With Love from London(13)

She was right. She was always right.

I sigh, directing my attention to the small but well-appointed kitchen. A cream-colored vintage refrigerator is fastened with a brass latch and the old gas stove looks as if it should be named Marceline, or maybe Babette.

I admire the Russel Wright seafoam-blue ceramic dinnerware on the open, wooden shelves. It was one of the original colors when the line began in 1939. She knew from her time working at Harrods, and she told me all about it. I imagine her selecting one of the handled lug bowls and eating her favorite foods, poached eggs, fresh berries drizzled with heavy cream.

I walk to the window seat, where a light gray cashmere throw rests on the cushion. I press the soft fabric to my face, breathing in the scent of my childhood, of her. It’s as if she were here only a moment ago, instead of gone forever.

I feel a wave of fatigue as I peer into the bedroom, but then I see her jewelry case resting on the dresser. I open it, and memories come flooding back. My mother was a collector of beautiful objects, including costume jewelry. Her favorite brand was Trifari, especially the 1930s Art Deco geometric designs.

“Designer Alfred Philippe learned his craft at Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels,” she said. “Look for the invisible stone settings. He perfected that technique.”

She taught me to recognize marks of authenticity. There was the KTF stamp, or the Crown Trifari—a crown symbol over the T. She’d take me with her to estate sales, and if I spotted one of the markers, I was to hand her the piece quietly, so that no one would know that we’d found a treasure.

“Trifari made pieces for First Ladies and Hollywood stars,” she said, “but tastes change.”

Hers never did. I pick up an antique Deco bracelet of glass and silver. It’s as elegant as she was.

I look over at the bed. The smooth coverlet and fluffy pillows look fresh and inviting. Though my eyelids are heavy, I can’t help but notice the book on her bedside table. Its emerald cloth spine is impeccably preserved, as are its gilded-edged pages. I know it in an instant, of course. I’d long hoped to encounter a first edition of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, but had never had the opportunity. And now it’s in my very hands. I carefully fan the novel’s pages, wondering if this had been my mother’s final read before she passed, or if it had merely been a symbol to her, a mantra for the life she chose. Before I set the book down, a small envelope slips out from the pages’ clutches. I reach to pick it up, and see my name written in my mother’s elegant handwriting. Valentina, with the a at the end curling up into a perfect crescendo. As hard as I tried, I could never sign my name that way. My hands tremble as I tear the edge and pry out the card inside.


My dearest Valentina,

Welcome to London. I have so many surprises for you. Just wait. But first, I’m sending you on a little scavenger hunt. Remember how much you loved those? I did, too, and I learned from the very best.

I have so much to say, so much to show you. But first, I implore you to delve deep—to our last springs, summers, and autumns, but above all, our last winter.

Come find me. I’ll be waiting.

With love,

Mummy





I blink back tears, my heart racing with emotion—and questions. She knew. She knew I’d come here, to this room of her own. She knew I’d be drawn like a magnet to this book. I swallow hard, setting the card on the table, staring at it as if it had its very own pulse.

What on earth does she mean about delving deep—to past summers, springs, and winters? I’m too tired to make sense of any of it, too tired to think. I should gather my suitcases and find my way to the hotel, but I’m feeling increasingly weary, and I decide to lie down instead, just until this wave of jet lag passes. I pull back the covers, and slide into bed, my body pressed into the very place my mother had rested night after night—all the nights without me. I close my eyes. Just for a few minutes, I tell myself. Only a few minutes.

I’m dreaming.

I’ve just come home from school; Daddy is in his chair in the living room puffing a cigar and reading the newspaper, dated June 12, 1990. It’s both weird that he’s home so early, and even weirder that he’s smoking in the house. My mother would be furious. I look around the room, then out at the pool, but she’s not there, or anywhere. She’s probably just upstairs, I tell myself—though I know instinctively that she’s not. I can feel it. The house has that vacant, lonely way about it, like when she’s out to lunch or gone for the evening. But where is she? She promised we’d go to the mall to get my ears pierced when I got home from school.

I run to the kitchen, where I find Bonnie hunched over at the breakfast table, crying. Bonnie is our housekeeper. I’ve never seen her cry, and it frightens me. She looks up at me, startled. Neither of us knows what to say.

“What’s wrong?” I finally ask. “What happened? Where’s Mummy?” From the time I began to speak, that’s what I called her, and what she called her own mother. It was the British way.

Bonnie opens her mouth, but no words come out. Then she lowers her head again, continuing to weep.

“Daddy!” I run back to the living room. “Why is Bonnie crying? Where’s Mummy? What’s going on?”

He continues to puff his cigar, rocking back and forth methodically, even though the chair doesn’t rock.