I certainly wasn’t, and when I finished the three pours, I decided to order a glass. The bartender immediately reached for a bottle he described as “special,” and it was. A few minutes later, I was feeling light and happy and, perhaps, a bit emboldened. I reached into my pocket.
I remembered how Frank had spoken to me on the phone, how he’d dismissed me. I’d been so lonely for so long. He’d admitted as much himself. What would be the harm in merely…talking to someone who wanted to talk to me? I took another sip of wine, then waved to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I borrow your phone?”
“Sure,” he said, pointing to the end of the bar.
I walked over and dialed the number. It rang two times before he picked up.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello…Peter?” I clutched the edge of the bar to hold myself steady.
“Yes, this is.”
My heart beat so fast, I felt as if I might faint. What am I doing?
“Hello?” he said again, before I panicked and set the phone back into its cradle.
London
About Three Weeks Later
It’s near closing time on a Friday night, and the Book Garden staff is feeling the tension rising. The fundraiser we’d organized is planned for tomorrow night, and Millie, Liza, and I knew in the very marrow of our bones that this would be make or break for us, hopefully the former. As such, we’d spent the last week embroiled in preparation—folding and tying ribbons on programs, printing raffle tickets, and making tags for silent auction items.
“I don’t know how on earth we’re going to raise all the money we need,” Millie says, fretting as she turns away from the computer screen, then sinks into one of the store’s several sofas.
“The event is sold out,” I remind her. “If nothing else, the Primrose Hill community is showing their support.”
Before Millie can respond, a young woman with a pixie haircut comes in requesting Kerouac. Millie, of course, leaps to her feet, leads the customer to the right shelf, and puts a book in her hand. She leaves with her purchase in a bag emblazoned with the store’s new logo, the shoots of a daffodil sprouting from the pages of an open book.
“The book business may be changing,” Millie says, “but as long as there are readers, there will always be sixteen-year-old girls in search of Kerouac.” She shakes her head. “But for God’s sake why Kerouac when there’s Sylvia Plath? I’ll never understand.”
Millie turns her attention to the rows of gift bags adorned with the same new logo. Thanks to the generosity of local merchants, from the bakery to the grocer around the corner, we’ll fill each of them to the brim.
Liza sighs, examining the ribbon she’s just tied on one of the gift bags, and I can tell that Millie’s worries are contagious. “Do you think any of this is going to make a difference? I mean, can one fundraiser really get us where we need to be to pay the estate tax and stay in business?”
“That’s the goal,” I say. “Primrose Hill needs its bookstore. The ticket sales alone are proof!” I don’t state the obvious, that the gratis dinner at Café Flora might also be a draw.
Nevertheless, we stay the course, and the three of us have quite the assembly line going. Millie stocks each bag, then passes it to Liza, who ties a pink tulle bow on each handle before passing it to me to tag and place in the boxes that correspond to the various table numbers.
Liza looks up suddenly. “Val, isn’t your date with Daniel tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say, unable to stop smiling at the mention of him. When he’d first called, he was preparing for a business trip, and would be gone for about ten days, but now he’s back and he asked me to have dinner with him at a little Italian restaurant in Notting Hill, where he says they serve some sort of eggplant dish that has gotten rave reviews from food critics. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I despise eggplant. Anyway, I hope he’ll be as wonderful in real life as he seems on the phone. Debbie, the hairstylist, at least thinks so.
“Are you nervous?” Liza asks expectantly.
“It’s been more than fifteen years since I’ve been on a first date,” I say with a sigh. “So yeah, a little.”
“Don’t forget a flirty blouse and a spritz of perfume.” She points to the back of her ears, her collarbone, and each of her wrists. “Placement is key, and may I suggest vanilla?”
Before I can reply, the FedEx truck pulls up, a bit earlier than usual. Given that Millie plans her day so that she has time to powder her nose and swipe on a little lipstick before her daily dose of Fernando, any minor schedule change catches her off guard. Today, he finds her sitting on the floor, surrounded by gift bags, with a shiny nose and pale lips. Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Hi, Millie,” he says, setting a few packages on the table beside her.
“Oh, Fernando,” she replies, as tongue-tied as she always is when he comes in.
“What are you working on?”
“We’re…getting ready for the store’s fundraiser tomorrow night,” she says quickly.
He smiles. “I’ll be there. I bought a ticket last week.”
Millie beams. “You…did?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Hey, I was…thinking…that maybe…I mean, if you wanted to, I could, or I mean, we could, well, go…together.”
Millie’s mouth falls open. She’s stunned silent, so Liza answers for her. “She’d love that, Fernando!”
He exhales, smiling big as if Liza’s response—any response—is more than acceptable.
“Why don’t you come by and get her here at five-thirty tomorrow night and you two can walk over together,” the dating pro continues.
“Yes,” Fernando says, grinning at Liza, then Millie. “That sounds perfect.”
“That sounds perfect,” Millie echoes, a bit dumbfounded as he heads to the door.
When he’s gone, Liza squeals, and I join in the fun. “Millie! Are you breathing? Fernando asked you out on a date!”
I can’t tell if she’s about to laugh or cry or both, but then she turns to us and lets out a squeal of her own. “Did that really just happen?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“Yes, it did,” Liza says as Millie returns to the counter, unable to stop smiling. It’s so good to see her happy.
* * *
—
“I think we’re getting close to the restaurant,” I say to the cab driver over the scrape of the windshield wipers. It’s raining so hard that the driver has set them to maximum. Visibility is as low as a foggy night in Seattle.
“You said Bella Norma’s, right?”
“Yes.”
The driver nods. “It’s just over there, across the street.”
I wipe the fog from the window, and there it is—a charming little corner spot that’s dimly lit, with candles flickering in the windows. Perfect.
I pay the fare, then dash through the crosswalk. Ducking for cover under the restaurant’s awning, I pat the water droplets off my cheeks, praying that my waterproof mascara will hold.