Page 84 of That Reunited Feeling

HANNAH

Hermann stops the car at the end of a narrow cobbled street.

“Down there, third store on the right,” he says in his faint German accent. “When you go inside?—”

“Ask for Sven?” I finish.

“Exactly.”

I stare along the narrow lane with a terrace of redbrick buildings along either side. The first store has a canopy bearing the wordsPurple Pickle Deli ~ Fun Foods from around the World. Next isMr. Smith’s Antiques & Collectibles, with a wicker chair, a bright blue desk, and a four-foot-tall statue of a cat on the sidewalk outside. Across the street from it is a bright yellow storefront withOver Your Headand a picture of an umbrella on a sign above the door. A whole store for umbrellas?

Then there’s a bend in the street. Sven’s mystery emporium must be around the corner. The other shops are such a mixed bunch they’re no clue as to what it might be.

“Is this real? It looks like something out of a picture book. Am I about to tumble down a hole into Wonderland?”

Hermann chuckles. He’s been excellent company for the last hour or so while giving me a guided driving tour of London’s main sights.

First, he took me over Tower Bridge, past the Tower of London, and along the north bank of the Thames to Trafalgar Square. Then we went by Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and now we’re at this narrow brick lane that looks like all it’s missing is a bunch of Dickensian characters and horse-drawn carriages.

He was very patient with all my questions, and I learned a lot about London, as well as about how he came here from Germany with his parents when he was eleven—the same age Tom was when his parents died and he moved in with Jim and Maggie.

Since I’m constantly worried about how Dylan will deal with moving to the West Coast, never mind to another country, I asked Hermann how he’d coped with such a big change.

Apparently he hated the idea of it, sulked for months before they moved, and couldn’t bear it here until his first day of school where he had the best time and buddied up with a guy who’s been his best friend for forty years.

That’s something, I guess.

“Don’t worry, my dear. You’re perfectly safe,” Hermann says. “And I’ll be waiting right here when you’re ready to go. I just can’t drive down there because it’s a dead end and too narrow to turn this thing around.”

“Okay.” I open the door and step out. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, come get me.”

“If you’re anything like Tom, you’ll be gone a lot longer than twenty minutes,” he says with an insightful smile.

Am I like Tom?

Hmm. I haven’t thought about us being alike before.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets against the bright but chilly day and make my way along the narrow sidewalk.

For a second, I consider popping into the Purple Pickle to pick up some treats as a gift for Maggie and Jim. It has a beautiful display of French jams in the window, along with all types of Italian oils and vinegars. There’s also a pyramid of gorgeous shiny tins of Belgian spiced hot chocolate—wouldn’t mind that for myself.

But I’m drawn onward by the mystery of Sven and continue past the antiques store, unable to resist patting the enormous cat on the head.

Then I round the corner and gasp.

There it is, the third shop on the right. Converted from an old traditional-style house with large windows on either side of a bright red door. Above the door is a hand-painted red-and-white sign reading,Going Around Again. One window has the words,Second Hand&Vintageetched on it. The other says,Special Editions&Collectors’ Items.

Beyond the windows are rows and rows and racks and racks of records.

My heart soars at Tom’s incredible thoughtfulness, and I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. I’m the most fortunate person on the planet to have him for even this short time.

I pull open the door and step into the warm, musty scent. Is there anything more exciting than that aroma?

Over on one side, a young guy with spiked blue hair and an incredible number of piercings rifles through the punk section. On the other, a middle-aged woman wanders under a hand-writtenCountrysign. And at the rear, an older man wearing a cap is hunched over the jazz selections.

Right in the center of the room is a counter staffed by a tall, skinny blond guy. Judging by his orange and yellow T-shirt with swirly seventies lettering, he’s a fan of Granicus. I’ll have to look them up later.

He’s holding a clipboard that must contain a list of some sort because he’s scrutinizing it and occasionally checking things off. As the door dings closed behind me, he looks up. “Hi.”

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