London evenings have a particular charm. The soft glow of streetlamps piercing through the autumn fog, the hum of restaurants where people seek refuge from the cold over a glass of wine. John sat at a corner table in "The Rusty Anchor," holding a menu he already knew by heart. This place had once been theirs — his and Lucy's — in better times. Tonight, though, he felt a mix of emotions: curiosity, unease, and perhaps a faint echo of the feelings he once called...
John adjusted his tie, glancing around.
"She's always late. That'll never change." John wasn't exactly a paragon of punctuality himself, but he at least tried to uphold the gentlemanly standards his mother wanted him to embody.
Author
The restaurant door swung open, and Lucy stepped into the room. Her auburn hair glimmered under the chandelier light, her light dress clinging to her figure as if hinting at the last evening they'd seen each other. That night had ended in a fight, shouting, and her tears. But now she was smiling — warmly, yet with a hint of mystery in her eyes.
"I hope you haven't been waiting too long?" Lucy smiled, and for a moment, John thought her smile was just as it used to be.
"Only half a lifetime."
"How sweet that you've kept your sarcasm."
The waiter brought wine, and Lucy promptly filled their glasses. Her movements were light and elegant, but John noticed her fingers trembling as she set the bottle down. It was too obvious a sign to miss. Was she nervous?
"To old times? Or to new beginnings?" Lucy proposed a toast.
"To the publishing house not going bankrupt by the end of the week."
Lucy sighed.
"You never change, John. Always that pessimism of yours."
"It's not pessimism. It's realism. Kate's trying, I'm trying, but... to put it mildly, things aren't going great. I'm not even sure we ever had a chance."
"Maybe you need a new project. Something to breathe life into your work."
John raised an eyebrow. Lucy had always been direct, but this time there was a strange undertone in her voice — as if she knew more than she was letting on. He felt the two yellowed envelopes in his coat pocket, the ones Nelson had recently given him. He still hadn't dared to open them. He wasn't sure why.
But maybe Lucy knew something...
John pulled out the two envelopes and placed them on the table.
"Any chance you know what these are?"
Lucy was taken aback by his bluntness, but a spark of curiosity and enthusiasm lit up her eyes. No surprise there — what woman doesn't love a secret?
"Letters? Where did you get them?"
"Nelson, that old man from the park, gave them to me recently. Said someone slipped them into his bag. They're addressed to me."
"That's... odd. Have you opened them yet?"
John shook his head.
"No... For some reason, I haven't dared. We could open them together if you're curious."
He said it with a touch of irony, but a glint of sincerity flickered in his eyes. Lucy smiled, though her smile was tense. She took the envelope marked "1" and carefully opened it. Her fingers moved slowly, as if she feared what she might find.
Lucy read aloud:
"To Mr. John Coplestone. If you're reading this, you're ready to save your publishing house. I offer you a deal: write a book about the sexual traditions of different cultures. Not just a book — a masterpiece that will make the world talk about you. I'll provide funding and sources. But you must gather the stories yourself. First stop — India. Details in the next letter."
"Sexual traditions? Is this some kind of joke?" John was utterly baffled. What did this have to do with him?
Lucy was no less surprised, but curiosity had already taken hold of her. Even if it was someone's silly prank...
"Don't be so quick, John. It sounds... intriguing."
She set the first letter aside and picked up the second, marked "2." Her expression grew more serious as she tore it open. Inside was a scrap of paper written in a familiar hand. John's heart raced — it was his grandfather's handwriting.
With a now noticeably trembling voice, Lucy read:
"John, if you're holding this letter, you've stepped onto a path I couldn't complete. I tried to write such a book but stopped. It's dangerous, but it's your chance. Seek the truth in the archives. And be careful."
"My grandfather? How is this possible?" John was now thoroughly shocked.
Lucy looked away, as if hiding something. She took her wine glass and gulped down a large sip. John noticed her hand gripping the stem tighter than necessary. The restaurant buzzed around them, but for John, the world had narrowed to these two letters and the woman sitting across from him.
"You know something, Lucy. Don't play games with me."
