With Love from London(90)

“He’s a columnist, not a playwright, my dear.”

“Well, either-or, I’m glad to hear that he’s rid himself of that awful woman.”

“Me, too,” I say, thinking back to our conversation last night. “He looked happy.”

A black town car pulls up in front of the bookstore—probably the same one I’d noticed driving by the other day, though I hadn’t mentioned it to Millie. Probably another real estate developer. They were circling like vultures.

When the car drives off, I sigh, directing my attention to the ringing phone.

“Is this Valentina Baker, by chance?”

“Speaking.”

“Ah, good. Ms. Baker, this is Bill Fairchild, your account manager at London Trust Bank.”

“Yes?”

“Ms. Baker, this is highly unusual, but we’ve just received a wire notice for your account.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes. It’s only half-past nine, and I’m already exhausted. “I don’t understand. Are you saying that a check was canceled?” It occurred to me that Millie might have paid a bill before the proceeds from the fundraiser cleared.

“No, ma’am,” he continues. “Actually, it’s just the opposite. There’s been a deposit into your account, and a pretty large one at that.”

“Hold on, what?”

“Ms. Baker, three hundred thousand pounds just posted this morning.”

“I’m sorry, is this some kind of joke?”

“I assure you; this is not a joke.”

“Who would have sent that kind of money?” I ask, my heart beating faster.

“There isn’t a name on the transfer slip, just an account number. I could look into it, if you like.”

“Yes,” I say, the news slowly sinking in. “Sir, do you know what this means for us? Do you know?” Millie and Liza hang on my every word, even if it’s only half of the conversation.

“Ma’am,” he says. “I do not. I’m merely a banker.”

“Well,” I continue, “you wonderful, magnificent, brilliant banker. You see, you’ve just informed me that our little bookstore here in Primrose Hill will be able to carry on. I could kiss you right now!” I lay a smooch on the phone’s receiver before hanging up and leaping over the counter. “Guess what?”

Liza grins. “You have the recipe for Café Flora’s cinnamon rolls, and they’re calorie-free?”

“Even better!” I cry. “Someone just wired three hundred thousand pounds into our account. Three hundred thousand pounds!”

Millie searches my face cautiously. “Is it true? The Book Garden will…survive?”

“Survive and thrive!”

Liza walks to the window, scooping up Percy, which is when the same black town car circles back again—and this time it parks out front. “Why don’t you people go piss off,” she says through the window.

“The nerve of them,” Millie says. But as the driver emerges and opens the passenger door, helping an older gentleman out onto the sidewalk, her eyes get big.

“Millie,” I say. “Who is that?”

The doorbells jingle as the distinguished older man walks inside. “Hello, Millie,” he says. His thin gray hair is neatly combed and his clothes freshly pressed. He’s handsome for an octogenarian, and has the appearance of someone who was probably even more so in his day.

Millie looks as if she’s seen a ghost, and perhaps she has. “It’s you.”

“I stayed away for far too long,” he says. “But even so, I was always near.”

“I take it you know that Eloise…passed.”

Liza and I exchange glances.

“Yes,” he says solemnly. “I was able to say my goodbyes.”

Millie swallows hard. “Oh…” Her voice trails off as she takes in his words, and his presence. “I’m…glad—for the both of you.”

He looks up to the ceiling when a few drops of water hit his shirt, and Millie sighs. “I’ll have to call a contractor. It looks like the pipes are leaking again.”

“Nothing the dry cleaner can’t remedy,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the faint outline of a…tattoo. The edges have blurred on his aging skin, but then it hits me. All of it hits me.

“The violin,” I say suddenly, my eyes meeting his. “You got the tattoo, because…you always wanted music in your ear, is that right?”

“That’s right, young lady,” he says with a smile.

“Edward?”

“Yes.”

“The man my mother loved.”

“Oh, and did I ever love her,” Edward says. “Eloise was the brightest star in my sky. She still is.

“You must be Valentina.”

I nod.

“You’re exactly as your mother described. Beautiful, like her. Kind eyes.” He nods. “You have her nose.”

“Do I?” I say, compulsively touching the tip of my nose.

“And oh, how she loved you.”

Hearing his words feels like the stamp of approval on an official document, one that I can file away and return to for proof, in moments when I need it most.