With Love from London

“Nonsense,” I say, curiously studying her blue eyes, which glimmer in the light. “Were you…ever married?” I finally ask.

“No,” she says. “But there was someone once, a very long time ago. Someone I deeply admired.” Her eyes cloud with memories. “But, alas, he wasn’t for me. His heart…belonged to someone else.”

I instantly regret the question when I see her mouth pinch inward and her presence close up, like a tulip in the cool of night.

“Look at the time,” Millie says, collecting herself. “I have so much new inventory to catalogue.” And just like that, the glimmer in her eyes is gone.



* * *





Upstairs in my flat, I sign on to @booksbyval and reply to dozens of messages inspired by my last post on collecting as many books as the heart desires. My followers are fully on team #booksmakepeoplehappy.

I start a new post.


What’s your big life dream? My mother’s was to have a bookstore, all her own, and she did, and it was, and is, magnificent. But the funny thing I didn’t realize about dreams is they can be shared. While I’d never imagined myself running a bookstore in London, and while my relationship with my mother was…complicated…she gave me a gift far greater than simply property bequeathed in a will. In fact, she handed me her dream with the hope that I could make it mine. And guess what? I’ve decided to try.

What’s your big dream? I look forward to reading your comments….#bookishmusings #bookdreams #abookstoreofonesown





* * *





Later that evening, I knock on Liza’s door to tell her all about the idea Millie and I discussed. I’ve caught her fresh from the shower, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okay, it’s no secret that the Book Garden needs to up its income in order to pay the estate tax. Millie and I put our heads together, and we came up with some ideas. First, I’m going to link my @booksbyval account to the store’s website, where we’ll announce plans for a community fundraiser.”

“Oh!” Liza squeals. “I love it!”

“But I also had another brainstorm, and this is where you come in.”

I explain the plan to convert the front of the store into a plant and flower shop, of sorts. “You could…run it for us!” I finally say.

Liza throws her arms around me, squeezing me so tight I can hardly take a breath. “Really?”

I nod. “Yes! I mean, we can’t pay much, at least not at first, but we could sure use your green thumb, and you might get a kick out of it. What do you say?”

“I’m a hundred percent in,” she says, smiling, her skin still dewy from the shower. “And you don’t have to pay me. It’ll be a labor of love, and it’s the least I can do, especially after those months when I couldn’t pay my rent, and your mum wiped my debt clean. She was special like that.”

She was special. But she also left me. The duality of those two facts makes my heart ache.

“When do you want me to start? I can juggle my job with this, I’m sure.”

“How about…tomorrow? I mean, whenever you can find time. I have no idea where to begin with plants, let alone flowers. I’ll leave all of that to you.”

“I’ve been a personal assistant for most of my adult life, and if I’m good at anything, it’s figuring things out.” She untwists her towel from her head, revealing her newly colored head of bright blue hair.

“My goodness, what…happened?”

“Oh,” she says. “I thought I’d try something new.” She turns to the mirror and fluffs her cerulean curls. “I had to use a god-awful amount of bleach to make sure the color would stick, so I’m afraid my hair might be fried, but I have to say, I rather like how it turned out. What do you think?”

“I think it’s very…Liza,” I say, grinning.

“Yeah, I think so, too,” she continues. “I was going for more of a turquoise hue, but, you know, I think this suits me. Would you call it sapphire?”

“Definitely,” I say, heading to the door.

“Wait, how’s the search for your literary lover going?”

I pull out my copy of The Last Winter from inside my bag and eye the cover. “I don’t think I’d call it a search, more like a dead end.”

“Hold on,” Liza says, suddenly snatching the book from my hands. “I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.”

“What?”

“This stamp on the back cover.” She points to it, and together we see the emblem of Queen Mary University.

I shake my head. “What about it?”

“It means that maybe—just maybe—this book was used in a college course. If you could figure out which one, maybe you’ll find your guy.”

“Well,” I say as she hands it back to me, “I admire your tenacity, but don’t you think that sounds a bit far-fetched?”

“You never know what you might find. Come on, do a little more digging—for me?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. For you.”





August 1968



One night over dinner, Frank told me that Labor Day weekend was coming up. It was a particularly American holiday that was best celebrated with work colleagues. We’d be hosting a dinner party for some of them and their wives.

“Take the checkbook and go shopping at Fred Segal for some new clothes—dresses and some swimsuits,” he said.

I went to look through my closet to take inventory, pulling out four dresses, then setting each back on the rod. None would do. I had zero appetite for a shopping trip, but Frank was probably right. My wardrobe was definitely more London than L.A., not that I could fit into any of them given the size of my growing belly. And why on earth had I thought it was a good idea to bring my heavy coats to a climate that only knew sunshine? I made a mental note to ask Bonnie to take them to storage.

As Frank suggested, I took a cab to Fred Segal where I purchased a number of new items that fit my expanding figure, but more important, made me feel as if I could fit in. On the night of our first dinner party as a married couple, Frank was in the living room when I made my way downstairs wearing one of the new dresses. Blue, with a subtle floral print and an empire waist—I’d loved it the moment I laid eyes on it, and I hoped he would, too.

“Hello, darling,” he said cheerfully. “Is that one of your new dresses?”

I nodded, searching his eyes for approval. “Do you like it?”

He paused, then stood up, walking closer to inspect the garment. “It’s lovely, really it is, but it’s just that my colleagues’ wives tend to dress to the nines. Do have something a bit more formal, and maybe a different shade? You know I love you in pink.”

I turned back to the stairs, momentarily deflated, but then I remembered how important the party was to Frank; he merely wanted every detail to be flawless, so I selected a pink crepe dress and a pair of vintage earrings I’d purchased at an estate sale recently. The pale pink gemstones matched the dress’s fabric almost perfectly.

“How’s this?” I asked Frank in the living room again, happy to see the pleased look on his face.

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