Liza frowns. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Listen, about that tour you promised me,” I say, quickly steering the conversation away from Nick. “Still up for it? Also, I could seriously use some coffee right now.”
“Sure,” Liza says. “We’ll stop at Café Flora first. I saw Jude Law in there the other day.”
“The actor?”
“Yes, otherwise known as Mr. Hot Stuff. He lives in the neighborhood. A lot of celebrity types do. He made eye contact with me when I was in line. I’m pretty sure he wants me. But, sadly, he’s really not my type.” She brushes a smudge off her glittery Doc Martens. “Though, if you’re interested, rumor has it that he’s presently single.”
I smile, stepping into the bedroom to change clothes. “Thanks, but dating is the last thing on my mind right now,” I say through the doorway.
“That’s what you say now, but just you wait.” She smiles as we make our way out to the street. “I know you’re probably anxious to see the store, but take it from me, Millie and mornings don’t mix well.”
“Millie?” The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“You don’t know her?”
I shake my head.
“She was your mum’s best friend,” Liza says, looking at me curiously. “She’s been running the store since…Eloise got sick. I mean, they started it together, but Millie was already working as a barrister. She turned things over to Eloise years ago, from what I understand.”
I nod.
“Anyway, you said you needed coffee. Let’s start there first. We can circle back to the bookstore after I show you around the neighborhood. Millie will be in better spirits by then.”
Café Flora is only a few blocks down the street, with its blue awning and bistro tables in front. As we walk inside, a blast of warm, delicious-smelling air hits my face. I order a cinnamon roll and double espressos for both of us while Liza flirts with the heavily inked guy behind the counter, admiring the snake tattoo twisting around his forearm.
“So, what do you do—for work?” I ask as we sit down at a table by the window, remembering yesterday’s tense phone call with her boss.
“I’m a personal assistant,” she says moodily, “to a dictator.”
I raise an eyebrow. “As in the Kim Jong-un variety?”
“Might as well be,” she says, taking a sip of her espresso. “He invented some obscure tech widget ten years ago that made him richer than God himself, and he pays me a pittance to run his life—you know, get him theater tickets, pick up his dry cleaning, trim the toenails of his boyfriend’s poodle, act as his personal punching bag when he’s had a bad day.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She waves at a woman she recognizes, then turns back to me. “Anyway, the job was only supposed to be temporary. Seven years later, and look who’s still fetching laundry.
“How about you? What do you do in…？”
“Seattle,” I add. “I was a librarian and bookstagrammer, and now I guess I’m a…bookseller.”
Liza beams. “With your experience, you’ll be a godsend to the store! That is, if you can talk Millie into making some changes.”
“Tell me more about her.”
“Millie,” Liza says, pausing, “is wonderful, but she can be a tough mountain to climb. She loves those she loves, and the rest? Well, Lord help them.”
I swallow hard. “You said she and my mother were good friends? It’s been so long, but I think I remember hearing about her when I was little.”
Liza nods. “Childhood friends, yes. She and Millie opened the bookstore together, though she had her own law career to manage. But when your mum got sick, she’d recently retired, and was able to step in to help.”
“That’s kind of her,” I say. “But now that I’m here, I can…manage things.”
“Easier said than done,” Liza says. “It might take a certified Parliament inquisition to get her to leave.” She pauses, looking at me quizzically. “The Book Garden is all she has left of your mum, and she’s fiercely protective of it.”
I can’t tell if Liza is merely filling me in, or giving me a thinly veiled warning.
“It’s a shame you never came to visit,” she says. “Before she…passed.”
“Listen,” I say a bit defensively. “My relationship with my mother was…complicated. If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not go into it.”
“Right,” she says quickly. “I get it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Shall we continue the tour?”
Her expression softens again as we walk outside and continue on. “Besides Café Flora, there’s a lovely little Italian spot that’s open for lunch and dinner—Bottega—and Chutney’s, the curry house around the corner. They actually have the most amazing salads.” She pats her rear end. “Which I should eat more of if I ever want to rid myself of these twelve pounds.” I grin as we pass a food market, which she tells me is the closest grocer to the flat. “Get your bread at Le Petit Bakery, that is, if you Americans eat that sort of thing anymore. Didn’t the entire country declare war on carbs, or something?”
“Not me,” I say. “I surrendered.”
“It’s the practical English blood in you,” she says, pointing out the local hardware store, followed by a hair salon and an ice cream shop, where she tells me I must sample their caramel custard flavor.
When a couple approaches us on the sidewalk ahead, she waves. He wears a black leather jacket and combat boots; she has short bleached blond hair and a nose ring. “This is Valentina,” she tells them, introducing George and his girlfriend, Lilly. George is in a band, I learn, which will be playing tomorrow night at a nearby pub. Liza assures them she’ll be there.
“You should come with me!” she says after they’ve gone.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure it’ll be quite…my scene.”
“Nonsense. You’re coming. Besides, I need some backup. Lilly stole him from me, and she knows it. I want to make her squirm a little.”
I listen to the details of that story as we continue down a street lined with pastel-colored townhouses, boutiques, galleries, and cafés. “And don’t forget Regent’s Park is just up the way,” she adds. “It’s a great place to have a picnic—or fly a kite, not that I’m trying to get all Mary Poppins on you.”
“Noted,” I say, smiling, as I reach for my phone ringing in the bottom of my bag. I dig it out, see that it’s James Whitaker from Bevins and Associates, and send it to voicemail. I’m in no mood to deal with the dreary details of my mother’s estate, at least not now. I’d much rather go to the park, and maybe fly a kite.
* * *
—
We arrive at the bookstore shortly after noon. It’s cozy and effortlessly charming, like a page torn from a beloved anthology of nursery rhymes, with no shortage of floor pillows, ottomans, tufted chairs, and sofas where you can sit down with a book and stay awhile. I imagine my mother walking into this empty space for the first time, a blank canvas for her imagination, before settling on the blue velvet drapes （she’d always loved sapphires）， the crystal chandelier dangling above the entryway, the vibrant Turkish rugs that soften the wide-plank wood floors, even the bells on the handle of the door—it is all her.