The Gift by Cecelia Ahern Page A

keep this one in my hand, is it?”
    Lou frowned at the peculiar response and busied himself at his desk, putting on his overcoat and preparing to leave.
    “No, Gabe, it’s certainly not juggling if you choose …” He stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying and hearing Ruth’s voice in his head. His head snapped up, feeling that cold chill again, but Gabe was gone and the orange was left on his desk.
    “Alison.” Lou marched out of his office with the orange in his hand. “Did Gabe just walk out of here?”
    “Em…” she said slowly. “He came up to my desk about twenty minutes ago and—”
    “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. He was in my office a second ago and then he was gone. Just now. Did he walk by?”
    “Well, he must have, but—”
    “Did you see him?”
    “No, I was on the phone and—”
    “Jesus.” He punched the desk, startling Alison. “By the way”—he dropped his voice and leaned in closer—“does any of my mail ever come to me under a different name?”
    “What do you mean?” She frowned.
    “You know—” He looked left and right and barely moved his lips as he spoke. “Aloysius,” he mumbled.
    “Aloysius?” she said loudly.
    He threw his eyes up. “Keep it down,” he hissed.
    “No.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve never seen the name Aloysius on any of the mail.” Then she smiled, snorted, and started laughing. “Why the hell would there be Aloy—”
    At his look, her words disappeared and her smilefaded. “Oh. Oh dear. That’s a”—her voice went an octave higher—“ lovely name.”
     
    L OU WALKED ACROSS THE NEWLY constructed Seán O’Casey pedestrian bridge that linked the two rejuvenated north and south quays—the North Wall Quay and Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. One hundred meters across the bridge brought him to his destination, the Ferryman, the only authentic pub left on this stretch. It wasn’t a place for cappuccinos or ciabattas, and because of that the clientele was specific. The bar contained a handful of Christmas shoppers who’d wandered off the beaten track to take a break and to wrap their purple-fingered hands around heated glasses. The rest of the place was filled with workers, young and old, winding down after their day’s work. Suits filled the seats, pints and shorts filled the surfaces. It was just after six p.m., and people had already escaped the business district for their nearest place of solace, to worship at the altar of beers on tap.
    Bruce Archer was one such person, propped at the bar with Guinness in hand, roaring with laughter over something somebody beside him had said. All around him were suits. Shoulder pads to shoulder pads. Pinstripes and polished shoes and briefcases containing spreadsheets, pie charts, and forward-looking market predictions. None of them were drinking coffee. Lou should have known. But as he watched them backslapping and laughing loudly, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. So, really, he had known all along.
    Bruce turned around and spotted him. “Lou!” he shouted across the room in his heavy Boston accent. “Lou Suffern! Good to see ya!” He stood from the stool, walked toward Lou with his hand extended, and then, gripping Lou’s hand firmly, pumped it up and down while thumping him enthusiastically on the back. “Let me introduce you to the guys. Guys, this is Lou, Lou Suffern, works at Patterson Developments…” And so Lou was lost in a sea of introductions, forgetting each name the second he heard it and pushing the image of his wife and daughter out of his head each time he shook a firm, clammy, or limp hand. He tried to forget that he had forsaken his family for this. He tried to forget as they pooh-poohed his order of coffee and instead filled him with beer, as they ignored his attempt to leave after one pint. Then after the second. And again after the third. Tired of a fight each time a round arrived, he let them change his order to a Jack Daniel’s, and as his cell phone rang