With Love from London(47)

When Louis clears his throat, I startle, expecting an owl to fly out, but then I remember the old oak tree in the yard of our home in Santa Monica—with a prominent knot, just like this one. My mother named it the “Little Fairy House,” where she left little treats, notes, and toys inside for me to find.

“You’ve found it,” he says. “The Little House.”

I reach my hand into the hollow of the tree and pull out the envelope inside. The paper is yellowed and weathered by the elements, but my name is written clearly on the front—in her handwriting. I tear the edge and pull out the note card.


My darling girl,

You’ve found me, and I’m so glad. Did you say hello to Matilda? She’s an old friend. When I was little, your grandmother took me to this very park, and I would sit and watch her for hours. I used to think that if I stared at her long enough, she might come to life and tell me her secrets. Alas, she never did. But maybe she’ll tell them to you. Look after her, please? Oh, Val, I have so much to say. And it gives me so much comfort knowing you’re reading this right now. As I’m writing you at this moment, my health is failing. It isn’t fair. In fact, it’s cruel. We have so much more life to share together, and I hoped we’d have all of those moments. But I’ll have to find another way to make you know how much you are loved. I’ll always be here, loving you, but I want to leave you with two more surprises. The first, you’ll find by paying attention to these words from Cicero (though, I’ll admit, I’m partial to libraries):

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”

My sweet daughter, do you agree?

Come find me. I’ll be waiting.

Love,

Mummy





July 12, 1977



I held the vintage string of pearls to the nape of my neck, eyeing my reflection in the window. Nine years had passed since I moved to L.A., and, in some ways, little had changed since I stepped off that airplane. California still felt as strange as it did then. I’d thought about that earlier this morning as I took a cab to the ritzy Pacific Palisades neighborhood for an estate sale that had gotten a lot of buzz in the newspaper—and judging by the assortment of treasures I’d found, for good reason. In fact, it took all my self-restraint to stifle my excitement when I’d discovered a beautifully preserved copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast that even bore the faint mark of the author’s signature on the title page.

“That necklace looks stunning on you,” a fellow bargain-hunter said, catching my eye. “Definitely, get it. Your husband will think you’re a goddess.”

I smiled at the kind stranger, but she had no idea how wrong she was. There was no necklace on earth, I feared, that would make Frank think I was a goddess.

I’d come to Los Angeles as a young bride, hopeful that I’d made the right choice, even if it was my only one. The pregnancy bound us together, replacing my hesitation with duty, which remained even after the miscarriage and its onslaught of pain. Frank and I grew increasingly distant, and yet, somehow, the chains that bound us together were tighter still. It made no difference if I’d left my heart in London. We’d created a life together, and lost it. For that, our lives would be forever entwined

Frank was appalled when I suggested the baby—a boy—be cremated. At the time, things were so bad between us that I considered filing for divorce and imagined taking his ashes home with me—to London. But Frank insisted that his son be buried in a plot beside his parents—and first wife—in a local cemetery, and that was that. I was too heartbroken and weak to argue, and I was still bleeding at the burial. A part of him—Frank, Jr.—was still leaving my body as the tiny casket was lowered into the earth.

After that, we didn’t argue much, nor did we really speak at all. We merely floated—passing each other in the house like ghosts in the night, each so haunted by the past that we were unable to remain in the present.

I paid for my estate sale purchases—including the pearl necklace—then caught a cab back home thinking about something Bonnie had said to me years ago. “Grief is a treacherous journey, but it doesn’t last forever.”

What if she’s wrong? I asked myself, lying by the pool later that day. What if it does last forever?

I looked up from the chaise longue when I heard the front door open and close. “Bonnie?” I said, squinting at the sliding door, confused because it was Tuesday—her day off.

Instead, it was Frank, and his appearance on the patio startled me. “I thought you’d already left for Hong Kong,” I said, sitting up. The two-week trip had been on the calendar for months, and, as I understood, with an imminent business merger, it was a very important one.

“Darling,” he said softly, sitting down beside me. “I…canceled the trip.”

I adjusted the right shoulder strap of my new blue bikini. “Why?”

“Eloise,” he continued. “We need to talk.”

This is it. He’s going to suggest we divorce.

I imagined myself packing. It wouldn’t take long—I’d only bring the essentials. It would sting, of course, like the final opus of a tragic opera, but at least I’d have an ending. And I could finally go home. Of course, I’d have to make a new life for myself. I had nothing waiting for me there, except for Millie. She had a flat and a successful career as a barrister. I could stay with her until I got back on my feet. It would be like old times, as if I’d never even been to California. As if…none of it ever happened. All these years, I’d felt unable to break from the confines of our union, but what if Frank could…set me free?