“It’s just perfect,” I say to Jan as the jazz trio in the corner begins warming up. “Thank you ever so much.”
Before long, guests begin filtering in, and I wave at a few of our regular customers as Millie greets them.
“When’s Daniel coming?” Liza asks, reaching for a drink from a passing waiter’s tray.
“He should be here soon,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall, a little disappointed to notice that he’s already fifteen minutes late.
Another twenty minutes pass, however, and as everyone takes to their tables for dinner, the chair beside me remains empty.
“He’s probably just stuck in traffic,” Liza says, appeasing me.
I nod, checking my phone to find a text from Daniel. “Val, I’m so very sorry. We’ve had a production crisis, and I’m stuck here working tonight. I feel terrible and pray that you can forgive me. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“He’s not coming,” I say to Liza with a sigh, tucking my phone into my purse.
“Not coming?” Liza asks, clearly infuriated on my behalf.
“Some work crisis, I guess.”
“Ugh,” she says, motioning to a waiter, who hands me another glass of champagne. “I don’t like that at all. Does he have any idea how important this night is to you? It’s like he’s—”
“Excuse me, ladies, is this seat taken?”
We both look up to see Eric standing tall behind us, and I smile.
“No, it’s all yours,” Liza says. “You can be Val’s date. Hers stood her up.”
“Oh,” Eric says, settling into the seat beside me, his eyes filled with concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He didn’t stand me up,” I say, correcting Liza. “He just…had a work thing.”
Eric nods, reaching for a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. “Well, that’s no fun. But his loss, and my gain, I guess.” He smiles.
“Thanks for coming,” I reply. “Your support means a lot to us.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m just sorry Fiona couldn’t be here. She has a big deadline looming for a client in Chelsea. I guess that leaves us both orphans with workaholic dates.”
I laugh. “It seems we do have that in common.”
“Look at all of this,” he says, glancing around the room. I notice Millie watching us from a nearby table, but I don’t make eye contact with her. “Your mum would be so proud.”
Would she? I watch as our guests mill about the room, making bids on auction items on the tables along the perimeter, hoping it will be enough.
“It’s funny,” I say, turning back to Eric. “When I arrived in London, I didn’t expect to fall in love with Primrose Hill the way I have.” I wave at the local butcher, Tom, who walks by with his wife, Greta.
“It’s an easy thing to do,” he replies, setting his salad fork down. “Just as this community has fallen in love with you.”
A burst of color rushes to my cheeks, and for some reason, Daniel’s absence isn’t weighing on me anymore. I feel light and free, happy even, like the effervescent bubbles in my glass of champagne.
After dinner, Eric suggests we have a look at the silent auction, where he places a generous—winning—bid on a basket of wine, and another on a card beside a box of some of my mother’s vintage first-edition books. They’d been difficult to part with, but I knew their value would bring a considerable amount for the Book Garden’s benefit, and it made me happy that they’d find a new home on Eric’s bookshelf. He’d look out for them.
“Hello, you two,” Millie says, walking up to us. “I have a good feeling about this night.”
“Me too,” I say as Jan takes to the microphone to make a few remarks before the waiters begin passing dessert—individual ramekins of vanilla custard with raspberries on top.
Eric and I mingle with other guests, and at one point, I reflexively reach up to adjust his tie, which is a bit askew. “Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t resist. It was a little crooked.”
He grins. “You’ve let me walk around with a crooked tie all evening? What sort of friend are you?”
“Obviously a very bad one,” I say, laughing.
“I’m only kidding,” he says, his smile turning serious. “You’re actually the…very best sort of friend.” Before I can reply, he glances at his watch, as the party winds down. “I should be going. I need to let the hostess say her goodbyes.”
The evening passed in a mere blink of an eye, it seems, and I wave to Eric as he sets out to the street with his basket of wine.
“Val,” Jan says, approaching, “we just received a very generous phone-in donation. The caller wanted to pass along a message to you.”
“A message? For me?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “One thousand pounds, from a gentleman named Daniel, who asked me to tell you how sorry he is that he couldn’t be here tonight.”
“Really?” I say, grinning. “That’s…amazing.” The grand gesture was enough to make me forgive him immediately.
Millie, Liza, Fernando, and I stayed for the next hour helping Jan’s staff clean up, which is when I noticed the box of vintage books Eric had bid on earlier, left behind on the table. “Oh shoot,” I say to Liza. “He forgot these.”
She smiles. “No, he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I glance at the auction card beside the box. “See, he placed the winning bid.”
“He bought them for you, silly,” she continues, which is when I notice a note taped to the edge with my name on it.
Val,
If anyone deserves to have these treasures, it’s you. Happy reading.
Your friend,
Eric
* * *
—
I bend down to collect a few programs from the floor as Millie approaches.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think we did it,” I say, smiling. “Did Fernando have a nice time?”
Millie nods wistfully. “He just left.”
“And how did it go with him?”
Her expression erupts in a smile that appears impossible to hide. “Good. No, it was perfect.”
“Oh, Millie. I’m so happy for you.”
“But are you happy, dear?” she asks, her wise eyes cutting right to my heart.
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say. “It was just a…big night. I guess I’m feeling a lot of different emotions right now.”
“I know,” she says. “Come, I’ll walk you home.”
As we walk, our conversation naturally turns to my mother, and I find myself recounting the weeks and months after she left for London. “I wrote her every day for an entire year. An entire year, Millie. After that, I continued writing, less frequently, but often.” I pause, shaking my head, tears welling up in my eyes. “She never wrote me back—not once. I used to tell myself that I’d been sending the letters to the wrong address. Or that Mummy was busy, and that when I finally got a letter from her, it would be as long as a book.” I search Millie’s eyes, like a treasure map, for any clue. “But I never did.”
She shakes her head, mouth agape.
“What?”
“Val, she did write you,” Millie says, “every day.” Her words sting. “Every single day. She’d stop by the post office each morning—it was her daily routine. Valentina, your mother was always writing to you. Always.”
“But, Millie, I…” I say, my voice shaking. “I…never received any of them.”
Later That Same Night