With Love from London(71)

“Val? Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you picked up.”

It’s Nick, and I instantly regret answering. His voice sounds different—familiar but far-off, too—like someone I knew in high school—or a former life. “I’m calling from a friend’s phone, because…you haven’t been picking up. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, and—”

“Look, Nick,” I say, with a sigh, “I’m not sure I really want to talk.”

“Listen,” he says, “I just…wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I screwed up in the most terrible way. I have so many regrets.”

“So, I take it that you and what’s-her-name broke up?”

“Yes, we did,” he replies soberly. “Val, I don’t know what I was thinking. I had the perfect thing with you and I…I threw it all away. And I just…I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for everything.”

I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent, taking in his words, letting them marinate in my mind, and heart.

“Don’t hang up,” Nick says.

I hear a commotion in the background.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“In the kitchen. I’m cooking, at least, attempting.”

“Nick, you don’t cook.”

“I know,” he continues. “I mean, I didn’t, but I’m learning out of necessity. I…miss your cooking. I miss all your books lying around everywhere. Val, I miss…you.”

Part of me still longed to hear those words. For a long time, it was all I dreamed about—the fantasy of Nick begging my forgiveness, pleading for another start. But so much had changed since then. I’d changed. Even if he had apologized—and learned to cook—Nick was no longer my sun, moon, and stars. In fact, I’d found a whole new universe.

“Say something, Val,” he says nervously. “Talk to me. Tell me you miss me as much as I miss you. Tell me you’ll forgive me. I’ll come to London. We can have a new start. Please, babe, I’ll do anything.”

And that’s when it hits me. I don’t want him to come to London. I don’t want him to set foot in London.

I take a deep breath, pausing for a long beat before I reply. “Nick,” I finally say. “Thank you for calling, for…saying what you did. The thing is, I did miss you. For a long time, actually. But I’ve finally healed. I’ve found my way.”

Liza and Millie are listening with wide eyes.

“I tell you what I do miss, though,” I continue. “I miss…the dream of us. I miss the girl who wore a white dress and carried a bouquet of pale pink roses and looked ahead to a full life—of family, love, happiness. I miss looking into the eyes of my husband and trusting him. I miss…what might have been, but now, never will be.” I swallow hard. “But you know what I don’t miss? Feeling lonely. Because, Nick, in our marriage, I was so deeply lonely.”

“Val, I…I’m so sorry. I wish I could say something to—”

“Don’t,” I say. “It’s okay. I want you to know that I forgive you. I’ll always wish the best for you. Goodbye, Nick.” I end the call before he can say anything more.

“Damn, girl,” Liza says, clapping her hands. “That was impressive.”

“You handled that brilliantly,” Millie says.

I wipe away a tear—the last one I’ll shed for him. “It’s over. It’s really over.”

The three of us pause when we notice two men speaking loudly to each other outside on the street. One gestures toward the building with large arm movements, as the other pulls a tape measure from his pocket and runs it along the length of the front window.

“Who are they?” Liza asks, walking to the window suspiciously.

A moment later, the men walk into the store.

“The lot’s an unusual size,” one says to the other. “But it’ll work.”

“Look,” the other says, pointing ahead. “It narrows in the back a bit, like the architect said. Can we work with that?”

“It’ll take some creative engineering,” the other says. “But I don’t see why not. The price is right.” They both laugh in unison.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Millie says, stepping forward like a protective mother bear. “May we help you?”

“Good day to you,” the taller of the two says to Millie. “And who might you be?”

“The real question is, who might you be?”

The shorter man digs into his pocket and pulls out a crinkled business card. “Bayer Construction, general manager. Hate to bring up a sore subject, but after the tax lien’s in place, we’ll be the new owners.” He kicks the edge of a bookcase with a heavy boot. “Look at that. Solid mahogany. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” He turns to the other man. “Could we salvage these, maybe? Sell them?”

“That’s enough,” Millie says. “I don’t know who you two think you are or what you are doing, but, gentlemen, if you’re not here to buy a book, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The taller man smirks, squaring his shoulders. “My, my, the old librarian is quite a feisty one.”

“Indeed, she is,” I say, standing my ground. “I’m the owner of this building, and as of today, I’m unaware of any reason—tax liens or otherwise—that allows you to loiter in our store. I’ll remind you that this is private property, and if you refuse to leave immediately, I’ll be forced to call the authorities and make a harassment complaint.”