With Love from London(60)

“I know,” I say with a laugh. “I just thought you might like a little company, that’s all.”

I tell Millie about my latest call from James Whitaker of Bevins and Associates. He’s encouraging me to consider two new offers that would easily settle the estate taxes. Of course, both involve closing the bookstore and demolishing the building to make way for a modern block of flats, but the longer this drags out, the deeper in hot water I find myself.

“Lawyers never give up,” Millie says.

“I don’t want to make any decisions until after the fundraiser,” I say. “We still have time.”

“Exactly. Be vague. Tell him you’re considering your options. He’ll get his answer in time, and hopefully for us, it’ll be a big fat no.”

I nod as I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket. When I glance at the screen, I don’t recognize the number, but I decide to pick up, just in case.

“Hello, is this Valentina?” It’s a man with a deep, resonant voice.

“Yes,” I reply.

“This is Daniel. Daniel Davenport.”

“Daniel,” I say, a fluttery feeling creeping up inside of me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies.

Millie grins, then mouths “good night,” before disappearing around the next corner.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting you?” Daniel asks.

“No, no,” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. I take a deep breath as I lean against a lamppost on the sidewalk. “Not at all.”

“Good,” he says. I can picture him right now, smiling out the window of his loft flat in the city, with dark, wavy hair, a coy smile, dinner simmering on the stove beside a freshly uncorked bottle of wine—a book on his nightstand. “I spoke to our mutual friend Debbie today, and she tells me that we have a lot to talk about.”





March 1990



A stream of light spilled out to the hallway from Frank’s bedroom door. I normally knocked, but I had a water glass in one hand and his shirts on hangers in the other. Besides, he’d left his door ajar, so I didn’t worry about disturbing him.

“Hi,” I said, pressing the door open with my elbow.

He was lying on his side, in the striped pajamas I’d bought him for Christmas two years ago. When he heard my footsteps, he sat up quickly. “Eloise,” he said, startled. “I’ve told you to please knock.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “I’m sorry. I picked up the dry cleaning this morning and just wanted to put your shirts in the—” I paused, suddenly noticing dozens of photographs laid out on his bed, some black-and-white, some color. “What are you doing, Frank? What are these photos?”

“Nothing,” he said, gathering them into a pile as quickly as he could, but one escaped him, falling to the floor, where it lay, faceup, in front of me. The clump of hangers fell from my hand as I kneeled down to pick it up.

I noticed her eyes first—big, enchanting orbs—and then her other features: high cheekbones, perfect, plump lips, a tiny waist. Her blond hair cascaded in soft waves that hit her shoulders. She was laughing, beaming, as if the person behind the camera was everything to her. I swallowed hard, looking up at Frank. I knew the answer to the question I was about to ask, but I asked it anyway. “This is her, isn’t it? This is Diane.”

Frank took the photo from my limp hand and set it on top of the others, before tucking the stack into a manila envelope and placing it inside the drawer of his bedside table. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I, both of us cloaked in an icy silence.

A few moments passed before he turned to me, his eyes filled with regret, tenderness even. “Eloise, I’m…so sorry.”

“Don’t, Frank,” I said, shaking my head. “All these years. I could never reach you. I used to think it was me, that I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, interesting enough. But I see now that it wasn’t any failure on my part. Frank, I couldn’t reach you because you were unreachable—because your heart is still with her.”



* * *



—

We didn’t speak of that night again, but Frank behaved differently thereafter. He came home in time for dinner more often and even offered to take me to the new seafood restaurant on Main Street one night, though I politely declined.

I behaved differently, too. Sometimes I didn’t come down for breakfast or opted out of a black-tie event I didn’t feel like attending, even if I knew it would ignite gossip in our social circle. I even got my driver’s license, which felt like the boldest move of all.

Valentina was my first passenger.

She came out to the patio, where I was reading, and sat beside me on the lounge chair by the pool. “Can you take me to the beach?”

“All right,” I finally said, glancing at my watch. “Let me get dressed and get you a snack and then I’ll drive you.”

Valentina leaped to her feet, beaming. “You’re the best mummy in the whole wide world!”

“And you’re the best daughter in the whole wide world.” I smiled.



* * *



—

“Is it fun to drive?” Valentina asked as I backed the Volvo station wagon out of the driveway. I gripped the steering wheel anxiously. While practicing for my driving test, I’d run into the mailbox. Frank wasn’t happy about it, naturally, but Valentina thought the episode of “Mummy Demolishes the Mailbox” was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.