With Love from London(63)

I lifted the lid and pulled out the note that I’d found on my windshield, from the man at the beach. Peter. I should have thrown it away immediately, but for some reason, I simply couldn’t. And there it was, and here I was, in heels on a Friday night. I tucked the scrap of paper into my purse and reached for my car keys.



* * *



—

Later that evening I slid onto a barstool at Vino Volletta, a newly opened wine bar in the neighborhood. It felt strange to be out at night alone, but also strangely wonderful.

The bartender smiled at me, sliding a water glass and menu across the marble counter. “Anyone joining you tonight?” he asked, hesitating as if to reach for another menu.

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just me.”

He nodded, pointing to the top of the menu. “Our appetizers are right here. Below that are salads and starters, then mains. The chicken is really nice tonight. And on the other side, you’ll find our wines. The flights of three are at the bottom.”

“Oh yes,” I said, liking the sound of a flight. “I’ll have one of those. Which of the reds do you recommend?”

“Well,” he said, “considering your accent, I take it you might have an affinity for European varietals?”

I smiled. “I do miss home.”

“Then I’ll bring out a flight of French reds,” he said decisively. “You won’t be disappointed.”

I certainly wasn’t, and when I finished the three pours, I decided to order a glass. The bartender immediately reached for a bottle he described as “special,” and it was. A few minutes later, I was feeling light and happy and, perhaps, a bit emboldened. I reached into my pocket.

I remembered how Frank had spoken to me on the phone, how he’d dismissed me. I’d been so lonely for so long. He’d admitted as much himself. What would be the harm in merely…talking to someone who wanted to talk to me? I took another sip of wine, then waved to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I borrow your phone?”

“Sure,” he said, pointing to the end of the bar.

I walked over and dialed the number. It rang two times before he picked up.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello…Peter?” I clutched the edge of the bar to hold myself steady.

“Yes, this is.”

My heart beat so fast, I felt as if I might faint. What am I doing?

“Hello?” he said again, before I panicked and set the phone back into its cradle.





London

About Three Weeks Later



It’s near closing time on a Friday night, and the Book Garden staff is feeling the tension rising. The fundraiser we’d organized is planned for tomorrow night, and Millie, Liza, and I knew in the very marrow of our bones that this would be make or break for us, hopefully the former. As such, we’d spent the last week embroiled in preparation—folding and tying ribbons on programs, printing raffle tickets, and making tags for silent auction items.

“I don’t know how on earth we’re going to raise all the money we need,” Millie says, fretting as she turns away from the computer screen, then sinks into one of the store’s several sofas.

“The event is sold out,” I remind her. “If nothing else, the Primrose Hill community is showing their support.”

Before Millie can respond, a young woman with a pixie haircut comes in requesting Kerouac. Millie, of course, leaps to her feet, leads the customer to the right shelf, and puts a book in her hand. She leaves with her purchase in a bag emblazoned with the store’s new logo, the shoots of a daffodil sprouting from the pages of an open book.

“The book business may be changing,” Millie says, “but as long as there are readers, there will always be sixteen-year-old girls in search of Kerouac.” She shakes her head. “But for God’s sake why Kerouac when there’s Sylvia Plath? I’ll never understand.”

Millie turns her attention to the rows of gift bags adorned with the same new logo. Thanks to the generosity of local merchants, from the bakery to the grocer around the corner, we’ll fill each of them to the brim.

Liza sighs, examining the ribbon she’s just tied on one of the gift bags, and I can tell that Millie’s worries are contagious. “Do you think any of this is going to make a difference? I mean, can one fundraiser really get us where we need to be to pay the estate tax and stay in business?”

“That’s the goal,” I say. “Primrose Hill needs its bookstore. The ticket sales alone are proof!” I don’t state the obvious, that the gratis dinner at Café Flora might also be a draw.

Nevertheless, we stay the course, and the three of us have quite the assembly line going. Millie stocks each bag, then passes it to Liza, who ties a pink tulle bow on each handle before passing it to me to tag and place in the boxes that correspond to the various table numbers.

Liza looks up suddenly. “Val, isn’t your date with Daniel tonight?”

“Yeah,” I say, unable to stop smiling at the mention of him. When he’d first called, he was preparing for a business trip, and would be gone for about ten days, but now he’s back and he asked me to have dinner with him at a little Italian restaurant in Notting Hill, where he says they serve some sort of eggplant dish that has gotten rave reviews from food critics. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I despise eggplant. Anyway, I hope he’ll be as wonderful in real life as he seems on the phone. Debbie, the hairstylist, at least thinks so.