With Love from London(85)

“Ah,” Damian says, planting his elbow on the table as his face sinks into his palm. “But we were just getting to know each other.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe we can…all do this another time.”

“You okay?” Liza whispers as the cab arrives, which, apparently, they’re all squeezing into, along with another guy they ran into outside.

“Totally,” I say. “It was a fun night. I’m just super tired.”

“Gotcha,” she says. “Can we drop you off on the way? I’ll slide in next to Trina. There’s still room!”

“Thanks, but that’s okay,” I say. “I’m going to walk for a little bit, get some fresh air.”

“All right,” Liza says. “You be careful in that dress, now.”

I smile, waving as she climbs into the cab. When it speeds off, I release a long sigh and pull Liza’s wrap snugly around my body as I begin walking ahead, following the streetlights until I see a cab on the next block, which I flag down.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

“Berkeley Square,” I say immediately. Millie had mentioned the storied London park while we sorted books the other day. It was home to some of London’s oldest living trees, many dating back to the early 1700s, she said, but also one of my mother’s old haunts. I want to see it for myself.

A few minutes later, when I step out of the cab, I take in the trees’ enormous trunks, older than the very United States of America, in fact, and then it hits me—the song by Nat King Cole my mother used to play on the record player in our Santa Monica living room: “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

My father didn’t have the same affinity for the old tune, but I did, and I immediately hear the lyrics in my ears—and my heart: The moon that lingered over London town…how could he know we two were so in love, the whole darn world seemed upside down.

I glance up at a lamppost, as a bird—a nightingale?—takes flight into the dark sky above. I look down at my feet—Liza’s high heels are killing me—wondering if my mother had ever stood right here, in this very spot.

When I see a park bench ahead, I stop and sit, staring up at the sky. A hint of a constellation glows overhead, and I can’t help but feel like the stars came out tonight just for me.

It’s late, but Berkeley Square is abuzz. People meander past me on the pathway—a man and his dog, a hound of some sort, who presses his nose to the pavement as if he’s in the middle of a very serious foxhunt; a young couple stealing a few quiet moments while their baby snoozes in a stroller. I can’t help but notice that they seem to be arguing as a middle-aged woman immersed in a very intense run powers by, followed by a man with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I sit up when the light from the lamppost hits his face, squinting to get a better look.

When his eyes meet mine, he stops and smiles. “Valentina? Is that you?”

“Eric?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just out walking,” I say.

He grins. “In that dress?”

“It’s a long story. And it may involve me losing a bet.” I grin. “But hey, at least I can laugh at myself, right?”

He sits beside me, setting his bag on the ground. “I take it you saw the column.”

I nod.

“I hope you weren’t…offended.”

“On the contrary,” I reply. “I was flattered. What you wrote about the store, well, it meant so much to all of us. People have been calling in all day, making donations. It’s been overwhelming in the very best way.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“You should see the emails I’m getting. One person actually suggested you be knighted for your valiant efforts to restore humility to a city corrupted by overexalted egos.” He pauses, pulling out his phone. “And listen to this one.” I wait as he scrolls. “This reader describes you as a ‘beacon for our times,’ a ‘suffragette for the cause of literature.’?”

“Wow,” I say, smiling bigger. “As a humble librarian-turned-bookseller, I’m not sure I deserve those accolades.”

He nods. “You do.”

I kick off my heels and tuck my bare feet under my legs when he takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. “Here, please put this on. You must be freezing.”

“Thanks,” I say, “for the jacket, and for…what you did.” I pull his jacket around me. It still radiates the warmth from his body. “I wanted to call to thank you, but I didn’t have your number.”

“Please, no thanks necessary.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a card, which he hands to me. “And next time, you can just ring me up.”

“Okay,” I say, tucking the card into my purse. So, what are you up to tonight?”

“Oh, just heading home from the office.”

“At this hour?”

“Well,” he says. “Let’s just say I didn’t want to be anywhere near my flat today.”

“Why?”

“Fiona and I broke up; she came to collect her things today.”

“Oh no,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. This split has been in the making for two years now, and if I’m being honest, maybe even longer. We were never right for each other. We both knew that. I should have pulled the plug a long time ago, but definitely when she insisted that I replace all my light fixtures.”