I sink my head into the pillows, eager to return to Cezanne’s world. But when I turn to the first page, I’m a little surprised to find a handwritten note near the top corner. This has to be one of the most beautiful opening paragraphs in all of literature.
I reread the words curiously, my arms erupting in goosebumps. I wholeheartedly agree, though I know plenty of other librarians who would eschew any such writing in the margins, and yet, I’ll admit, I’ve been prone to scribbling in pages myself (in the pages of my own books, that is). But, literary controversy aside, this commenter makes an excellent point. The book hadn’t been a bestseller or won a Pulitzer, but it’s filled with lines that literally sing. I read the words again, letting them marinate in my mind.
“Cezanne wills her lithe body into position as she gazes out at the theatre. In the turbulent sea of human faces, she sees only one: his.”
I press my hand to my chest, the line hitting my heart, just as it had the very first time I’d read it. On the next page, I find another note beside an underlined passage. The description of her lacing her ballet slippers is reminiscent of being tied with chains, bound by society’s rules.
How funny. I’d thought the very same thing.
And then, on page eight, another note appears: Snow is a metaphor for change, the forces of life that we can’t control. Note how Cezanne behaves in the 1922 blizzard.
Yes, exactly! I nod, recalling how she’d been selected to dance the lead in the most prestigious ballet of the year. It would be the greatest opportunity of her career and provide the funds to support her impoverished family. But then a blizzard strikes the city on the same night a new choreographer dismisses Cezanne from the production. Even though her world looks bleak, she runs out to the street and dances—immersing herself in the falling snow, finding beauty amid the darkness.
Who is this mystery commentator, I wonder. Unable to contain my curiosity, I flip to the inside cover for any clue, which is where I find the name Daniel Davenport, written beside a telephone number.
A quick fan of the pages and it’s evident that the book is filled with more intriguing notes sprinkled throughout the prose. I want to study them all. Another one, on page sixty-eight, reads, If only it were possible to visit Cezanne’s New York. The wish feels eerily familiar, as if plucked from the depths of my brain.
Overcome with curiosity, I delve further, which is when a small envelope slips out into my lap. Just like the one I’d found yesterday, from my mother, this one also has my name on it. I wasn’t able to make any sense of the clue in her last note (I implore you to delve deep—to our last springs, summers, and autumns, but above all, our last winter) but now I understand.
My darling Val,
You’ve discovered one of my favorites, just as I knew you would. As I’ve always said, books have a way of finding you when you need them most, and now you’ve found The Last Winter. I promised that I had some surprises in store for you, and this book is only the beginning. Keep it close to your heart, and please, my darling girl, keep that beautiful heart open and curious as you read between the lines. There’s so much more in store, my little birdie.
Your next stop is culinary, and close—where flowers grow. Find me on the fourth shelf. I’ll be waiting.
Love,
Mummy
My eyes sting with tears as I read the note over and over again, trying to make sense of it. Keep your heart open? What on earth could she mean? And what is my next stop, a culinary place where flowers grow? Mummy loved scavenger hunts; she’d organized dozens of them for me as a child. And now she’d planned this final one after remaining silent for the latter half of my life. Why? Why now?
I flip back to the inside cover and study the name written in blue ink, and can’t help but wonder if this mystery man is somehow the key to it all.
Daniel Davenport, who are you?
Three Months Later
April 19, 1968
I stood Frank up for lunch at the Ritz—twice, in fact—but he was undeterred. He sent two bouquets of flowers and called a half-dozen times.
I should have been happy for the interest and attention, but all I could think about was Edward, that magnificent library bar, and the night that had glimmered with promise and ended in mystery. He didn’t meet me at Jack’s Bistro the next day, nor did he call. But Frank did.
Poor Millie, by the fifth time he rang, I begged her to let him down softly for me. “El,” she said later. “You’re going to break this poor man’s heart.”
Even Millie—straight-shooting Millie—was no match for Frank’s tenacity. He showed up at our flat the following Saturday night with two tickets to the Sammy Davis, Jr., concert and not a stitch of judgment about our modest living situation. In his eyes, I was a duchess, a princess, even. And who could say no to Sammy Davis, Jr.? Certainly not Millie. She whispered in my ear that night, “If you don’t go, I might have to!”
And so, I went out with Frank that night. And maybe it was the music, or the cocktails, but I let him kiss me under a lamppost in Trafalgar Square.
After that, I began to grow accustomed to Frank. While we had little in common—after all, to him, numbers told stories, not words—and butterflies might not have swirled inside of me in his presence, I did enjoy his company, or rather: I enjoyed being enjoyed.
“Look at you,” Millie said as I got ready for another Friday night date with Frank. “You have the glow of a woman in love.” It wasn’t so much a statement but a smartly phrased question—a barrister-in-training, and a good one, prying the truth out of her unsuspecting witness.
Millie could read me like no one else, and yet my evasiveness about Frank had even her guessing. This was her way of taking my temperature. I smoothed the hem of my dress and wondered if she knew I wasn’t thinking of Frank, but rather, the jacket hanging in the front closet that belonged to another man, and the disappointing fact that after that perfect night in the little library, Edward had…disappeared.
I’d gone to Jack’s the day I’d asked him to meet me, waited an hour for him, swirling in my corner stool at the bar every time someone entered, but it was no use. None were Edward.
I thought about looking him up, stopping in to the club, even, to see if I might find him, but it all felt too forward. If he were interested, truly interested, he would have been there, materialized on the barstool next to mine so we could pick up where we left off in the library. But he didn’t, and that was that.
“Well?” Millie asked again.
I don’t love Frank, I thought, but I love the way he adores me. Could his love be enough for both of us?