With Love from London(101)

“My darling,” he whispered, taking me into his arms. “How much time do you have?”

“Not much,” I said as he pressed his head against mine.

He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again with a burst of certainty. “Then we’ll make the most of every moment.” He carefully lifted me into his arms and carried me through the door of Café Flora. “Starting now.”

And we did just that. Edward took me to the park for picnic lunches, insisting that the fresh air would do me good. He carried me up multiple flights of stairs to the theater and requested the most comfortable booths at London’s finest restaurants. It was if he was officially courting me, the way I’d dreamed he would back in 1968. And when my health worsened, Edward remained close, holding vigil on the couch so he could be on hand to make me cup of tea, or find an episode of Gilligan’s Island on TV.

Millie was equally devastated. I staved off her offers to help, directing her energy to the store, where she took over in my place. I told her that I had a full-time caregiver, which, in fact, I did—one who loved me.

Like it always had in Edward’s presence, time passed rapidly, but I longed to slow its pace. I wanted to savor every second. We talked about anything and everything, especially the past. I reminded him of the declaration he’d made the night we’d first met at the Royal Automobile Club.

“Nature, God, whatever you want to call it—it’s bigger than us. Bigger and more powerful than anything we can do or dream.”

I nodded. “So you’re saying what will be, will be, not because we willed it, but because it was a part of a plan?”

“Yes, or a really good novel.”

One night, as the sun began to set its sights on the horizon, Edward stroked my disheveled hair. “You can’t deny that our lives, apart and together, have been beautiful, in their own strange and stubborn ways.”

I looked into his eyes, signaling my agreement.

“Millie helped me prepare a will,” I told him.

He looked away, not wanting to talk about the end, but I continued.

“I’m leaving everything to my daughter, Valentina. Promise me you’ll find her.”

“I promise.”

I gestured to a paper bag on my bedside table. “And promise me that when you do, you’ll give her this.”

He nodded.

“I pray that the store will give her as much joy as it’s given me, and that the Book Garden will live on to see the next generation of readers, but what she decides to do with it is entirely up to her. All that matters is her happiness.”

Edward held a glass up to my lips, and I took a small sip from the straw. The liquid felt good on my dry throat.

“Please look out for her,” I continued, “and Millie, too.”

He nodded. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be there for as long as I can, behind the scenes. They won’t even know it.” He paused for a moment. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I listened as he cleared his throat. “A long time ago, I…owned this building. I was all set to sell it when a particularly interesting duo approached my agent with the dream of…starting a bookstore.”

I gasped.

“You see, some might have considered the venture a losing proposition, but I thought otherwise. Primrose Hill needed a bookstore. You needed a bookstore.”

I smiled between labored breaths. It was him. It was always him.

“Oh, Eloise,” he cried, tears running down his face.

“No,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I need to see your smile. I want to memorize it, for…eternity.”

My eyelids were so heavy, but I drew on my meager reserve of strength to keep them open for a few more moments to see the smile that he produced for me.

He squeezed my hand as my eyelids fluttered, then finally closed. I could still see, however—at least, on the big screen in my mind’s eye. It was a different sort of sight, but it was crystal clear. And there we were, the two of us. We’d shed the trappings of age and illness leaving only joy, the very brightest sort, radiating from our faces as we ran, hand in hand, through a grassy field speckled with wildflowers. Millie and Valentina were there, too, waving. I was at once filled with the thing I’d been chasing my entire life: peace.





Christmas Eve



The table is set, and Bing Crosby is playing on Mummy’s old record player. I glance at the kitchen, grateful there isn’t smoke streaming from the oven, only the savory scent of rosemary and roast beef. I smile to myself, thinking of my first day in London, with Liza holding that smoldering pan. It felt like a thousand years ago, and also…yesterday. She might not be gifted in the kitchen, but as I eye the flower arrangement on the table, it’s clear that she’s found her calling.

“Can you grab that, doll?” Liza says to me when the doorbell rings. “I’ve got to wrangle this beast.” She heaves the enormous pan out of the oven and onto the stovetop, muttering obscenities under her breath. “Bloody hell. Aren’t you the devil incarnate. Thought you’d kill me now, did you?”

Millie and Fernando have just arrived. She hands me a tray of fudge, and blushes when I point to the mistletoe, which I hung over the entryway this afternoon. Fernando isn’t bothered in the slightest, however. He stretches onto his tippy toes and kisses her.