With Love from London(22)

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I head to bed with The Last Winter, eager to reunite with the familiar story, but especially its characters—old friends. I check my account one last time. Likes and emojis are pouring in. Readers are sharing their own stories of long-lost books, of their own heartbreak. I join the conversation, adding a new post.


What makes books more special than, say, a movie, is that you can hold them. When your own world feels bleak, a book is a portal to anywhere. You can hide within the pages, linger there for comfort or protection. The best part? Whether you’re seven or sixty-seven, a favorite book is like an old friend, waiting for you with open arms, and right now, that’s what The Last Winter is for me.



I sink my head into the pillows, eager to return to Cezanne’s world. But when I turn to the first page, I’m a little surprised to find a handwritten note near the top corner. This has to be one of the most beautiful opening paragraphs in all of literature.

I reread the words curiously, my arms erupting in goosebumps. I wholeheartedly agree, though I know plenty of other librarians who would eschew any such writing in the margins, and yet, I’ll admit, I’ve been prone to scribbling in pages myself (in the pages of my own books, that is). But, literary controversy aside, this commenter makes an excellent point. The book hadn’t been a bestseller or won a Pulitzer, but it’s filled with lines that literally sing. I read the words again, letting them marinate in my mind.

“Cezanne wills her lithe body into position as she gazes out at the theatre. In the turbulent sea of human faces, she sees only one: his.”

I press my hand to my chest, the line hitting my heart, just as it had the very first time I’d read it. On the next page, I find another note beside an underlined passage. The description of her lacing her ballet slippers is reminiscent of being tied with chains, bound by society’s rules.

How funny. I’d thought the very same thing.

And then, on page eight, another note appears: Snow is a metaphor for change, the forces of life that we can’t control. Note how Cezanne behaves in the 1922 blizzard.

Yes, exactly! I nod, recalling how she’d been selected to dance the lead in the most prestigious ballet of the year. It would be the greatest opportunity of her career and provide the funds to support her impoverished family. But then a blizzard strikes the city on the same night a new choreographer dismisses Cezanne from the production. Even though her world looks bleak, she runs out to the street and dances—immersing herself in the falling snow, finding beauty amid the darkness.

Who is this mystery commentator, I wonder. Unable to contain my curiosity, I flip to the inside cover for any clue, which is where I find the name Daniel Davenport, written beside a telephone number.

A quick fan of the pages and it’s evident that the book is filled with more intriguing notes sprinkled throughout the prose. I want to study them all. Another one, on page sixty-eight, reads, If only it were possible to visit Cezanne’s New York. The wish feels eerily familiar, as if plucked from the depths of my brain.

Overcome with curiosity, I delve further, which is when a small envelope slips out into my lap. Just like the one I’d found yesterday, from my mother, this one also has my name on it. I wasn’t able to make any sense of the clue in her last note (I implore you to delve deep—to our last springs, summers, and autumns, but above all, our last winter) but now I understand.


My darling Val,

You’ve discovered one of my favorites, just as I knew you would. As I’ve always said, books have a way of finding you when you need them most, and now you’ve found The Last Winter. I promised that I had some surprises in store for you, and this book is only the beginning. Keep it close to your heart, and please, my darling girl, keep that beautiful heart open and curious as you read between the lines. There’s so much more in store, my little birdie.

Your next stop is culinary, and close—where flowers grow. Find me on the fourth shelf. I’ll be waiting.

Love,

Mummy





My eyes sting with tears as I read the note over and over again, trying to make sense of it. Keep your heart open? What on earth could she mean? And what is my next stop, a culinary place where flowers grow? Mummy loved scavenger hunts; she’d organized dozens of them for me as a child. And now she’d planned this final one after remaining silent for the latter half of my life. Why? Why now?

I flip back to the inside cover and study the name written in blue ink, and can’t help but wonder if this mystery man is somehow the key to it all.

Daniel Davenport, who are you?





Three Months Later

April 19, 1968



I stood Frank up for lunch at the Ritz—twice, in fact—but he was undeterred. He sent two bouquets of flowers and called a half-dozen times.

I should have been happy for the interest and attention, but all I could think about was Edward, that magnificent library bar, and the night that had glimmered with promise and ended in mystery. He didn’t meet me at Jack’s Bistro the next day, nor did he call. But Frank did.

Poor Millie, by the fifth time he rang, I begged her to let him down softly for me. “El,” she said later. “You’re going to break this poor man’s heart.”

Even Millie—straight-shooting Millie—was no match for Frank’s tenacity. He showed up at our flat the following Saturday night with two tickets to the Sammy Davis, Jr., concert and not a stitch of judgment about our modest living situation. In his eyes, I was a duchess, a princess, even. And who could say no to Sammy Davis, Jr.? Certainly not Millie. She whispered in my ear that night, “If you don’t go, I might have to!”