He sighs. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”
I notice a cab approaching, and I begin walking ahead. “I should probably go.”
“Val, please,” Daniel says, gesturing to a bench in front of a closed café. “Can we talk for a little longer?”
I nod, sitting beside him on the bench. “What more is there to say? You’re moving to India.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him.
“Daniel, you don’t even like snow!”
“That’s true,” he concedes.
“Exactly!” I say, the channels in my mind beginning to fire. “And I love snow!”
“Well, we both hate eggplant. We have that in common!”
I frown. “Apparently that’s the only thing we have in common—aside from the book we both love.” Our eyes meet for a moment, but he looks away quickly, pausing to rub the side of his neck, as if my comment has just elicited a sharp pain. “Val, listen,” he finally says. “Oh, bloody hell, I don’t know how to say this.”
My eyes widen. “You’re gay? Married? No—you’re impersonating a successful documentarian who is not, in fact, moving to India?”
He laughs. “None of the above. But honestly, all of those options would be…easier than what I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“Those notes in the pages of your book…they…weren’t mine.” He sighs, his eyes filled with regret.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I should have,” he replies. “But, look, when I met you, it was all so…surprising. Here was this gorgeous, interesting American woman who just appeared in my life out of nowhere. Yes, I should have set the record straight right away, but then what? Miss out on the opportunity to get to know you?”
He tries to catch my eye, but I look away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That makes two apologies in one night. I’m on a roll.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say, standing up when I see a cab approaching. “Listen, I loved meeting your amazing family and…you. But I have to go. Good luck in India. Good luck with everything.”
“But, wait,” he says, reaching his hand to me, but I don’t take it.
“Goodbye, Daniel.”
April 13, 1996
Millie walked through the door and set a bouquet of peonies in a vase on the counter.
“Good morning,” she said, greeting me, but I didn’t smile. “Why the glum face?”
“Today is…Valentina’s birthday. Her eighteenth.”
“Oh, El,” Millie whispered, placing her arm over my shoulder as we both looked at the framed photo of my daughter that had remained on the store’s front counter since our doors opened.
I wiped away a tear, catching it midway down my right cheek. “It’s been six years since I’ve seen her. What do you think she’s like now?”
“That’s easy,” Millie replied. “She’s vibrant, thoughtful, and passionate—just like you.”
“I hope she’s happy.” I paused, pulling out the envelope I’d tucked into the back pocket of my jeans earlier. “I think this will be my last letter. She’s probably headed off to college this fall, and even if Frank hasn’t been intercepting her mail all this time, there’ll be no stopping him when Val’s away. My only prayer is that she knows how much I love her.”
“Of course she does,” Millie said before glancing down at the wicker basket in her hands. “Now, you look as if you could use a little cheering up, and fortunately I have just the thing.” She set the basket on the counter, just as a fluffy kitten poked its timid head out.
“A proper bookstore needs a cat,” Millie said.
I squealed, scooping the tiny creature into my arms. “Look at you,” I said to the kitten. “You’re perfect.”
“He’s a boy, and he needs a name.”
“Easy,” I said, smiling. “We’ll call him the name we chose as girls, remember?”
Millie nods. “Percival—Percy, for short.”
“Welcome to the family, Percy.”
The bells on the door jingled as a woman and her young daughter walked in.
“Can you help me find a book?” the little girl asked, squealing with delight when she noticed the kitten.
“Of course, I can!” I said, walking around the counter to kneel down beside her. “Now tell me. What sort of story are you looking for?”
“A happy one,” she said.
I nodded. “All right, let’s find you one that makes you smile.” We walked together to the children’s section and I began to peruse the shelves. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Anna Maria,” she said.
“Well, Anna Maria, when my daughter was about your age, you know what I told her?”
“What?” Her big blue eyes gazed up at me.
I nodded. “That the best books choose you.”
She looked up at her mother, confused, then back at me. “You mean,” she said, placing her hand on the edge of a nearby shelf, “books have feelings?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “And only you can unlock them. It’s easy, though. All you have to do is read the pages.”
The little girl squealed, running ahead as her elbow knocked an endcap out of place. Dozens of books fell to the floor, but one remained on its perch—hers.
“Mummy, Mummy,” she cried, reaching to pick up a copy of The Little House, a story of a tiny home in the country thrust into fast-paced city life.
“See,” I said, smiling. “That one was meant for you.”
The Next Day
The Book Garden is bustling with its usual energy, but somehow there’s a glorious hum to it all—the way an old man might whistle happily as he walks when everything is at peace in his life. Customers meander in and out, deliveries are signed for, plants and flower arrangements brim from carts up front, books make their way into new hands; it’s as it always was—without any worries about the store’s future in the backs of our minds.
“Look what I found this morning,” Millie says, handing me a well-loved copy of The Little House. I know that it was first published in 1942 because Mummy told me. In fact, it was one of my favorites as a child. “A customer brought in a box of used books. Look inside. It’s a first edition.”
“Amazing,” I say, fanning the pages. The illustrations bring back a parade of memories, waving their flags and beating their drums as they demand my attention. I’m at once five years old, lingering over its pages as I look up at…Mummy. “Was the little house sad? Did she miss the children?”
I post a photo of the book in my hand on @booksbyval—with a lively scene of the store in the background—as I compose an impromptu post.
I have a memory of my mother reading this book to me as a child. It’s the story of a special house. Much like the building I’m standing in right now, the house is a final holdout of urban sprawl. It stood proud on a grassy spot, where children played in the meadow in spring and skated on the iced-over brook each winter. But change crept in like a dark cloud, bringing with it modernization and progress, cars and railroad engines, and more and more people.
At the end of the book, the little house is surrounded by a bustling city, built all around her.
There is no brook, no meadow.