Hers never did. I pick up an antique Deco bracelet of glass and silver. It’s as elegant as she was.
I look over at the bed. The smooth coverlet and fluffy pillows look fresh and inviting. Though my eyelids are heavy, I can’t help but notice the book on her bedside table. Its emerald cloth spine is impeccably preserved, as are its gilded-edged pages. I know it in an instant, of course. I’d long hoped to encounter a first edition of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, but had never had the opportunity. And now it’s in my very hands. I carefully fan the novel’s pages, wondering if this had been my mother’s final read before she passed, or if it had merely been a symbol to her, a mantra for the life she chose. Before I set the book down, a small envelope slips out from the pages’ clutches. I reach to pick it up, and see my name written in my mother’s elegant handwriting. Valentina, with the a at the end curling up into a perfect crescendo. As hard as I tried, I could never sign my name that way. My hands tremble as I tear the edge and pry out the card inside.
My dearest Valentina,
Welcome to London. I have so many surprises for you. Just wait. But first, I’m sending you on a little scavenger hunt. Remember how much you loved those? I did, too, and I learned from the very best.
I have so much to say, so much to show you. But first, I implore you to delve deep—to our last springs, summers, and autumns, but above all, our last winter.
Come find me. I’ll be waiting.
With love,
Mummy
I blink back tears, my heart racing with emotion—and questions. She knew. She knew I’d come here, to this room of her own. She knew I’d be drawn like a magnet to this book. I swallow hard, setting the card on the table, staring at it as if it had its very own pulse.
What on earth does she mean about delving deep—to past summers, springs, and winters? I’m too tired to make sense of any of it, too tired to think. I should gather my suitcases and find my way to the hotel, but I’m feeling increasingly weary, and I decide to lie down instead, just until this wave of jet lag passes. I pull back the covers, and slide into bed, my body pressed into the very place my mother had rested night after night—all the nights without me. I close my eyes. Just for a few minutes, I tell myself. Only a few minutes.
I’m dreaming.
I’ve just come home from school; Daddy is in his chair in the living room puffing a cigar and reading the newspaper, dated June 12, 1990. It’s both weird that he’s home so early, and even weirder that he’s smoking in the house. My mother would be furious. I look around the room, then out at the pool, but she’s not there, or anywhere. She’s probably just upstairs, I tell myself—though I know instinctively that she’s not. I can feel it. The house has that vacant, lonely way about it, like when she’s out to lunch or gone for the evening. But where is she? She promised we’d go to the mall to get my ears pierced when I got home from school.
I run to the kitchen, where I find Bonnie hunched over at the breakfast table, crying. Bonnie is our housekeeper. I’ve never seen her cry, and it frightens me. She looks up at me, startled. Neither of us knows what to say.
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask. “What happened? Where’s Mummy?” From the time I began to speak, that’s what I called her, and what she called her own mother. It was the British way.
Bonnie opens her mouth, but no words come out. Then she lowers her head again, continuing to weep.
“Daddy!” I run back to the living room. “Why is Bonnie crying? Where’s Mummy? What’s going on?”
He continues to puff his cigar, rocking back and forth methodically, even though the chair doesn’t rock.
“Daddy?” I start to cry, stomping my foot to get his attention. “Are you listening to me?”
“Valentina, that’s enough,” he says suddenly. The edges of his mouth quiver. “You’re too old to carry on like that. It’s time to get control of yourself now.” He extinguishes his cigar in an ashtray, turning to me again. “She’s gone. Your mother is gone. And she’s not coming back.”
I swallow hard, taking in what he’s just said. It can’t be true. They’ve only had a fight. He’s upset. He’s saying things he doesn’t mean. Mummy’s probably out shopping. She’ll be home soon, and it’ll all be fine. Everything will be fine.
Daddy walks over to me and sets his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, my sweet Valentine,” he says. “I’m so sorry. There’s no way for me to make this any easier for you.” He sighs, reaching for his car keys. “I have to go out for a bit, but Bonnie is here. She’ll be moving into the spare bedroom.”
I run to the kitchen again, throwing myself into Bonnie’s arms. I look up into her red, tear-filled eyes, eyes I’ve known my whole life, searching them for proof that what Daddy said isn’t true.
But it is, and it shakes me to my very core. It’s all true, terrifyingly true. Mummy is gone.
Bonnie reaches out to embrace me, but I bolt ahead, racing to Mummy’s bedroom, where I lock the door behind me and run to her closet—empty. When I open the cabinets in the bathroom, they’re completely bare. The drawers are, too, except for one. I reach inside and find a bottle of her trademark rose-scented perfume, which I spritz on my wrist, then breathe in. Did she merely forget to pack it, or, rather, leave it for me?
I want her to make me a bath and tell me, as she always does, “Cheer up, Charlie.”
“Mummy,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Where are you?”
London
January 12, 1968
As I dressed, I pictured Edward’s tall, handsome form. I remembered his curious mind—and the warmth of his touch.
He’s a romantic, I thought. Sophisticated.
The midnight-blue lace dress would be perfect. I’d only worn it once before—older, something I’d found on a sale rack at Harrods, but still stylish enough for dinner at the Royal Automobile Club.
In the hall closet, I smiled to myself when I noticed Edward’s jacket hanging on the rack, where I’d placed it last night. My own remained at the club, where I’d forgotten to retrieve it. I borrowed Millie’s coat instead, deciding to leave Edward’s on its hanger as ransom—an excuse to see him again after tonight.
Before departing, I poked my head into Millie’s bedroom, where I found her hunched over a thick law textbook. I said I was going out but didn’t dare say where. What would she think of me, returning to the Royal Automobile Club after last night’s disaster? I’d only told her about Roger and the women on his arms—oh, and the béarnaise sauce—but not a word about Edward.
Until I could believe he might be real, that we might be real, he’d be my secret.
* * *
—
It was already dark when I arrived at the club. I checked my coat with a woman in a pressed white shirt and black vest. She was about my age and looked a lot like the girls I went to school with, and perhaps she was, because she knew I didn’t belong here. I could see it in her eyes.
At the reception counter, I gave Edward’s name.
The greeter smiled warmly. “Miss Wilkins, hello. Mr. Sinclair is expecting you.” He handed me an envelope sealed with red wax imprinted with his initials: ES. When I touched my fingertips to the fine linen paper, my heart tremored a little, but even more so when I pulled out the note, and hand-drawn map inside.