Lucy sighed. She tried to avoid John's gaze, but eventually succumbed to his insistence. Looking him in the eyes, she said:
"Remember... When we were still together, about a year before your grandfather's death, we were at your family's country house."
"Yeah? That was just before we learned about his diagnosis."
"Exactly..."
Lucy felt the pressure from John. She rarely saw him like this. Usually, he was calm, composed, caring. But now, nothing seemed to matter to him except the details.
"I stayed late in your family's library and didn't notice when your grandfather wandered in. He didn't know I was there."
"And then what?"
"He was muttering to himself about some book, some research. Dangerous research. It felt like he was afraid of something."
"Afraid? Of what?"
"He didn't specify. But he said there are people who don't want such books to see the light of day."
John leaned back in his chair. His thoughts were a tangled mess. The grandfather he remembered as stern but fair had never spoken of such projects. All John knew were old stories about the publishing house when it thrived. But now these letters, Nelson, Lucy... it all seemed part of a puzzle he couldn't piece together.
"India... Why India?"
Though Lucy was still nervous, she tried to lighten the mood, matching John's attempt to lower the tension.
"No idea, maybe because of the Kama Sutra? Or something deeper, like tantric rituals?"
Her voice was soft, almost seductive. She leaned closer, and John caught the faint scent of her perfume — the same one that used to drive him wild. But now there was something more in her words than mere support. She knew more than she was saying, and John could feel it.
"You're not going to pass up an adventure like this, are you? You'll go to India, find these 'sources'... And I could help."
"Why are you so interested? Besides, I still don't understand what 'gather the stories yourself' means."
Lucy visibly flushed but quickly regained her composure.
"Maybe I just want you to succeed. It does sound strange, but the letter promised to save the publishing house... Maybe this is the breakthrough you needed?"
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar that for a moment John forgot about the letters. But reality snapped him back. He had to choose: trust Lucy or keep her at arm's length. And what to do with the letters — search his grandfather's archives or head straight to India?
John finished his wine, feeling warmth spread through his body. Lucy watched him, waiting for an answer. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light, and for a moment, it seemed she was about to say something more — something important. But she stayed silent.
"I'll think about it. But first... I need to look through my grandfather's archives."
He needed to find something more. Some information or facts to base a final decision on.
Besides, Lucy was acting so strangely... It still wasn't clear why she'd called him here, why she was behaving so oddly, why she was so eagerly pushing him toward this book adventure.
"Smart. But don't take too long, John. Time's not on your side."
Dinner ended quickly. Lucy left, leaving behind only the faint scent of her perfume and even more questions.
After those letters, the conversation hit that awkward moment when both of you try to say something, but it feels doomed to fizzle out.
In such cases, a pause often works best, but neither of them was sure if a pause might accidentally become a full stop.
John returned home, where old boxes of the publishing house's archives awaited him. He knew the key to the letters — and to his grandfather's past — might be there.
The desk lamp's dim light illuminated the room. John unpacked boxes filled with old manuscripts, letters, and photographs. Everything smelled of dust and the past. John could hardly imagine his grandfather hiding anything.
Or rather... he wouldn't have been surprised if his grandfather turned out to be a secret British intelligence agent or something like that.
Suddenly, his eyes fell on a folder labeled "Personal. Edward Coplestone." Inside were notes written in his grandfather's small, meticulous handwriting. One page caught his attention: "Tantric rituals, Varanasi, 1963. Meeting with Shri Devi."
John read aloud:
"Shri Devi claimed that tantra is not just about the physical but about the union of souls. She showed me a ritual but warned: knowledge is dangerous for those who aren't ready."
John leaned back in his chair. India, tantra, Shri Devi... It all sounded like a fairy tale, but the letters in his pocket were real. He felt he was on the threshold of something bigger than just a book. This was a chance not only to save the publishing house but also to uncover the truth about his grandfather — and perhaps about himself.
"What were you hiding, Granddad?"
The night stretched on, but John couldn't stop. The archives called to him, promising answers. And somewhere, thousands of kilometers away, in Varanasi, the first stop of his journey awaited.