I sighed, trying to resign myself to the matter. “You’re right. It was probably just a bad day.” I scooped the final raspberry into my mouth, then brought my dish to the sink.
“That’s the spirit,” Bonnie said, turning back to the dishes.
I decided to put the matter out of my mind—and my worries along with it. That morning I went on a walk around the neighborhood, eventually finding a nearby café, where I sat at a corner table, drank coffee, and wrote to Millie. The croissants aren’t nearly as good as they are in London, but I like some of the other items in the case, like bagels, which are these unusual, doughy things that look like the second cousin of a doughnut, except that they’re not fried. Americans can’t get enough of them! I also tried an avocado for the first time yesterday. It was soft and strange, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.
I set my pen down before I could write what I really wanted to: Did you return Edward’s jacket? Did you…see him?
I sighed, tucking my pen and paper back into my bag. I’d left my book at home, so I picked up the newspaper and checked the neighborhood listings, happy to see a nearby estate sale planned for the afternoon.
The address led me to a grand Craftsman home a few blocks away. The door was open, so I let myself in to find table after table of meticulously sorted items that the late owner must have collected over a lifetime. From fur stoles and vintage jewelry to home décor and art—every piece appeared to be of high quality, and my heart fluttered as I took it all in. This is better than Harrods.
I spent hours combing through the tables, letting my eye guide me, weighing each selection in my hand.
The indecision that had burdened me since arriving in California instantly vanished. I saw a box of earthenware the color of the ocean and claimed it as mine. I looked through every book and selected the first editions. An iridescent vase stamped FENTON’S enchanted me, as did the Art Deco jewelry. I tried on geometric brooches and bangles, imagining myself in the Golden Age of Hollywood. And there she was, my new American tradition—or maybe alter ego—hunting for treasure from the past.
Frank had given me his checkbook, but I had never once used it. That day, I pulled it out and paid for it all.
The Next Day
“Morning,” I say to Millie, who’s staring intently at the store’s computer screen. I hand her a cup of coffee that I picked up at Café Flora.
“Wow, thank you,” she says, taking a sip. “Did you know that your mum used to hand out cups of coffee to whoever needed them? It was her thing.”
I nod, recalling my mother at the little café near the beach, balancing a drink tray with a lemonade for me, and two cups of coffee—one of which she’d share with anyone from a local homeless man to the postman on the corner of Park and Ocean. Somewhere along the way, I’d taken up the habit, too—a part of her in me, I guess.
“How’s it going?” she asks as Liza walks in and waves at us.
“Good,” I say, waving to Liza. “I found my mother’s latest note.”
“You did?” Liza squeals. She and Millie both hover over my shoulder as I pull it out of my bag. I can smell Liza’s trademark vanilla perfume. As she told me the other day: “I’ve tried a million fragrances, and this is the one. Men like women to smell like warm, fresh-baked cookies.”
“?‘Foxes wearing gloves’?” Millie says, rereading the note I’d found tucked into May Weatherby’s copy of Goodnight Moon. “What on earth does that mean?”
Liza sets her bag down and smiles. “She means foxgloves, obviously.”
I shake my head, still lost.
“You know,” Liza continues. “The flowers!”
“Oh,” I say, scratching my head. “But…where are they?”
The wheels in Liza’s brain are turning quickly. “Foxgloves and daffodils.” She pauses for a long moment. “Matilda! Val, she’s left your next clue in the garden down at Regent’s Park!”
I’m still lost. “Wait, who is Matilda?”
It seems that Millie is connecting the dots, too. “The Matilda Fountain,” she explains, nodding. “Of course. Eloise loved that old statue of the milkmaid shielding her eyes from the sun. She was fascinated by it, though I never did understand why. But that was her way. Eloise could find a story in anything.”
I reread my mother’s note again. “What do you think she means by the ‘little house’?”
Liza shakes her head. “Well, she’s stumped me there.”
“Me too,” Millie adds.
“Listen,” Liza says, turning to the door. “I have to run some errands for my boss today—it’s a long list, I’m afraid—but why don’t we head down to Regent’s Park tomorrow morning and see what we can find?”
“Okay,” I say, thinking of Mummy’s sign-off. I’ll be waiting. If only she were. If only…I wave goodbye to Liza and join Millie behind the counter. Since our new website went live yesterday, she tells me, we’ve received eleven orders.
“That’s wonderful,” I exclaim, eyeing the stacks of books waiting to be packaged and picked up for shipment.
“Well, yes, it’s encouraging,” Millie replies with a sigh. “But it’s going to take a lot more than eleven orders to keep afloat.” She squints at the screen. “I keep looking at these numbers every which way, trying to figure out if there’s any expense we can shave and put toward that inheritance tax.”
Percy purrs at my feet, and I scoop him up in my arms. His fluff tickles my nose. “I had some savings,” I say. “But after the divorce expenses, my account is pretty much drained.” I frown. “Did you know that my attorney charged two hundred and fifty dollars an hour? It’s criminal.”
“It is,” Millie replies.
I nod. “And that’s coming from a lawyer herself.”
“We have our own problems in the U.K., but the family law system is sorely broken in America. It’s all about righteousness and winning—manipulation, even—versus doing what’s right for children and families.” She frowns, turning back to the computer screen.
“I take it you ran your law practice differently, then?”
“Well, I wasn’t in family law,” she says. “It’s just toxic. But yes, I ran my practice differently. I was the rare bird who took on clients who needed my help most, regardless of their ability to pay. I loved my work, and it kept a roof over my head, but it was hardly a lucrative enterprise. Like you, I’m afraid I don’t have any extra funds to contribute, as much as I wish I did.”
“Millie,” I say quickly. “I would never ask you for financial help. The way you stepped in when my mother…the way you took over like you did, and completely pro bono at that, well, it was an amazing gesture of friendship. And all the legal work you did to benefit others”—I pause, smiling—“not many people would do that. It’s…pretty wonderful, actually.”
“Well,” she says, eschewing my compliments in her very practical manner, “if I were as wonderful as you profess, I’d be able to figure out a way to get us out of this ordeal, but I fear that the cards may be stacked against us.”
“We have to keep trying,” I say, swallowing hard. “She’d want us to.”