McGuffin in your story?”
“What’s a McGuffin?”
“Not a Hitchcock fan then?” Ted shakes his head, takes his cap off and flings it into the boot. As he runs his hands through his thick hair, I’m struck again by how much younger he is than I first assumed. He is certainly not making the best of himself. I wonder how his wife handles kissing that beard. There’s just so much of it, it would be like kissing someone through a hedge. Why am I imagining other people’s kissing predicaments? Inappropriate, Laura.
“A McGuffin is an object or event that motivates a character in the story but is ultimately unimportant or irrelevant, like the Holy Grail in Arthurian legend, the ring in The Lord of the Rings, Rosebud in Citizen Kane.”
“Oh jeez, you’re one of those weird movie geeks, aren’t you?” I say, pretending to yawn as I unzip the bag in the boot. “Anyway, by that logic, this suitcase isn’t the McGuffin, it’s the suitcase owner. I already have the suitcase.”
He thinks for a moment, and then looks almost impressed. “Lady Muck, I do believe you are right.”
“Not that this little lecture in movie geekology isn’t fascinating, but are you going to look for clues or what?”
Ted’s lips twitch into a smile, then he turns his attention to the case and starts lifting clothes out, carefully laying them out on the back shelf of the boot.
“Well, he’s a got a thirty-four leg and thirty-two-inch waist, so you know he’s tall and lean. Expensive work shirt, must earn a bit . . .”
He picks up To Kill a Mockingbird and skims through the pages.
“Let me guess, you wanted a father like Atticus Finch.”
Am I that much of a cliché? Who wouldn’t want a father like Atticus, with his strong moral compass and sage advice? But I don’t feel like admitting to Ted that when I read the book, I imagine Atticus with my father’s face.
“I just like the book,” I say, taking it back from him.
Ted peers into the plastic bag of worn running kit and wrinkles his nose.
“Well, your Mr. McGuffin may be well read, but his sweat still stinks.”
“He exercises and looks after himself, I like that in a man,” I say, feeling myself prickle. I don’t like Ted being rude about Hot Suitcase Guy’s things. It feels like a strange betrayal that I’m letting him look through the bag at all.
Ted picks up one of the expensive-looking trainers and looks at the tab inside.
“Size eleven—well, they do say you can tell a lot about a man from the size of his feet.” Ted raises an eyebrow at me.
“Give me that,” I say, reaching out to grab the shoe. I pull the trainer a bit too hard, and then watch in horror as it flies out of my hand and sails over the side of the cliff. We both stand in silence for a moment, our eyes watching its long route, bouncing down the cliffs toward the sea below—there’s no way we’re getting that back.
“Oops,” says Ted.
“How the hell am going to explain that?” I cry.
Then we look at each other, and Ted starts to laugh.
“It’s not funny!” I say, pushing a hand against his chest.
“He won’t mind about the trainers once he’s met you,” says Ted, and the compliment sends a warm pulse up my neck. “A small price to pay for meeting your soulmate.” His tone is back to teasing. “Come on, there’s got to be something more to go on in here.”
He pulls a worn running top from the plastic bag and holds it out in front of him. “Bingo,” he says, turning it around to show me.
On the back of the top, it reads: jersey relay marathon—“the bee team,” raising money for jbcs.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The Jersey Bee Conservation Society. If he raised money for them, they might know who he is, and I happen to know that they have a stall at the Trinity Community Fete this morning—we could go ask them.”
I high-five Ted, and he looks genuinely delighted at having found a lead.
“When we find him, I’m telling him you threw his shoe off a cliff in a jealous rage that he has bigger feet than you,” I say.
“He doesn’t. Mine are eleven and a half.”
We get back in the car, a strange giddy feeling in my stomach, and my cheeks feel flushed. Maybe I’m still feeling a bit carsick. I should probably stop looking at my phone on all these windy roads. Resting my cheek against the cool glass of the side window, I try to think of a good excuse for losing a shoe; what I will say when I finally track down Hot Suitcase Guy.
Jersey Evening News—24 August 1991
A LOVE TOKEN RETURNED SPARKS LOVE FOR THE NEXT GENERATION
The chance discovery of a lost wartime love token has kindled a new romance fifty years later. In June of this year, Bristol resident Annie Carter visited Jersey to return half of an engraved coin belonging to Alex Le Quesne’s late grandfather, William Blampied.
“I came to Jersey to reunite the two halves of the coin,” said Miss Carter. “Then I met Alex, and couldn’t bring myself to leave. It felt as though the coin had led me to him—like a fairy tale.” It would seem that half a century on, romance still follows this coin around.
Chapter 9
The Trinity Community Fete turns out to be a small affair; in fact, just a few trestle tables are set up in the car park next to the parish hall. The Women’s Institute is selling tea and coffee in disposable cups, a woman dressed in colorful knitwear sits behind a tower of homemade jam, someone is selling goat’s cheese, and a local author is hawking copies of her book next to a dreary tombola. Several charities have set up tables full of leaflets, and there is even someone dressed in a dog costume collecting money for guide dogs. It all looks decidedly underwhelming as far as country fetes go. I was imagining a field full of bunting, beautiful cream teas, merry-go-rounds, and maybe some kind of quaint “who’s grown the biggest carrot” competition.
As we survey the scene from the parked car, Ted says, “OK, what’s our strategy?” He nods toward the man sitting behind the JBCS table, a stout-looking gentleman with a bald scalp, haloed by tufts of white hair. “That guy looks like the keeper of the contact details. We could kidnap him and smother him in honey until he gives up a name.”
I let out a snort and cover my mouth in embarrassment.