But it is, and it shakes me to my very core. It’s all true, terrifyingly true. Mummy is gone.
Bonnie reaches out to embrace me, but I bolt ahead, racing to Mummy’s bedroom, where I lock the door behind me and run to her closet—empty. When I open the cabinets in the bathroom, they’re completely bare. The drawers are, too, except for one. I reach inside and find a bottle of her trademark rose-scented perfume, which I spritz on my wrist, then breathe in. Did she merely forget to pack it, or, rather, leave it for me?
I want her to make me a bath and tell me, as she always does, “Cheer up, Charlie.”
“Mummy,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Where are you?”
London
January 12, 1968
As I dressed, I pictured Edward’s tall, handsome form. I remembered his curious mind—and the warmth of his touch.
He’s a romantic, I thought. Sophisticated.
The midnight-blue lace dress would be perfect. I’d only worn it once before—older, something I’d found on a sale rack at Harrods, but still stylish enough for dinner at the Royal Automobile Club.
In the hall closet, I smiled to myself when I noticed Edward’s jacket hanging on the rack, where I’d placed it last night. My own remained at the club, where I’d forgotten to retrieve it. I borrowed Millie’s coat instead, deciding to leave Edward’s on its hanger as ransom—an excuse to see him again after tonight.
Before departing, I poked my head into Millie’s bedroom, where I found her hunched over a thick law textbook. I said I was going out but didn’t dare say where. What would she think of me, returning to the Royal Automobile Club after last night’s disaster? I’d only told her about Roger and the women on his arms—oh, and the béarnaise sauce—but not a word about Edward.
Until I could believe he might be real, that we might be real, he’d be my secret.
* * *
—
It was already dark when I arrived at the club. I checked my coat with a woman in a pressed white shirt and black vest. She was about my age and looked a lot like the girls I went to school with, and perhaps she was, because she knew I didn’t belong here. I could see it in her eyes.
At the reception counter, I gave Edward’s name.
The greeter smiled warmly. “Miss Wilkins, hello. Mr. Sinclair is expecting you.” He handed me an envelope sealed with red wax imprinted with his initials: ES. When I touched my fingertips to the fine linen paper, my heart tremored a little, but even more so when I pulled out the note, and hand-drawn map inside.
Eloise,
Step into the garden. You’ll find the way. X marks the spot. I’ll be waiting for you.
xx, Edward
I could barely contain my excitement as I made my way up the stairs, passing a group of well-dressed couples heading into dinner, both of the women wearing this season’s Chanel. Covertly eyeing my map, I proceeded down a dim corridor, then to the staircase that led to the garden, where I’d fallen into Edward’s arms just last night. I smiled at the memory. But where was he? I studied the map again, continuing along the garden path, past the evergreen topiaries that lined the club’s limestone fa?ade. Just ahead, warm light glowed from a window, beside a large wooden door. I knew I’d found the right place.
I turned the knob and stepped into a room lit only by the flames of a roaring fire. A fully stocked bar ran along one wall. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all the others.
“How delightful,” I whispered to myself, stepping onto the wheeled ladder connected to a steel track that encircled the room’s perimeter.
“I thought you were frightened of ladders,” I heard a voice say.
Edward stepped into the firelight. He was dressed as finely as he had been the night before, in a sharply tailored dark suit.
I didn’t greet him. I didn’t need to. It felt completely natural to answer as if we were picking up our conversation exactly where we’d left off the night before.
“Oh, but not library ladders,” I said, pushing my foot against the floor to make the wheels move.
He grins. “You’re a reader, I take it?”
“A ravenous one,” I replied.
“I had a suspicion. I am too.”
I gazed up at the high ceiling. “Thank you for the map,” I said. “It’s the only chance I would’ve ever found my way here. How did you…?”
“Know about this place?” He shrugged. “A boy gets bored when his parents drag him to the club for dinner every Thursday night. I’d sneak down here and pass the time reading.”
He spoke so vividly of the memory that I could picture young Edward right here in this room, running his fingers across the books the way I was doing now.
He leaped behind the bar and took a visual inventory. “It’s how I became interested in literature. By accident, really.” He set a bottle of gin on the counter. “How about you?”
I continued tracing the spines of the books long enough to make a decision. I decided to take him into confidence about my and Millie’s dream, the one we’d had since we were thirteen. “My best friend and I have always had a dream to open a bookstore of our own.”
Edward listened intently as I told him about the literary haven I’d created in my mind. “Maybe someday,” I said wistfully.
He smiled as he placed ice in a cocktail shaker, mixed me a martini, and handed me a glass, a layer of ice on the rim. “Not maybe,” he said. “If it’s your heart’s calling, it will be.”
Somehow, his confidence was enough to boost my own. If Edward believed my dream would come true, I could, too.
“Cheers,” he continued, clinking his glass against mine. “To dreams and books—and new friendships.”
I took a sip—the gin was strong and botanical, like the first whiff of a fresh-cut Christmas tree.
“Your dress, it’s…” he said, pausing for a long moment. “Eloise, I’m afraid you’ve rendered me speechless. What I’m attempting to say is that you look stunning. Blue is definitely your color.”
“Thank you,” I said a bit nervously as we settled into two overstuffed chairs upholstered in emerald-green velvet.
“Tell me, what books will you sell at this bookstore of yours?” he asked.
“Some will be new,” I said. “But most will be well-loved favorites. Did you know that most books—particularly, the very best ones—are likely to pass to an average of seven readers in their life, sometimes more?”
“Fascinating,” he replied, absently touching the edge of his shoulder where he’d showed me his tattoo the night before.
“You’ll always hear music,” I said, smiling, “and I’ll always hear stories.”
“Or maybe we’ll each hear both,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine.