If there is, it’s foreign to me. The only options I see are sell and settle the estate debt, along with the looming tax bill, or defy the rules of logic and carry on.
Two impossible choices.
* * *
—
Café Flora is just ahead, and as I approach, I notice the climbing rose clinging to the building’s fa?ade—bare vines now, soon ready to burst into bloom. An assortment of large, terra-cotta containers bear evidence of last year’s dahlias, lavender, and roses. This is the location of my mother’s next strategically placed clue: Your next stop is culinary and close—where flowers grow.
As I walk inside the café, a middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up, brushing a wisp of auburn hair from her temple. I hadn’t noticed her when Liza and I stopped in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “We’re not open for lunch until eleven.”
“It’s okay,” I say, walking closer. The air smells of freshly baked bread and simmering garlic, and I suddenly feel hungry. “I’m here about…something else.” I introduce myself, and explain my mother’s mysterious notes.
“So, you’re the one and only Valentina,” she says, looking me over with a wide smile. “Your mother said you’d be coming.”
“She did?”
The woman nods. “I’m Jan. I own this place. This was one of your mum’s favorites. She loved our watercress grilled cheese.” Jan sighs, looking out into the empty dining room as if she can see my mother sitting by the window, daintily dipping her sandwich in a cup of tomato soup. I can picture it, too, somehow. “We all miss her. Very much.” She smiles, cinching the string of her apron. “But now we have you!”
“Uh, yes,” I say, swallowing hard.
“I can’t tell you how much I admire you for stepping into your mother’s shoes and keeping the Book Garden afloat. I don’t know what Primrose Hill would do without it. In some ways, it’s the heart and soul of our little neighborhood.”
My hands feel a little clammy, and I tuck them into the pockets of my jeans. I don’t tell her that the store’s future is in a precarious state. Instead, I smile, and show her the clue my mother left.
“Aha,” Jan says with a coy smile. “Your mum always had a bit of game in her, didn’t she?” She points to the bookshelf on the far wall. “It’s sort of like our little free library—where customers can leave or borrow books as they please. You have those in the States, right?”
“Oh yes,” I say, remembering the miniature house on the post I had installed by the curb in front of our home in Seattle. Nick had thought it was embarrassing, a “librarian” thing to do. But I loved it—so much. I’d search used-book stores for copies of my favorite titles—children’s books, too—and tuck them into the little library, then perch in the chair by our living room window, and watch people stop and select a title, or leave one of their own to share.
I dart ahead, to the Primrose Hill equivalent, where a sign reads TAKE ONE, LEAVE ONE. HAPPY READING.
“It was all your mum’s doing,” Jan says, looking on as I survey the fourth shelf from the bottom, just as the note had instructed. But after a thorough inspection of each title, my search comes up empty, and I turn around. “Maybe I’m missing something? There’s nothing here.”
“Ah yes,” Jan says. “Check the far right corner of that shelf a little closer.”
I follow her instructions, and immediately notice a small hinge that practically blends into the shelf’s wooden backdrop. I give it a little push, and a tiny door opens, revealing a hidden compartment behind the shelf—just large enough to hold a single book—in this case, a well-loved （and by that, I mean, sufficiently tattered） copy of Little Women. I hurriedly flip through the book’s pages until I find the card inside and eagerly tear the envelope open.
Valentina,
Congratulations on reaching your third clue, my darling girl. Please hug Jan for me. （And if you’re ever feeling under the weather, have her make you her famous chicken soup. It is THE antidote.） I hope you’re falling in love with Primrose Hill as much as I did when I first laid eyes on it. Isn’t it magnificent?
Now, for your next clue, and please, listen carefully: While I may not be there to dry your tears, there are bighearted people in this neighborhood who are. Think of them as your family, because they were to me. When you need comfort, turn to them, and curl up in the nursery and listen as the old lady whispers, “Hush.” I’ll be waiting.
Love, always and forever,
Mummy
“I take it you found your clue?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“It’ll get easier in time,” she says.
“No, really,” I reply. “I’m…fine.”
“Honey, you’re not fine, and that’s okay. I lost my mother, too—five years ago. Grief comes in fits and spurts. One day you’re on the top of the world; the next you’re drowning in a puddle of tears.”
“I don’t think you understand,” I say, steadying myself. “My mother left when I was twelve years old. I…never saw her again before she…passed.”
“I know,” she says. “It’ll all be okay in time. You’ll see.”
“Well,” I say with a sigh. “I should go. You have the lunch crowd to prepare for.”
“Listen,” Jan says before I turn to the door. “I don’t doubt that you’ve been through a lot—more than I can possibly imagine—but I do know that your mum loved you ever so much.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching out to embrace her, remembering my mother’s note.
Please hug Jan for me.
“That’s from…my mum.”
* * *
—
Shortly after six p.m., Liza pokes her head in the door of my flat. “Just checking to make sure you’re still with the living,” she says. “Jet lag is tough.”
“Alive and kicking,” I reply, telling her about my visit to Café Flora and the headway I’d made with Millie as I open the bottle of red I’d purchased at the market. I pour us each a glass.
“Millie conquered? Check. Third clue? In progress. Next up: finding you a love interest.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that Millie is unconquerable. And I do appreciate your sentiment, but men are the last thing on my priority list at the moment.”
“I know,” Liza concedes. “I’m just trying to think of creative ways to get you to feel at home here. Can you blame me for wanting to have a fun new friend upstairs—who also happens to be my landlord?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I may not be her landlord for long. “You’re sweet,” I say instead. “And I do really like it here, but if anything could anchor me to London, it wouldn’t be a man. Honestly, I think the only men who stand a chance of capturing my attention are the fictional variety.”
She laughs. “Given my dating track record these days, I’m inclined to agree with you. There is no better man than one found in a novel.”
“Right? Why is that?”