With Love from London(86)

I laugh cautiously. “Yeah, that did seem a bit strange.”

“Trust me,” he says. “Strange is an understatement. I haven’t even told you about the refrigerator.”

“The refrigerator?”

“It would take an hour to explain, and it would be very, very boring.” He shakes his head. “And confusing. Did you know that there are sixteen different appliance brands that don’t contain ice makers with filtered water?”

I laugh. “Oh dear. That bad, huh?”

He nods. “Let’s just leave it at that.” He looks up at the sky, tracing the faint outline of a constellation overhead with his finger. “It’s like I’ve been living in this weird, hazy dream where I have to tiptoe around in my own flat.” He exhales deeply. “I can finally breathe again.”

I smile. “Well, then I’m happy for you. But I know it’s never easy.” I follow his eyes up to the sky, thinking about the papers I’d signed, scanned, and emailed back to my attorney earlier. “My divorce was just finalized today.” It feels cathartic to say that, even better to have it all behind me.

“Sorry,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Great, even. Like you describe, I can see clearly now.”

He looks up at the sky again. “If it were spring, we’d be able to see Virgo, the maiden.”

“Who?”

“The constellation,” he continues. “She’s a rather reclusive old girl, only shows her face when she wants you to see her.” He turns to me. “When I was a kid, I found this old book in my granny’s attic. And by old, I mean old. It was printed in the eighteenth century.” My eyes widen as he continues. “Each page described a different constellation. But Miss Virgo is special.” He smiles at me. “She brings good luck and calm in a storm. Maybe she’s looking out for you right now.”

I study his face. “You really believe that stuff?”

Eric shrugs. “I believe in science—and stories.”

“I do too,” I say, feeling a shiver creep up the back of my neck.

“Where’s Daniel?” he asks suddenly.

“In Scotland—working on a film project. But he’s coming home in the morning. I’m meeting his parents for dinner tomorrow.”

“Wow,” he says.

“Should I be worried?”

“I haven’t met them, but I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Daniel’s a great guy.”

He is, I think.

“I’m happy for you two.”

“Thanks.”

He glances at his watch. “All right, Miss America. I have to get going, but we should find you a cab.” We walk back to the street, where he hails a taxi. The driver flashes his lights and drives to us.

I slip off his jacket and hand it to him. “It was good running into you tonight,” I say, climbing into the cab and rolling down the window.

“To think, of all the people in London, our paths happened to cross. Now if you don’t call that a bit of stardust luck, I don’t know what is.”

I grin. “Stardust luck. I like that. Maybe fodder for your next column?”

“Definitely a contender,” he says, grinning back as the car starts down the street.

When I feel my phone buzz, I find a text from Daniel. “Hi from Scotland. Missing you.”

I turn to look out the back window to wave at Eric once more, but he’s already disappeared into the starlit night.





Two Months Later



“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Charles Dickens wrote in the famous opening of A Tale of Two Cities.

He was referring to Paris and London, of course. But in my life, Los Angeles stood in for Paris, and London? Well, that would be Frank’s petition for divorce.

It came quickly—far faster than I could have imagined. The vile papers were delivered by a courier to Millie’s flat, on an otherwise lovely Tuesday afternoon.

“Eloise Baker?” asked the man standing in the doorway.

“Yes,” I said, confused as he handed me a thick envelope.

I was served, Millie explained—and, oh, was I served. Frank seemed to regard me like one of the failing businesses he so expertly targeted then eliminated. But this was a new kind of warpath, and it cut deep. Never mind the fact that he’d petitioned the judge to cut me out of any spousal support or alimony, citing my non-citizen status, it was the pages about Valentina that broke my heart. He’d referenced my “abandonment” as justification for full custody, with no visitation rights, in addition to requesting the court restrict Val’s travel out of the United States. Frank’s legal petition was the ultimate blow, and if he prevailed, I might never see my daughter again.

“Millie!” I screamed, my hands trembling.

She came quickly, taking the bundle from me, then confirming what I already knew. “He’s gone nuclear.”

The attorney in Mayfair I’d been talking to, a friend of Millie’s from law school, had feared this very thing, though I refused to believe Frank could stoop to such levels. But he did, and every weapon in his arsenal, it seemed, was deployed and laser-focused on me.

“What am I going to do?” I cried, slumping over on the couch.