With Love from London(98)

“It was,” I say, though I remained rather unfazed. When he left for India, Daniel and I agreed to go our separate ways, and I hadn’t thought about him much at all over the past year.

“Maybe the story isn’t over for you two,” Liza says, glancing over from her flock of poinsettias.

“I think it is,” I say with a shrug. “But that’s okay.” And it was. For the first time since I could remember, I felt happy. Perfectly happy. I’d just completed a light remodel of the third-floor flat—repainting the kitchen, updating the appliances, and retiling the bathroom. Over the months, I read Mummy’s letters, every one of them. They offered the greatest gift of all—healing. I finally understood her, and when I looked up at the stars at night, I prayed she understood me, too. Everything finally felt as if it had found its place, including me.

“Shoot,” Millie says, fumbling beneath the desk. “Where’s my mind? I was going to ask Fernando to take a box of books over to Mrs. Wilson this afternoon. She’s been ill, and her special order came in yesterday.”

I reach for the box, eyeing the address. “That’s not too far, is it?”

“More or less.”

“Don’t worry, I can bring it over to her later,” I say. “I planned on taking a walk today.”

“Thanks, honey. She’ll be grateful. But bundle up. I hear there’s snow in the forecast.”

I glance out the window, smiling at the thick clouds rolling in. “I hope so.”



* * *



—

Around three, I lace up my boots and tuck a scarf around my neck, just in case, then reach for a tote bag hanging on the hook by my door. I tuck my wallet and Mrs. Wilson’s package inside, then sling it over my shoulder and set out down the street, waving at John in the bakery, and Jan in the window of Café Flora. Life could bring joy or sorrow, and a million twists and turns, but it comforted me knowing that Primrose Hill would remain unchanged, down to its pastel-colored soul.

I greet Mrs. Wilson on her front porch. She looks pale, but her expression warms when I hand her the box of books. It warms me, too.

I walk ahead, the cold air kissing my cheeks. If I take a slightly different return route, I can follow Prince Albert Road to Primrose Hill park. I notice a café on the next block, and I decide to stop in for a coffee and the chance to thaw my chilly fingers.

“You look like someone who could use a warm drink,” says an older man behind the counter.

“Yes, please,” I say, ordering a cappuccino. As I reach into my bag for my wallet, I notice a stowaway inside—The Last Winter—and I realize I’d completely forgotten about it. I sit down in a chair by the window, fanning the pages. It feels good to be reunited with an old friend, even if “Daniel” didn’t quite turn out as I’d expected.

I sip my coffee, thinking about the last year, and my mind turns to Eric. I’d seen him a few times, when he’d stopped in to the bookstore on occasion, but it has been months since his last visit. I knew from reading his columns that he was on assignment in France, but it wasn’t clear if he’d returned to London yet. Then I remember that he’d given me his card. I have it in my wallet somewhere, so I have a look, and sure enough, there it is, hiding behind the old Amex card Nick and I used to share. I make a mental note to cut it up at home.

Eric Winston, columnist, it reads. His cell is printed on the bottom line, and without giving it a second thought, I spontaneously dial the number. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hi Eric, it’s Valentina,” I say.

“Valentina, hi! How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. I don’t know why, but you just crossed my mind…and I wanted to call to say hi. Are you back from France?”

“I’m so glad you did,” he says, “and yes, I’ve been home for three weeks now. What are you up to?”

I look out the window as people pass on the sidewalk, watching a little girl—no more than three—skipping along in pink rain boots, clutching her mother’s hand. How lucky she is, I think, to be able to hold her mother’s hand. “Reminiscing, you could say. I was out walking after dropping off some books for a customer, and I popped in to a little café up on the hill.”

“What café?”

I peer at the sign on the wall. “Greenberry Café.”

“You’re kidding me,” he says. “My flat’s just around the corner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I could…come by and say hi, if you’re not leaving soon?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I’d love that.”

A few minutes later, the café door creaks open, letting in a blast of cold air. I shiver as I glance at the door. Eric sees me immediately and smiles, slowly unwrapping his wool scarf.

“Hi,” he says, pausing to order a coffee from the counter before sliding into the chair beside me.

“Hi,” I say. His green eyes glisten under the café’s lights.

“How’ve you been?”

I tell him about the bookstore, my mother’s letters, then ask him about his time in France, which he describes as equal parts beautiful and lonely. The Times put him up in a flat in Montmartre to write an eight-part series about English-French relations. I don’t divulge that I’ve been reading his columns.