The next morning, while I don’t wake with fond memories of any particularly romantic dream, I do feel unusually steeped in a newfound sense of clarity—about the Book Garden. My mother’s life might remain a painful mystery to me, but she did create something beautiful, and worthwhile. I think of the customers who came into the shop the other day—Eric, in particular, even if his girlfriend is somewhat questionable. He practically came of age in the store! I’d witnessed how Jan at Café Flora was practically lit from within when she recounted the Book Garden’s important place in the community. If my career as a librarian had any meaning, this could have just as much—or more. How could I live with myself if I didn’t at least try to breathe some new life into the bookstore? As I fill the teakettle and set it on the back burner of the old stove, I reach for my phone and make some changes to my bio at @booksbyval. I delete “librarian” and “Seattle.” I can’t straddle two worlds; I must choose one, and I’ve made my choice. I should be sad, maybe? Instead, I feel a rush of pride when I type the new entry. Bookseller. The Book Garden. Primrose Hill, London.
This is the life that my long-lost mother has gifted to me. I have six months to make it mine.
* * *
—
The door bells jingle as I walk into the store. “Millie?” I call, out of breath, waking Percy, who stretches his legs in a sunny spot near the front window.
“Just a minute,” she replies from the back room.
A moment later, she appears, a bit disheveled, with a broom in her hand. “Wouldn’t you think bees would have better sense than to build their hive in a bookstore?” She shakes her head. “They got in through that blasted window again. It happens every year about this time. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed, and this is the price one pays for procrastinating.” She sets the broom against the back wall, but it stubbornly falls to the floor with a smack. “Next there’ll be hornets in the Hemingway section!”
“Sorry,” I say, stifling a laugh, as I detect a scratching sound coming from the back of the store. “Wait, what is that, certainly not bees?”
Millie rolls her eyes. “Percy! He thinks the corner bookcase in the history section is his personal scratching post.” She shoos him back to the window, then pauses for an elongated moment, studying my face before raising an eyebrow. “Your expression,” she says with a nod of certainty. “Your mother used to make the very same one when she was on the verge of something.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Millie holds up her hand to silence me. “Something’s brewing. I know it. Let’s just cut to the chase. You’re putting us out of business. You’re closing the store, selling the building. Go ahead. Just say it.”
I shake my head. “On the contrary, Millie, you could not be more wrong. I’m not selling the store. Quite the opposite, actually.”
She narrows her gaze, still unconvinced.
“Listen,” I continue. “When I first learned that my mother had left me her estate, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I hadn’t seen or heard from her since I was twelve years old. That’s a long time.” The familiar ache pulses inside, but I continue, pushing past the emotions. “I’ve carried a lot of hurt with me ever since. So yes, when I stepped off the plane, I didn’t feel all that nostalgic or warm.”
Millie listens as I continue. “But then I came here, to Primrose Hill, and saw the store with my own eyes. I met you and Liza, Jan, that quirky guy at the market with the—”
“Beret,” Millie adds, smiling as she finishes my sentence.
“And a fake French accent, if I might add.”
She nods. “It’s unequivocally fake.”
I smile. “But it fits, doesn’t it? It all fits. All of you. All of”—I pause, glancing around the store—“this. I guess what I’m saying is that…I’m not going anywhere. I can’t.” I catch her eyes, harnessing her gaze to mine. “I may never understand my mother’s past, but I’m going to fight for the Book Garden.”
Millie throws her arms around me. “I knew it!” she cries. “I knew you weren’t a bad apple!”
I hand her a tissue from the box on the counter and take one for myself.
“But it’s the estate tax, Millie,” I continue. “I only have six months to pay it, and I don’t have the cash. Now, if you’re willing to work with me, maybe get a little creative—”
I stop myself from where the conversation is heading. Yes, Millie is retired from her law career and might have the capital to help, but that would be a huge burden to put on my mother’s best friend. I decide to set the thought aside and help her shelve the new shipment of books, which is when I tell her about the intriguing comments in the copy of The Last Winter, and the wine-fueled evening with Liza where I mustered the courage (albeit, liquid courage) to dial the phone number written inside the cover.
“This is intriguing,” Millie says, eating up my words with rapt attention.
“Yes, but attempting to meet a man you’ve ‘found’ in a book does seem a little, well, insane, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe, but only in the best of ways.” She grins, tucking a fresh paperback onto the shelf. “Valentina, did your mother ever tell you about the life span of a book?”
I smile. “The journey? Yes.”
Mille nods. “It’s vast. That book might have traveled through countless hands before and after this Daniel had possession of it. Finding him might take some work, but I don’t think it’s impossible.”
We’d been so immersed in our discussion that neither of us had noticed the FedEx deliveryman waiting patiently in the doorway. When he clears his throat, Millie startles, apologizing as she quickly smooths her tousled hair, then signs for the packages.
“It’s no trouble,” the man says, as Millie’s cheeks flush.
“Thank you, Fernando,” she says, setting the packages on the counter before introducing me.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says before turning to Millie again. “And…it’s always nice to see you, Ms. Wilson.” His jet-black hair is graying at the temples, though it’s clear he’s at least fifteen years her junior. As they stand beside each other, the top of his head barely reaches her collarbone.
“Please, you’ve been making deliveries here for years. We’re basically…old friends. You must call me Millie.”
“Millie,” he says, holding her gaze for a beat before turning to the door. “Afternoon.”
“Goodbye, Fernando,” she replies with a limp wave, as if her right arm had suddenly lost seventy-five percent of its muscle capacity.
“Well, well, well,” I say teasingly as the delivery truck sets off down the street. “Someone has a crush on the FedEx guy!”
“I most certainly do not,” Millie insists, snapping out of whatever spell she’s just been under.
I smile, helping her finish stocking the new inventory, when I remember my mother’s latest clue. I retrieve my purse and pull out the card to read the last lines to Millie: 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 look up at her curiously. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, and I know you do, too.”
“But I don’t! I’ve been reading it over and over again, and…I just can’t place it.”
Millie sinks into the old upholstered chair by the window. The arms are threadbare, and likely made what’s-her-name—the interior designer—break out in hives. “When you were born, I sent your mother a box of children’s books—all classics, the ones that have stood the test of time. One, she told me, was an early favorite of yours.”
I bite my lip, trying to extract any memory that might shed light on Mummy’s latest clue. “Peter…Rabbit?” I finally say.
Millie smiles. “Shall I give you a hint?”
“Yes, please.”
“Five words. Are you ready?”
I nod.