With Love from London(82)

“A bookstore, oh yes. How charming. It’s a curious thing that there isn’t one in Primrose Hill. I’ve often thought that some enterprising person ought to put one in, save local readers the arduous trip to central London.”

He led us out a back door and then down a little path to a side entrance. “There are two flats upstairs, so you could live above the shop if you wanted.”

Like the ground floor, both living spaces are in need of a thorough update, but they ooze potential, and I’m especially taken by the second-floor flat, with its big windows that look out at the street.

“Remind me of the asking price?” I asked, turning to the agent expectantly, but when he handed me a flyer, my heart sank. It was far out of our reach.

“The seller is quite motivated,” the agent added, sensing our apprehension. “In other words, don’t be afraid to make an offer—any offer. As you know, the market’s been in a bit of a slump this year and he’s intent on unloading some of his real estate holdings.”

I nodded. “Well, thank you. We’ll…let you know.”

“Why don’t I take down your name in case any other listings come up, or, if you have further questions about this one.”

I shook my head. “No need, we—”

“Sure,” Millie said, interrupting me. She gave him my name and her phone number.

“Eloise Baker,” he said, nodding. “All right, I’ll be in touch.”

“Why did you do that?” I asked later as we began walking back to the flat.

“Do what?”

“Lead him on like that! You know we can’t afford to buy the building.”

“Oh, my friend,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

I left it behind in London all those years ago, I thought as I turned around to give the pale pink building one last glance. But maybe I can find it again?



* * *



—

Later, I phoned California, timing the call to when I was sure Frank would be at work.

Bonnie answered, and I was flooded with relief at the sound of her voice.

“Hello, Bonnie,” I said.

“Mrs. Baker!” she cried. “It’s you!”

“Yes, Bonnie,” I said. “It’s me. I’m in London while…Frank and I sort everything out. Is Valentina there? May I talk to her, please?”

“Uh,” Bonnie said, pausing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker, she is…not here.”

“Oh, where is she, then?”

“She is…out with Mr. Baker.” The connection sounded muffled. “He asked me to take down your phone number and address if you called.”

I gave Bonnie the information, then asked her to have Valentina call me.

“Mrs. Baker,” she said in almost a whisper, “it’s not the same without you.”

Nothing was the same.

After I hung up the phone, I found a pen and paper, and began a letter to my daughter:


My darling Valentina,

I didn’t want to leave you, honey, but I had to. In time, I’ll try to explain.

I’m here in London now, visiting my old friend Millie, who I’ve told you about so often. Oh, Val, I wish you were here with me. I know you’d love London as much as I do. After all, you have English blood running through your veins.

There are things I wish I could tell you to help you understand, but I can’t. Because of that, I’m asking you to trust me, please. I know it’s hard when I’m not there to look into your eyes, when I can’t dry your tears or help you understand. But, I’ll be home soon. Until then, I’ll be loving you every second of every day, and always.

With love

from London,

Mummy





The Next Day



I’m standing at the store counter, sorting through paperwork I don’t have the heart to show Millie or Liza. It’s an offer to transfer deed and ownership to Brighton Construction, the company that plans to bulldoze the bookstore. Attached is a tidy architectural plan detailing a new, modern-looking condo development.

The fundraiser results are our last hope. If they don’t meet expectations, it won’t be long until the Book Garden is encased in caution tape and bracing for the wrecking ball.

The phone rings, and Millie answers.

She speaks little, ending the call with, “Thank you. I understand.”

“What is it?” Liza and I walk over to the counter.

She takes a long breath, exhaling slowly. “That was Jan,” she says. “The numbers are in. We raised…ninety-six thousand pounds.”

“Which means,” Liza says, pausing to do the math, then frowning, “we’re more than one hundred and fifty thousand pounds short.”

At first, Millie stands stoically, eyes downcast, but it isn’t long before she dissolves into tears. Every book, every shelf holds a memory, and she’ll have to say goodbye to them all—we all will.

“Why don’t you take a break,” I suggest. “Go get some coffee.” But like a captain clinging to her sinking ship, Millie refuses to relinquish the wheel and there’s no convincing her otherwise.

“There has to be something we can do,” she says before bolting to the back room in tears.