In the following months, I merely existed. Millie had to coax me to eat, to shower—everything but to breathe, which, if it hadn’t happened automatically, I might have given up on, as well. My world—my heart—had been cunningly ripped from my grasp.
Millie’s attorney friend agreed to help me, pro bono, but as grateful as I was for her time and generosity, it wasn’t enough. Our petition to the court was denied and Frank was granted full custody of Valentina. All visitation rights were voided due to a child psychologist’s assessment. She wrote: “At this juncture, I recommend zero contact between mother and child. Any time spent with a parent after abandonment can result in pain and trauma for the child. Valentina has been through enough; her focus should be on healing under the care of a licensed child psychologist, as well as her custodial parent—in this case, the father. I also am concerned about flight risk in this case. The mother lives in London, and is not a U.S. citizen. The father has valid concerns about the mother taking the child to Europe. In summary, it is my professional opinion that the mother is unstable and a risk to Valentina’s safety and development.”
I wanted to burn those papers. I wanted to find that damn child psychologist and throttle her. But the decision was final, my only consolation being the address in Seattle where Frank had moved. So I wrote to Val every day. I wanted her to know the truth, but above all, I wanted her to know that I loved her—with every part of my being—praying that someday she’d understand and forgive me for being outsmarted by her father.
In time, I learned to accept this nightmare for what it was, my new reality, though I knew I’d never escape my pain. I had to learn to live with it, and I did so by writing to Val. I was always writing.
That year was a blur, but in all of it, there was a glimmer of joy in the rubble, and it came in the form of an unexpected phone call—from the real estate agent who’d given us a tour of the pink building. He had surprising news: The owner, he explained, needed to unload the property immediately. He would sell it to us for a fraction of the asking price, even provide any financing we might need.
I could hardly believe our good fortune, but Millie was immediately skeptical. Were there dead bodies in the basement? Was the foundation infested with termites? In the end, we ignored our practical instincts and decided to take the plunge. And oh, what a plunge.
By then, I’d returned to Harrods, where I worked part-time on the sales floor. I didn’t have enough cash—or credit—to make the purchase on my own, but Millie co-signed the loan, and together, we became the unlikely owners of one of Primrose Hill’s most charming buildings.
The night we took ownership, we christened the site of our future bookstore with a bottle of champagne, and I began to understand the important lesson that sustained me in the years to come. I might always carry deep pain, but I didn’t have to let it rule me. I learned to set aside what I couldn’t control and focus on what I could: finding some semblance of joy in life again, through the bookstore we decided to call the Book Garden.
In the months since I’d returned to London, I’d left one of my suitcases unopened in the closet, but I was finally ready to face my past. Out came the California shells and the driftwood. Then the Russel Wright seafoam-blue ceramics, which I was relieved to see hadn’t cracked on the transatlantic journey. Next, I opened the jewelry case filled with rare Trifari necklaces, bracelets, and brooches.
Millie took it all in, watching me examine the relics from my past. I told her about the estate sales I frequented in L.A., the solitary hours spent roaming the city.
“I had no idea you were so lonely, Eloise,” she said sadly. “But not anymore, and never again.”
Finally, I brought out the books—dozens of valuable first editions I’d rescued from estate sales. I’d focused on the 1940s, an excellent decade for books. English and American authors. Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. Richard Wright’s Native Son. W. Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge. Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. William Faulkner. C. S. Lewis. Norman Mailer. George Orwell’s 1984.
“We’ll stock our shelves with these, Millie, and so much more.”
Tucked in the far corner of the suitcase were two framed photos of Val, and my heart ached when I saw them. I wasn’t strong enough to face them until that moment, and even then, seeing her sweet face nearly slayed me. But I remembered what I’d come to learn—that I could be in pain but not be defined by it. I placed one of the photos on Millie’s side table, near the front door, where I could see my daughter as I came and went, and the next in the bookstore, where she could be my muse. She was my heart, and she would be the bookstore’s soul.
By day, Millie continued working in the city while I rolled up my sleeves, clearing out junk, hammering loose floorboards back into place, and scrubbing each surface until it gleamed.
I wrote to Valentina about all of it in my daily letters. It dulled the ache inside and also gave me hope. One day, she’d find me. One day, I’d see her face again. After all, if daffodils could forge through the frozen earth each spring, I could press through my pain.
With her law career in full force, Millie remained a silent partner. And though I’d moved into the building’s top-floor flat, she decided to keep her own flat, where she’d been comfortable and happy for years.
“How are you feeling?” Millie asked me over dinner at her flat. Our second week of business had been a success, and we were celebrating with a nice bottle of burgundy and a roast chicken that she’d just pulled out of the oven.
“Happy and sad,” I said.
She nodded in understanding. “Sappy, then.”
I laughed. “Yes.”
“Mill,” I said after a long silence, “you may not remember—it was so long ago—but before Frank, there was someone else. His name was…Edward.”
“I remember,” she said, avoiding eye contact.
“I’ve been thinking,” I continued. “Now that the divorce is final, do you think I should…look him up? Or is that…ridiculous?”
She rubbed her forehead. “El, it’s just that…so much time has passed. People change, and…I’d hate to see you get hurt. You’ve already been through so much.”
“That’s no answer, Millie. There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
When her eyes finally met mine, I waited patiently, but her words surprised me. “I don’t know how to say this, but it must be said.” She sat down at the table, folding her hands. “After you left London, I ran into Edward one day in Mayfair.” She paused. “Well, to be perfectly honest, I looked him up.”
“What do you mean?”
“El, I knew nothing of this man, only his name, the jacket in the closet—and the look in your eyes. I had to find him. I just had to. And when I did, well, I understood. I understood everything. We had lunch that day, and we met again a week later. Eventually, we became good friends, and I…got to know him very well.”