But Millie merely shrugs. “Go ahead, take it.”
“Thank you,” I say, searching her eyes once again for even the faintest sign of a peace offering.
“Let’s not be silly,” Millie says with an air of indifference. “It’s your store now, isn’t it?”
She’s right, of course. What’s-his-name from Bevins and Associates explained that Millie had signed over her ownership stake years prior. She’d merely uttered a statement of fact, and yet her words make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
* * *
—
“Don’t let her get to you,” Liza says later as we walk up the next block to the market. “Under that tough exterior, Millie’s really just an old softie. You’ll see.”
I nod reluctantly, thanking her for today’s tour of Primrose Hill before we part ways. Alone with my thoughts, I grab a cart and roam the aisles of the market aimlessly. I used to love grocery shopping, especially with Nick. When we were first married, I looked forward to our after-work trips to Whole Foods. He’d push the cart, and I’d load it up. We were a team, until we weren’t.
I sigh, eyeing the foreign-looking labels on the cans and boxes. The yogurt looks different. Everything is different. After thirty minutes, I place my selections on the checkout counter belt—a loaf of bread, a box of granola, a carton of what I think is cream, strawberries, three bottles of cheap French burgundy, a wedge of brie, and one lonely apple. It’s a random, mismatched, and empty combination, which feels like a metaphor for my life right now. I am all of these things.
I carry the bag back to the flat, then slump into the sofa, where I finally listen to the voicemail from Bevins and Associates left earlier today. The news isn’t good. A hefty inheritance tax (far more than I can afford to pay) is due within six months, or rather, just before Christmas.
Merry Christmas.
Sure, I now own the bookstore and the building, but am cash poor from the divorce proceedings, I don’t have the liquid assets to cover the taxes. If only Nick hadn’t been hellbent on selling the house so quickly—and at a loss. But Bevins and Associates has a quick fix. “Fortunately for you, we’ve been approached by a potential buyer—a developer who is willing to pay a fair price.”
I set the phone down and lean my head against the back of the sofa, trying to face the situation logically: I can’t afford the inheritance tax and there isn’t any other reasonable solution on the table. I could sell, as the attorneys suggest, and be left with, at best, a small profit, or possibly just break even. It would be a sad end to the store’s twenty-year run, but why should I be concerned with a venture my mother took up after leaving her child—me?
I think about the whimsical little shop with Percy purring in the window, even with Millie in all of her cantankerousness behind the counter—despite my best efforts, I am already falling for it, all of it.
“It’s your store now,” Millie had said so shrewdly. How right she was—down to the very last bill to be paid.
I look around my mother’s flat at the relics of her life, from the pillows on the sofa to her favorite books lined up on the shelf. Every little thing she carted home from a flea market or used-book store is infused with her essence, and as I take it all in, I’m unable to stop the emotions rising up inside of me. Like a surge of water pummeling a weary dam, I’m on the verge of caving, and I do. The tears start slowly, then build to a crescendo.
It feels good to cry, but I also feel a need to connect. Since the divorce, I’d posted less and less on Instagram. I’d blamed it on the house sale, the details of preparing for London. But it’s time I called my own bluff. I’ve been hiding—from my followers, the world, everyone. Though I’d rarely talk about my personal life in my posts, there was an authenticity to my happiness. Because I was. At least, I thought I was. Would the forty thousand followers who looked forward to my book tips and literary musings feel the same if they knew the truth? That those I’ve loved left me, and I am on the brink of financial ruin?
All the books in the world can’t change that.
I exhale deeply and reach for my phone, where I quickly scroll through my feed and read the new comments and direct messages. “Everything okay?” one commenter writes. “You didn’t post your usual #FridayReads. Going on vacay next week and need to know what to pack in my bag!”
It’s insignificant, really, that Leah from New Jersey misses my posts, or Valerie from Oklahoma, or Mei from Toronto. And yet, it feels good to be missed. It’s enough to give me the energy to share something a little more personal.
I snap a photo of The Last Winter, adjust the brightness a bit and select my favorite filter, then start typing:
Life is like a novel, and to be honest, friends, mine feels like a really tragic one these days. Don’t worry, I’m alright, but the plot has thrown a few twists and turns. Thank God for books, right? If you need me, I’ll be over here, diving back into an old favorite (always balm for the soul). For me, that’s The Last Winter, a novel I’ve read so many times, but need more than ever right now, because books are old friends. Published in 1934 by little-known author Elle Graves, the story takes place in 1920s New York and details the forbidden love affair between Charles, a married physician and aspiring politician, and nineteen-year-old French émigré Cezanne, a ballet dancer who has spent her life fiercely trying to hide her mixed-race identity from the world—even from Charles.
The tragic and emotional story of The Last Winter has stuck with me, though the book has been out of print for years (fear not, your intrepid local librarian will surely be able to track you down a copy!). My own copy went missing after my recent divorce and move…I pause, contemplating whether to delete that last line, but it feels good to be open, so I leave it on the screen…and my extensive online search for a replacement has been distressingly unsuccessful. Until today!
* * *
—
I head to bed with The Last Winter, eager to reunite with the familiar story, but especially its characters—old friends. I check my account one last time. Likes and emojis are pouring in. Readers are sharing their own stories of long-lost books, of their own heartbreak. I join the conversation, adding a new post.
What makes books more special than, say, a movie, is that you can hold them. When your own world feels bleak, a book is a portal to anywhere. You can hide within the pages, linger there for comfort or protection. The best part? Whether you’re seven or sixty-seven, a favorite book is like an old friend, waiting for you with open arms, and right now, that’s what The Last Winter is for me.