Millie smiles. “Maybe we will—someday.”
I nodded, feeling fresh tears well up in my eyes. I knew that Frank would never let me move Val to London. He’d fight me at every turn to keep our daughter firmly planted on American soil.
“I can’t stop thinking about Valentina,” I said, glancing at my watch. “She came home from school and…I wasn’t there. Millie, I miss her so much.”
“I know you do,” Millie replied, her eyes aching with concern. “You’re in a considerable amount of pain right now. Just take a deep breath. We’ll take this one day at a time.”
“She’s my everything,” I said, swallowing hard.
“And you’ll fight for her. I’ll help you.” She smiled. “Now, cheer up, Charlie.” It warmed me to hear my favorite saying, even in these circumstances.
Crippled by exhaustion, I fell asleep on Millie’s sofa. When I woke up, an hour and a half later, Millie coaxed me to venture out. We ordered sandwiches at a little café around the corner and ate them at a table under the outdoor awning. We walked for a bit afterward. The sun had just emerged from behind a gray cloud and its warmth was a balm to my tired eyes and tearstained cheeks.
Millie waved at various passersby strolling along the sidewalk as she pointed out the bakery, the market, and a bistro that looked like a comfortable sort of place where I could imagine myself spending hours reading and sipping wine.
We passed a hardware store and then, on the next corner, a clothing boutique—a proper village. I felt more at home than I had in the last two decades in California.
“Show me the local bookstore,” I said.
Millie shook her head. “There isn’t one. Can you believe that?”
I peered up at a particularly charming pale pink building ahead.
“Really?” I walked closer to the fa?ade, noticing a real estate sign affixed to the front window, my excitement growing. “Millie, look. It’s for sale!”
“I know,” she said. “It’s been on the market for years. It needs significant work, but it has good bones. I can’t believe it hasn’t been snapped up.”
I looked inside the window, then turned back to Millie. “Can you imagine how perfect this place would be for a bookstore?”
“Oh yes,” she said with a smile. “I admit, the thought has crossed my mind more than a few times.”
Just then, a car pulled up, parking on the street in front of the building. A man with a manila folder tucked under his arm got out and smiled at us. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The traffic in London,” he began with a sigh, “well, I swear, one of these days, it’ll be the death of me.”
Millie and I looked at each other, confused.
He extended his hand to Millie. “Alastair Fairfield, with Fairfield Real Estate,” he said before greeting me next. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. If traffic weren’t already enough, my assistant seems to have a penchant for double-booking my calendar. In any case, I’m glad you reached out. This building is really one of the most special gems of Primrose Hill, and the pictures in the offering brochure don’t do it justice.”
He pulled a key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the lock on the front door as Millie flashed me a “just play along” look.
He led us inside the ground floor, which was thick with dust and cobwebs, and the remains of the business that had once occupied the space. A black swivel desk chair with a missing arm sat dejectedly in the center of the room.
“As you can see,” the agent explained, “it’s in need of some elbow grease and ingenuity.”
I nodded, admiring the wide-plank hardwood floors and matching dark wooden trim around the perimeter. Millie ran her hand along what looked like an old sales counter, obviously just as intoxicated by its possibilities as I was.
“There’s excellent storage in the back,” the agent continued. “A large, locked utility closet. Over the years, it’s been a restaurant, a hat shop, I think, and most recently an architect’s studio.” He stretched his arms wide. “It would really be great for…just about anything. Do you mind my asking what plans the two of you are considering?”
“A bookstore,” we both said in unison, smiling when our eyes met.
“A bookstore, oh yes. How charming. It’s a curious thing that there isn’t one in Primrose Hill. I’ve often thought that some enterprising person ought to put one in, save local readers the arduous trip to central London.”
He led us out a back door and then down a little path to a side entrance. “There are two flats upstairs, so you could live above the shop if you wanted.”
Like the ground floor, both living spaces are in need of a thorough update, but they ooze potential, and I’m especially taken by the second-floor flat, with its big windows that look out at the street.
“Remind me of the asking price?” I asked, turning to the agent expectantly, but when he handed me a flyer, my heart sank. It was far out of our reach.
“The seller is quite motivated,” the agent added, sensing our apprehension. “In other words, don’t be afraid to make an offer—any offer. As you know, the market’s been in a bit of a slump this year and he’s intent on unloading some of his real estate holdings.”
I nodded. “Well, thank you. We’ll…let you know.”
“Why don’t I take down your name in case any other listings come up, or, if you have further questions about this one.”
I shook my head. “No need, we—”
“Sure,” Millie said, interrupting me. She gave him my name and her phone number.
“Eloise Baker,” he said, nodding. “All right, I’ll be in touch.”
“Why did you do that?” I asked later as we began walking back to the flat.
“Do what?”
“Lead him on like that! You know we can’t afford to buy the building.”
“Oh, my friend,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
I left it behind in London all those years ago, I thought as I turned around to give the pale pink building one last glance. But maybe I can find it again?
* * *
—
Later, I phoned California, timing the call to when I was sure Frank would be at work.
Bonnie answered, and I was flooded with relief at the sound of her voice.
“Hello, Bonnie,” I said.
“Mrs. Baker!” she cried. “It’s you!”
“Yes, Bonnie,” I said. “It’s me. I’m in London while…Frank and I sort everything out. Is Valentina there? May I talk to her, please?”
“Uh,” Bonnie said, pausing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker, she is…not here.”
“Oh, where is she, then?”
“She is…out with Mr. Baker.” The connection sounded muffled. “He asked me to take down your phone number and address if you called.”
I gave Bonnie the information, then asked her to have Valentina call me.
“Mrs. Baker,” she said in almost a whisper, “it’s not the same without you.”
Nothing was the same.
After I hung up the phone, I found a pen and paper, and began a letter to my daughter:
My darling Valentina,