With Love from London(35)

Eric follows me as I wind through a maze of bookshelves, waiting patiently for my clairvoyant literary pick, and yet, I am altogether baffled. What on earth am I supposed to suggest that his vapid girlfriend read? There’s no way she’d manage ten pages of Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, or care a thing about Maeve Binchy’s Tara Road. Forget the classics, forget the usual suspects. This assignment was a challenge—a big one.

I search high and low, hoping that something—anything—will jump out at me, and then it does. “Have you read The Time Traveler’s Wife?” I ask, turning to Eric, who nods quickly.

“Oh my gosh, yes. I couldn’t put it down. If I recall, I think I read it in a day.”

“Me too,” I say, cracking a smile. “My gut tells me Fiona might like this one. Maybe she’ll even be impressed that it was made into a movie?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, though—”

“Movies never compare to books,” we both say in unison.

“Ever,” I add, grinning.

He nods. “I’ll get it for her, then,” he says, pausing to glance back at Millie. “I’ll let you know if she takes the bait.”

“Good luck,” I say.

He pauses, scratching his head. “Fiona’s childhood was far from idyllic. Her dad left when she was young, and her mom lived off government assistance. She grew up with absolutely nothing.” The Gucci crossbody bag I recall her wearing the other day is a reminder that exteriors can be deceiving, and I instantly regret typecasting her. “She’d be mortified if she knew I told you that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that she didn’t have the opportunities you and I might have had, and there certainly wasn’t anyone who shared the love of reading with her.” He pauses for a long moment, then smiles. “Your mum was that person for me.”

“That’s…wonderful,” I say casually, shrouding the wave of emotion rising up inside of me. While I was motherless in California, she was here, doting on the neighborhood children. How could they possibly have needed her more than I did? Fiona and I obviously have one thing in common: hiding the pain of our pasts. “Well,” I continue, collecting myself. “I hope it goes well with…the book. Good luck. I…have to be going.”

“Of course,” Eric says. “I’m…sorry to keep you.”

“No trouble. I do love matching people to books.”

He smiles. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess.”



* * *



—

It’s raining outside—large raindrops pelt my head from above—but I don’t turn around to grab an umbrella. May Weatherby’s house isn’t far, so I hasten my steps, walking two blocks ahead before turning the corner, where I see the light blue building in the distance. The rain blurs the scene, as if I’ve stepped into an Impressionist painting, which somehow puts me at ease.

I climb the steps to the stoop, where I find a placard that reads WEATHERBY beside a call button, which I press. A moment later, an old woman’s voice quietly comes through the little speaker beside me. “Hello?” She sounds frail, and a little taken aback, and I regret not calling first. Surely Millie had her phone number.

“Hello, yes, is this May Weatherby?”

“Yes.”

“This is…Valentina Baker—Eloise’s daughter.”

“Oh, what a nice surprise on this gloomy day,” the woman says. “You know, dear, I’ve been expecting you. Come up immediately and get out of this rain! I’m on the second floor.”

I hear the automatic click of the door unlatching, and I step inside, shaking off the rain from my sweater as I climb the stairs. On the second floor, I approach the open door, peering inside cautiously. “Hello, Mrs. Weatherby? It’s Valentina.”

“Yes, yes,” May calls to me from inside. “Come in, dear. I’m just putting on some tea for us. Make yourself at home.”

I proceed inside, to the royal-blue settee by the window, and sit down. The tidy flat feels like a time capsule from the 1950s. I eye the collection of antique ceramic figurines on the nearby shelf. Above it is a black-and-white framed photo of a young man with an older woman, both smiling gleefully.

A few minutes later, May appears carrying a tray with a teapot and two china cups. Her arms teeter a little as she sets it down on the table, then she takes a seat in a blue-and-white, toile-covered Louis XV chair facing me. She’s at least eighty, perhaps older, but she holds herself with the air of a woman who was once very beautiful. In fact, she still is. Her wispy gray hair is swept up into a bun, showcasing her high cheekbones and pale blue eyes. “I’m afraid you caught me in my robe,” she says, smiling. “I don’t get a lot of visitors these days, but you are a very special one.”

“I, uh, thank you so much for having me in,” I begin. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”

“It’s fine, dear.” She narrows her gaze. “Now, tell me, how can I help you?”

Unsure of how much she might already know, I start from the beginning—recounting my mother’s scavenger hunt and the previous clues that led me here. I pull out the most recent note from my bag and show it to her. “Millie thought it might have something to do with Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon. My mother read it to me as a child.”