With Love from London(100)

“No,” I say, smiling so big my cheeks hurt. “No, there isn’t.” I slide my grip down his arm until my hand touches his. We weave our fingers together, and it feels natural, like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“I’m so happy,” I whisper, looking up at him, “that it was you.”





One Month Later



Millie was helping a customer when the phone rang.

“The Book Garden, how may I help you?”

“Yes, this is Dr. Hester. I’m calling for Eloise Baker.”

“This is Eloise.”

He cleared his throat. “I was hoping to speak with you in person, but you missed your follow-up appointment. We received your test results, and I’ve reviewed the ultrasound images in consult with the radiologist, and…Eloise, this is difficult news, but we found something.”

“You found something? What do you mean?”

“Are you with anyone right now?”

“Millie’s here, yes,” I said, sitting on the stool behind the counter. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be alone after what I’m about to say.”

My heart beat faster.

“Eloise, you have ovarian cancer, and I’m afraid that it has spread undetected for some time.”

As I watched Millie smiling cheerfully from across the room, conversing with a customer beside the new-release section, my heart sank. I wished I’d never visited Dr. Hester. I wished I’d let my body run its course. I wished I didn’t know what was happening inside of me.

“You have options,” he said, “and we’ll get you connected with an oncologist immediately, but I fear that the associated side effects of treatment would be a high price to pay for very little extra time.”

I swallowed hard against the heavy lump in my throat.

“I know this is a lot to take in, and I want you to know that I’m here for you. We’ll formulate a plan you’re comfortable with, one that makes the most sense.” He paused. “You must have questions for me. Please, what can I tell you?”

“How long,” I whispered. “I want to know how long I have.”

“It’s impossible to say for sure,” he replied. “A few months, or…maybe a few weeks. I’m so sorry.”

I decided not to tell Millie, choosing, instead, to keep the news to myself for as long as possible. But the burden was too heavy, and on a rainy Thursday morning, I told my best friend that I was dying.

She held me for a long time, and we wept in each other’s arms, but after that, she promised me that there’d be no more tears.

“Sorrow isn’t what you need,” she said. “We’ll find reasons to celebrate every day.”

Her recent retirement from the law firm allowed her more time to help at the store. We agreed to keep my condition quiet; there was no sense in worrying our longtime customers. I refused to let a cancer diagnosis change the fact that the Book Garden was a place of joy. It was also where Edward found me.

He came into the store one morning and it almost took my breath away. “Do you have any books on eternity?” he asked. “I’ve waited for you at least that long.”

Customers were browsing the shelves, so I did all I could to remain cool and collected, even though my heart nearly leaped out of my chest and straight into Edward’s hands. I played along, collecting every relevant book and brought them to the counter. His presence breathed new life in me.

“St. Augustine’s Confessions. Slaughterhouse-Five. The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” I said, showing him my selections.

As I pressed each book into his hands, our fingers brushed lightly. “How did you…find me?” I asked, searching his eyes.

“How could I not?” was his only response.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

He smiled, purchased all of the books I’d selected, then asked if he could take me to dinner that night, and just like that, we continued the conversation that had been broken off so abruptly all those years ago.

But while my heart was as strong as ever, my body wasn’t. Dr. Hester’s cocktail of prescription pills helped manage the pain. It was enough to conceal my illness from our customers and, I hoped, Edward. We’d only just reunited, and I didn’t want my diagnosis to spoil our happiness. I’d hoped to keep the truth to myself for as long as possible, but as it turned out, I didn’t have a choice.

One evening, when we met for dinner at Café Flora, I set out on the familiar three-block path from the store, but something strange happened—it was as if my legs stopped working. By the time I reached the café, where Edward was waiting under the awning, I was weak and winded. As I stepped across the sidewalk to take his hand, I felt faint, and my knees collapsed from under me.

“Eloise!” he cried, catching me before I fell.

“Once a klutz, always a klutz,” I said, smiling up at him.

But Edward wasn’t smiling. His eyes were filled with worry. “When were you going to tell me?”

I paused a long moment, my eyes brimming with tears as I finally told him about the diagnosis. For all those weeks, it hadn’t seemed real—like a tragic novel I’d read once, a long time ago, then tucked away on a far shelf. I didn’t want to read it again or think about its characters’ grim lives. But fiction became fact as Edward stood beside me, his face grief-stricken.