She kicked off her shoes, dropped her stack of mail on her kitchen counter, and poured herself a glass of red wine.

Maybe if it stopped raining, it would get her out of this funk she’d been in ever since she’d gotten back from England. Maddie had picked her up from the airport when she’d gotten home, and she’d cheerfully told her all—well, most—of the things she and Malcolm had done in their days together in London, and had managed to laugh at Maddie’s questions about if they were going to see each other again. But she’d barely even pretended to laugh since then.

She wasn’t in denial; she knew why she was in such a funk. She’d spent five almost perfect days with Malcolm—ten, if you counted their time together at Sandringham—and she’d fallen deep into infatuation with him, and now it was all over. She was angry at herself for how ridiculous she was being—really, Vivian? Moping around because of a man? Come on.

It also didn’t help to be back at work, because every day made her mourn the impending end of her current job. Yes, as the director, she would have so much more authority, and a good bump in salary, but she wouldn’t get the daily interaction with patients that she treasured. There were hard days; days when she drove home full of unshed tears for how difficult some people’s lives were, days when she wished so much she could have helped more, days when she was so frustrated with other people she wanted to scream. But even on days like that, she was grateful she’d been able to help a little bit, glad she’d been able to improve someone’s life with her advice or her knowledge or just her presence. She knew there were lots of other great social workers who would be able to take her place; the patients would be okay. But would she?

She sipped her wine and looked at her phone. Jo had called just as she was leaving the office; she needed to call her back. But she didn’t feel up to chatting with Jo right now and pretending she felt fine. Maybe she’d call her back in the morning on her way to work.

She thumbed through her stack of mail: what looked like some belated Christmas cards, some envelopes from charities she’d supported, probably asking for more money, a postcard that was probably junk mail. Nothing interesting, in other words.

She took the mail over to her couch with her anyway. She read through the Christmas letter from someone she’d worked with years ago—far too much detail, but then, she read the whole thing, didn’t she? She looked at the Christmas card from the daughter of one of her old friends and cooed over the pictures of their new baby. And she picked up that postcard to see what it was about.

Wait. The picture on the front of this postcard was that tiny sapphire and diamond tiara from the V&A.

Her hands trembled as she flipped it over.

Vivian—How’s sunny California? I must thank you for your advice about how to talk to Miles—on the very day you left, I apologized to him and asked him if we could talk, and he agreed. It hasn’t been perfect, but at least it’s been a dialogue. He liked you very much, by the way, but then, how could anyone not?

Regards,

Malcolm

P.S. Your luggage tag with your address on it fell off your suitcase; I found it on my bedroom floor yesterday. I hope it’s okay that I wrote?

He’d scrawled his address on the bottom.

She felt the smile spread across her face. She could hear his voice as she read the postcard. She’d missed him so much.

But she’d told him they shouldn’t see each other anymore after she left England, and she knew she’d been right about that. If she replied to this postcard, wouldn’t it just prolong her case of the winter blues?

Oh, the hell with it. She needed something to look forward to, and the sun hadn’t come out in a week.

At lunchtime the next day, she went to a nearby bookstore and bought a postcard of a cable car.

Malcolm—It’s rained constantly since I got home; “sunny California” indeed. I’m thrilled to hear that about you and Miles; please tell him I said hello. Has he changed his mind at all . . . or have you? Did I tell you Julia gave me her recipe for scones before I left Sandringham? I haven’t tried my hand at them, but I’m going to do it as soon as I get a kitchen scale—all of her measurements are in grams!

Vivian

His next postcard came a week later. This time it had the London Eye on the front, with fireworks above it. Were those some of the same fireworks they’d seen? She laughed at herself. No, of course not; that photo had probably been taken years before. She flipped the card over.

Vivian—Neither of us has changed our minds, at least not yet, but we seem to understand what’s in each other’s minds a bit better. We’re going fishing this weekend, which I hope will give us some time to sort things out more. And I’m agog that Julia gave you her secret scone recipe; you’ll have to tell me how they turn out. Too bad we won’t be able to share them. How are you feeling about that new job?

Malcolm

She grinned at the card and smiled out into her damp garden.

After that, it was rare for a few days to pass without her getting a postcard from Malcolm, or sending one to him. Every time she got home and grabbed her stack of mail out of her mailbox, she got a rush, knowing there might be a card somewhere in the pile. Whenever she walked by a bookstore or stationery store, she dipped inside to find a postcard to add to her stack at home.