With Love from London

“It’s called The War That Saved My Life, or something like that…maybe The War That Saved Me?”

“Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, yes,” Millie says immediately, pointing to a nearby bookcase. “We have it right here.” She lifts a paperback from the shelf and hands it to her dubious client. “You see, Miss Easton, we booksellers are neither extinct nor incapable.”

“Right, of course,” Fiona says, stunned. “Thank you.”

“I told you they’d have it, babe,” her boyfriend says, leaning against a nearby bookshelf. He runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Millie can find you anything.”

“Hello, Eric,” Millie says warmly as if they’ve had many previous literary chats. “How nice to finally meet your girlfriend.”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get Fiona up here for ages, but now that she’s doing some design work for a new boutique down the road, I was finally able to twist her arm.”

Fiona forces a grin. “I’m an interior designer,” she says, reaching into her purse and placing a card on the counter. “Just in case you ever need any help”—she pauses, looking around the store—“sprucing things up.”

Millie smiles politely, then covertly tosses the card beneath the counter—directly into the recycle bin. “How nice. An interior designer. You know, Eric’s been coming here since he was in grade school. If I’m not mistaken, you were one of our first customers, weren’t you?”

He nods. “My mum would bring me to Eloise’s read-alouds. I must have been twelve at the time, but something about the way she read was just…magical.”

My heart seizes when I hear the mention of my mother’s name, and it hurts to think of her spending time with other children when I was the one who needed her most.

“This is Eloise’s daughter, Valentina.”

Eric’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding. Really?”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“I’m so sorry about your mum.”

I nod.

“She was really incredible. And this store…” He pauses, looking around. “I spent so many hours of my childhood in here. We lived just up the street. When my mum couldn’t find me, I was always here. Your mum would let me stay long after closing time.”

“Wow,” I say, unsure of how to respond.

“I heard that she had a daughter, in America. She always talked about you. It’s really cool to finally meet you. Did you ever—”

“Eric, honey, we need to go,” Fiona interjects. “I promised my sister we’d pick up the cake, and you know how much she hates it when we’re not punctual.” She smiles at me. “It was so nice to meet you. What did you say your name was again?”

“Valentina.”

She scrunches her nose. “Valentina. How quaint.”

Eric scratches his head. “Well, we better be off. Millie, thank you. And, Valentina, it was a pleasure. I’ll be by soon—this visit wasn’t nearly long enough.”

Millie smiles. “We have some new fiction coming in next week that you might enjoy.”

“Until then,” he says, nodding at me before following the interior designer out the door.

When they’re gone, Millie lets out a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but what in the world does he see in that woman?”

“I know. She’s dreadful, isn’t she? They’ve been dating for at least four years, or so I hear. They might even get married. A shame. He’s such a kind young man, and she’s, well…” Millie’s voice trails off as she shakes her head.

I shrug. “Well, you sure called her bluff.”

“It doesn’t matter if I did,” Millie continues. “There are people like Fiona around every corner, the ones who don’t believe in the importance of a neighborhood bookstore. But we’ll prove them wrong, won’t we?”

I nod reflexively, but doubt churns inside of me as she hands me a copy of the store’s ledger sheet. “I’m afraid the numbers aren’t great,” Millie says. “Eloise cared more about her community than the bottom line. Alas, I wish I’d looked into the books sooner.” She sighs. “Surely, there must be a solution.”

If there is, it’s foreign to me. The only options I see are sell and settle the estate debt, along with the looming tax bill, or defy the rules of logic and carry on.

Two impossible choices.



* * *





Café Flora is just ahead, and as I approach, I notice the climbing rose clinging to the building’s fa?ade—bare vines now, soon ready to burst into bloom. An assortment of large, terra-cotta containers bear evidence of last year’s dahlias, lavender, and roses. This is the location of my mother’s next strategically placed clue: Your next stop is culinary and close—where flowers grow.

As I walk inside the café, a middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up, brushing a wisp of auburn hair from her temple. I hadn’t noticed her when Liza and I stopped in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “We’re not open for lunch until eleven.”

“It’s okay,” I say, walking closer. The air smells of freshly baked bread and simmering garlic, and I suddenly feel hungry. “I’m here about…something else.” I introduce myself, and explain my mother’s mysterious notes.

“So, you’re the one and only Valentina,” she says, looking me over with a wide smile. “Your mother said you’d be coming.”

“She did?”

The woman nods. “I’m Jan. I own this place. This was one of your mum’s favorites. She loved our watercress grilled cheese.” Jan sighs, looking out into the empty dining room as if she can see my mother sitting by the window, daintily dipping her sandwich in a cup of tomato soup. I can picture it, too, somehow. “We all miss her. Very much.” She smiles, cinching the string of her apron. “But now we have you!”

“Uh, yes,” I say, swallowing hard.

“I can’t tell you how much I admire you for stepping into your mother’s shoes and keeping the Book Garden afloat. I don’t know what Primrose Hill would do without it. In some ways, it’s the heart and soul of our little neighborhood.”

My hands feel a little clammy, and I tuck them into the pockets of my jeans. I don’t tell her that the store’s future is in a precarious state. Instead, I smile, and show her the clue my mother left.

“Aha,” Jan says with a coy smile. “Your mum always had a bit of game in her, didn’t she?” She points to the bookshelf on the far wall. “It’s sort of like our little free library—where customers can leave or borrow books as they please. You have those in the States, right?”

“Oh yes,” I say, remembering the miniature house on the post I had installed by the curb in front of our home in Seattle. Nick had thought it was embarrassing, a “librarian” thing to do. But I loved it—so much. I’d search used-book stores for copies of my favorite titles—children’s books, too—and tuck them into the little library, then perch in the chair by our living room window, and watch people stop and select a title, or leave one of their own to share.

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