I dart ahead, to the Primrose Hill equivalent, where a sign reads TAKE ONE, LEAVE ONE. HAPPY READING.
“It was all your mum’s doing,” Jan says, looking on as I survey the fourth shelf from the bottom, just as the note had instructed. But after a thorough inspection of each title, my search comes up empty, and I turn around. “Maybe I’m missing something? There’s nothing here.”
“Ah yes,” Jan says. “Check the far right corner of that shelf a little closer.”
I follow her instructions, and immediately notice a small hinge that practically blends into the shelf’s wooden backdrop. I give it a little push, and a tiny door opens, revealing a hidden compartment behind the shelf—just large enough to hold a single book—in this case, a well-loved (and by that, I mean, sufficiently tattered) copy of Little Women. I hurriedly flip through the book’s pages until I find the card inside and eagerly tear the envelope open.
Valentina,
Congratulations on reaching your third clue, my darling girl. Please hug Jan for me. (And if you’re ever feeling under the weather, have her make you her famous chicken soup. It is THE antidote.) I hope you’re falling in love with Primrose Hill as much as I did when I first laid eyes on it. Isn’t it magnificent?
Now, for your next clue, and please, listen carefully: While I may not be there to dry your tears, there are bighearted people in this neighborhood who are. Think of them as your family, because they were to me. When you need comfort, turn to them, and curl up in the nursery and listen as the old lady whispers, “Hush.” I’ll be waiting.
Love, always and forever,
Mummy
“I take it you found your clue?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“It’ll get easier in time,” she says.
“No, really,” I reply. “I’m…fine.”
“Honey, you’re not fine, and that’s okay. I lost my mother, too—five years ago. Grief comes in fits and spurts. One day you’re on the top of the world; the next you’re drowning in a puddle of tears.”
“I don’t think you understand,” I say, steadying myself. “My mother left when I was twelve years old. I…never saw her again before she…passed.”
“I know,” she says. “It’ll all be okay in time. You’ll see.”
“Well,” I say with a sigh. “I should go. You have the lunch crowd to prepare for.”
“Listen,” Jan says before I turn to the door. “I don’t doubt that you’ve been through a lot—more than I can possibly imagine—but I do know that your mum loved you ever so much.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching out to embrace her, remembering my mother’s note.
Please hug Jan for me.
“That’s from…my mum.”
* * *
—
Shortly after six p.m., Liza pokes her head in the door of my flat. “Just checking to make sure you’re still with the living,” she says. “Jet lag is tough.”
“Alive and kicking,” I reply, telling her about my visit to Café Flora and the headway I’d made with Millie as I open the bottle of red I’d purchased at the market. I pour us each a glass.
“Millie conquered? Check. Third clue? In progress. Next up: finding you a love interest.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that Millie is unconquerable. And I do appreciate your sentiment, but men are the last thing on my priority list at the moment.”
“I know,” Liza concedes. “I’m just trying to think of creative ways to get you to feel at home here. Can you blame me for wanting to have a fun new friend upstairs—who also happens to be my landlord?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I may not be her landlord for long. “You’re sweet,” I say instead. “And I do really like it here, but if anything could anchor me to London, it wouldn’t be a man. Honestly, I think the only men who stand a chance of capturing my attention are the fictional variety.”
She laughs. “Given my dating track record these days, I’m inclined to agree with you. There is no better man than one found in a novel.”
“Right? Why is that?”
Liza shrugs. “Because they don’t exist in real life.”
“Or maybe they do?” I counter. “And you’ve just been looking in the wrong places?”
“You mean, I should give up on bad boys and go out with a sensible accountant or something?”
“Yeah!”
She shakes her head. “No thanks. I’d die of pure and utter boredom.”
“Well, speaking of men in books,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “When I met my husband—my ex-husband—I actually believed that he was a modern-day Mr. Darcy.” I shudder at the words, embarrassed at my naivete. “I mean, I did. I really did. I thought he was this aloof romantic hero, rough around the edges, yes, but with a solid heart—a gentleman’s heart. And then, well…how wrong could I have been?”
Liza places a hand on my arm. “Don’t feel bad, honey. I once fell for a man who had a pet monkey. He actually had a whole act, with a banana bit, that he did on Oxford Street on Saturday afternoons.”
I burst into laughter. “Dear Lord.”
“He told me that it was just a side gig to pay the rent while he finished his master’s degree,” she says. “But I later found out that he lied about that, oh, and also, he lived on his mate’s couch. Can you believe I fell for that?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “I can’t.”
She cringes. “The monkey was lovely, though—a total sweetheart. His name was Charles.”
Liza’s eccentric monkey-trainer boyfriend reminds me of my own dating disasters in college, before I met Nick, who, ahem, also turned out to be a disaster. I try to remember what Joan Rivers wrote in her memoir. It was something like “Don’t take life too seriously. No matter what, just laugh because at the end of the day, it’s all funny.” I can’t recall the exact quote, and if I tried to recite it, I’d butcher it, for sure. But the sentiment rings true. If only it were that easy—to just laugh at all the absurdity, from my failed marriage to my mother’s dual exit from my life.
“It’s good to see you laughing,” Liza says.
“I’m trying, but…I’m not all there yet.”
She squeezes my hand. “I know.”
“I mean, one moment I’m laughing, and the next”—I pause, feeling the familiar lump in my throat—“I’m on the verge of tears.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m going crazy?”
“Val, you’re not going crazy. You’re just going through a lot. It’s normal to feel all the feelings.”
I nod. “You want to hear something that’s a bit crazy?” I reach for the marked-up copy of The Last Winter on the coffee table and point out the notes in the margins on one of the pages. “His name is Daniel, and…I don’t know…he has the most insightful things to say about the story. It’s like we’re the same mind, or something.”
She flips through the book, reading a few of the entries, before placing her hand to her heart. “Val, this is…so romantic,” she gushes. “You have a crush on a man you’ve discovered in a book!”
“Now, let’s not get carried away,” I say with a laugh. “I do not have a crush on him.”
“Well, what would you call it, then?”