With Love from London(56)

I watch her fumble through the lower shelf, then another. She looks through two drawers and then a third. “Where in the world would it have gone?”

“Did you possibly put it away when we were cleaning recently?”

“Maybe,” she says, disappearing to the back room, but she returns a few minutes later empty-handed. “I’m afraid it’s not there, either.”

I sink into a chair beside the nonfiction section.

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. We’ll find it.”

“But will we?” I say with a sigh. What I’d initially approached with amusement, curiosity even, has turned into so much more. My mother was trying to tell me something. She was trying to help me understand. But would I?

“Valentina, good things take time,” Millie says. “Don’t lose hope.”

She’s right, of course. I read somewhere that it took Tolkien sixteen years to write a follow-up to The Hobbit. I’d find Mummy’s message, and I’d find my way in life—eventually.

“You’ve been working so hard,” she continues. “Why don’t you go for a walk—to clear your head. Liza’s here; we’ve got things covered.”

I decide she’s right, so I set out on Prince Albert Road toward Primrose Hill park. What once was royal land, and the private hunting ground for Henry VIII, is now a small public park. Liza told me it was a favorite among locals and tourists alike for its panoramic views of London, and I’m somewhat of both.

Primrose Hill is already above sea level, but Primrose Hill park rises even higher. Just as my driver had noted on my first ride into town, the elevation is sixty-three meters above sea level, which the sign at its entrance declares. In the distance, architecture enthusiasts cluster, pointing their cameras at BT Tower and the London Eye. But I’m here for the literary landmarks. On the slope, there’s an oak known as Shakespeare’s Tree, planted to commemorate the three hundredth anniversary of the playwright’s birth; goosebumps erupt up and down my arms when I see it.

Turning in a slow circle, I take in my surroundings. The grass is green, and the trees are low so as to show off the view of all of London. I spot the Shard and the towers of Mammon, landmarks I’d only ever heard about or seen photos of, but now they’re right before me—in my own backyard.

I continue climbing until I reach the summit and my ultimate prize—a stone engraved with the words of William Blake. I post a photo to @booksbyval with this caption:


“I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill,” said William Blake. He saw the light, and so have I. I’m finally and utterly at home.



Within mere moments, my Instagram notifications flood in, and one in particular catches my eye—from Nick: “Your heart is my home. I love you.”

I feel a pang of emotion, which quickly morphs into anger. While his previous texts had, admittedly, stirred my heart, this note does the very opposite. In fact, it gives me greater clarity and understanding. How dare Nick post something so personal on my Instagram? He hadn’t commented on any posts on @booksbyval in our entire marriage, and now he jumps into the ring looking like a wounded husband who misses his wife? I’d done my best to keep our private matters, well, private, and now he has the gall to use my platform to get my attention, or worse, elicit pity from my followers? My cheeks burn red, and I consider deleting his message, or even blocking him entirely. Instead, I tuck my phone into my bag and try to remain in the present. Nick left me, and I’ve made a new life for myself—or at least, I’m making one. Nothing he can say or do will change those facts. Just like my mother’s life in London, with her secrets I wasn’t privy to, this is my time, and mine alone.

I walk home with a new sense of strength, and purpose. My life is no longer the tragic novel I’d assumed it was, but something entirely different—a great adventure, a thriller, even, and maybe, just maybe, a brilliant love story.

Once home, I sink into the sofa, and reach for a new thriller that came into the store recently. I don’t know the author, and I’ve rarely dipped into the genre, but a quote on the cover caught my eye: “Heart-stopping and unforgettable, this story will make you question everything—from the roads not taken to the person lying beside you in bed.”

And it does, indeed. I read for two solid hours, then snap a photo of the book and share it in an Instagram post:


Whether trying out a new author or genre, or making a big life change, I’m the first to admit that stepping out of our comfort zones can be a little scary. But what if we could see our lives in reverse and confirm that those risks, hard decisions, even impulsive leaps of faith, were the key ingredients for a fully maximized life? That’s what I’m thinking about, anyway, even if I have no idea what might lie on the road ahead. But I have this book to keep me company, and it’s quite the unusual pick for me. But I’m open to what I’ll find in its pages and in my own life. Tell me, what big risks have you taken—literary or otherwise? xoxo, Val #takingachanceonbooks #newgenre #onedayatatime



I crave tea, so I put the kettle on the stove in my mother’s kitchen that is now my own, then search her record collection until I find just the right album: Art Tatum. I release the vinyl from its sleeve and carefully set it on the turntable, listening for the familiar crackle, the melodic piano. “Tea for Two.”