With Love from London(32)

My nod was merely mechanic. “Millie, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” she said, wiping away a tear.

I opened the door to the hall closet and pointed to Edward’s jacket inside. “Keep this safe for me.”

“El, I don’t understand.”

I closed my eyes tightly, then opened them again, glancing at the door over my shoulder. “I can’t take it with me to California, but I don’t want to lose it either—ever.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know I’m not making any sense, but I don’t have time to explain.”

Millie nodded. “What’s his name?”

“Edward,” I said. The word flew out of my mouth. “Edward Sinclair.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

Tears stung my eyes. “I do, Mill. Oh, I do.”

She shook her head in confusion. “Then why—”

“It’s too late.” I bit my lip as Frank appeared on the stairs to help with my bags.

“Hello, darling,” he said, before waving to Millie, oblivious to the conversation that had just been cut short. “My driver says we might run into traffic getting to Heathrow, so we should hustle. We don’t want to lose those first-class seats.”

When Frank’s back was turned, Millie nodded to me. It was all I needed.

“Ready, my love?”

“Yes,” I said, feigning cheerfulness.

I took one last look at Millie before turning to follow Frank down the stairs. My legs felt leaden, and each step oozed of irony. I’d spent my whole life dreaming about the day I’d finally leave the East End, kissing my past goodbye, and now that it was happening…all I wanted was to stay.





“It’s ringing,” I whisper to Liza, my pulse racing after I dial Daniel Davenport’s number.

“Hello?” a youngish-sounding woman says. Her voice is urgent and perhaps even a bit annoyed, but it’s hard to tell over the commotion in the background—dishes rattling, water rushing from a faucet.

“Oh, um, hi,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry, uh, I was calling for…Daniel.”

“Daniel? Daniel who?”

I clear my throat. “Daniel Davenport.”

“Daniel Davenport, huh?” She laughs. “That’s a good one.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You’re calling for my ex, obviously,” she says. “Tell me, what kind of man gives out his home phone number when attempting to cheat on his girlfriend?” She sniffs. “Yeah, no cellphone—he missed too many payments. First it was Clyde Humphrey, then Ben Calloway, and now…What was it again? Oh yeah, Daniel Daven-whatever.” She laughs. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. I feel sorry for you, and all of the poor women he’s duped—including me. But now the joke’s on him.” I shake my head at Liza, who’s hanging on my every word. “He was arrested last week for mail fraud. They finally got him. Good riddance.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m…sorry. I…”

“Don’t be,” the woman replies. “Just learn your lesson like I did and don’t fall for a sociopath.”

“Yes, right,” I mutter. “Thank you.” I end the call quickly and set the phone down on the sofa, staring at it like it’s a stick of dynamite.

“So?” Liza asks, wide-eyed. “Tell me everything!”

“Wrong number.” I sigh. “Either that, or our Daniel Davenport is a cheating sociopath who is currently in prison.”

“Let’s go with the first scenario.”

I shrug.

“Don’t lose heart,” Liza says.

“I think I already have,” I say, yawning. “But for now, I need to get some sleep.”

Liza reaches for her sweater and casts me a cheeky smile from the doorway. “Good night, honey. May you have the most romantic dream about the handsome and mysterious Daniel.”



* * *



—

The next morning, while I don’t wake with fond memories of any particularly romantic dream, I do feel unusually steeped in a newfound sense of clarity—about the Book Garden. My mother’s life might remain a painful mystery to me, but she did create something beautiful, and worthwhile. I think of the customers who came into the shop the other day—Eric, in particular, even if his girlfriend is somewhat questionable. He practically came of age in the store! I’d witnessed how Jan at Café Flora was practically lit from within when she recounted the Book Garden’s important place in the community. If my career as a librarian had any meaning, this could have just as much—or more. How could I live with myself if I didn’t at least try to breathe some new life into the bookstore? As I fill the teakettle and set it on the back burner of the old stove, I reach for my phone and make some changes to my bio at @booksbyval. I delete “librarian” and “Seattle.” I can’t straddle two worlds; I must choose one, and I’ve made my choice. I should be sad, maybe? Instead, I feel a rush of pride when I type the new entry. Bookseller. The Book Garden. Primrose Hill, London.

This is the life that my long-lost mother has gifted to me. I have six months to make it mine.