With Love from London

I look up at the ceiling, collecting my thoughts. “I’d call it a common interest. Or maybe a kinship.”

“A kinship,” Liza says, completely straight-faced before cracking up. “I thought you said this was a mystery, not an origin story.”

“Kinship, kindred spirits, whatever,” I say, laughing at myself, though I have L. M. Montgomery to blame for my preference for old-fashioned word choices. I was obsessed with Anne of Green Gables as a girl. Fact: I even begged my parents to let me dye my hair red.

“So, this kindred spirit of yours,” she continues. “Stay with me here…what if he’s actually your soulmate?”

I think of Nick and all his broken promises. “I really don’t believe in soulmates—at least, not anymore.”

“Girl!” Liza continues. “That’s like saying you don’t believe in Santa, or…fairies!”

“Liza, you do realize what will happen if you tell people you believe in fairies. Or, good Lord, Santa.”

She brushes off my comments as she flips through the book another time. “What did you say this guy’s name was again?”

“Daniel,” I reply, my heart beating a little faster. “His name is Daniel.”

She nods, simultaneously finding his name on the inside cover of the book. “Daniel Davenport. Ooh la la! And look, his number is written right here. I insist that you call him!”

I grimace. “No way. Besides, he’s probably married. Or deceased. Or maybe he’s not even the one who wrote those notes?”

Liza nods. “True. If I’ve learned anything from living above a bookstore all these years, it’s that the life of a book can be the craziest journey.”

I pour us each more wine, spilling a drop on the coffee table, which I wipe up with the edge of my napkin. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your mother called it a journey, but Millie prefers the term ‘life span,’?” she continues, sitting up. “Which is actually a pretty brilliant example of their different personalities, but that’s for another conversation. Anyway, Eloise used to say that a book—particularly, a very good one—is likely to pass to an average of seven readers in its life, sometimes more.”

“Yes!” I say, remembering my mother recounting those very same sentiments. “When I was a child, she used to frequent estate sales in our neighborhood and try to imagine the people who had once owned the vintage jewelry or rare books she’d find. Their joys and sorrows. The stories of their lives.”

“Tell me more about your mum when she was in California,” Liza asks cautiously.

But instead of closing up again, I remember my mother’s reminder to keep my heart open, so I try. My memories are random and disconnected, but they spill out in a cadence all their own. I tell Liza how she’d only get her hair cut on a full moon (one of her superstitions), how she’d taken up the habit of pressing flowers between the pages of her favorite novels (little surprises to find later).

Liza nods. “She really did live life with a flair all her own, didn’t she? She had a gift for finding beauty tucked away in the most unexpected places.” She picks up The Last Winter again, and grins. “And maybe you’ll find Daniel in the same sort of way.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “He could be anyone. I mean, what if he’s like nineteen years old? I may be a divorcee, but I assure you, I am not a cougar.”

She laughs. “Suit yourself. I rather like younger men.”

“Well, I don’t. And even if he is…age-appropriate…he could also be…really…old! What if those notes in the book were written in, like, oh my gosh, 1953?”

“What’s wrong with older men?”

“Okay, point taken: You like all men.”

She laughs. “That’s probably true.”

I shake my head. “Wait, he could be a…”

“Serial killer!” Liza says, stealing the words from my mouth, then shaking her head. “But think about it, would Jack the Ripper really write such thoughtful things inside a book?”

“I guess not…”

“That’s right. Your Daniel is not a serial killer.” She pauses, as if hit with a sudden stroke of genius.

“My Daniel. I love how you’re really going for this.”

“You have to call him. Tonight. Right now.”

I wince.

“You know who would have loved this so much?” She smiles. “Your mum. And she would have taken my side.”

Her comment is like a slingshot to my heart. She’s right, of course, my mother would have loved every second of this literary mystery. And even though it will probably—no, definitely—lead nowhere, for some reason, I feel the sudden urge to pick up the phone. For Cezanne, the book’s heroine, for Liza, but, really, for me. It’s a silly, girlish thing to do, of course, but the mere idea of Daniel makes me feel—momentarily—light, when my heart has felt so heavy for so long.

I take a deep breath and punch the numbers into my phone.

“Here goes nothing,” I whisper.





One Month Later

May 16, 1968



The daffodils came, and then they went.

Frank petitioned right here in London to sponsor my immigration visa. We’d marry in California, and I’d become a lawful permanent resident of the United States. All that was left was to say goodbye to my homeland—and my best friend.

“Millie,” I said, knocking on her bedroom door. She appeared a moment later with a half-smile on her face. It was clear she’d been crying. “Frank’s driver will be here in a few hours. I still haven’t sorted through my closet. Can I talk you into lending me a hand?” It was less about needing her help, and more about needing her.

She nodded, looking into my eyes. “Oh, El, do you have any idea how much I’m going to miss you?”

“Millie,” I cried. “I’m going to miss you that much and more.”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s time I make peace with your decision, even if this is all so…hard for me.” She forced a smile. “Why can’t that thickheaded bloke of yours agree to settle down here?”

“I wish,” I said, blinking back tears. Millie already knew how hard I’d tried to convince Frank to relocate to London, but he was resolved that Santa Monica was his home, and that it would also be ours.

“California has no idea how lucky it is to be getting you,” Millie said, hugging me.

“It breaks my heart to leave.”

She shook her head. “No, I think this will be good for you. You’ve outgrown this old place, El. It’s time for a bigger pond, bigger stories.”

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that I belonged right here, with her, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was failing her.

Since we were barely thirteen, all we’d talked about was the bookstore—our bookstore—the one we’d open someday, together, in a delectable, pastel-colored storefront in Primrose Hill. There’d be comfy chairs, reading nooks, and a fluffy, overfed cat who we’d pre-named Percival (Percy for short). Our customers would regard us as literary practitioners. Just like doctors prescribed medicine for physical ailments, we’d prescribe books for the soul. We had it all planned out and it would be…so perfect. Then I’d gone and ruined everything.

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