Liza shrugs. “Because they don’t exist in real life.”
“Or maybe they do?” I counter. “And you’ve just been looking in the wrong places?”
“You mean, I should give up on bad boys and go out with a sensible accountant or something?”
“Yeah!”
She shakes her head. “No thanks. I’d die of pure and utter boredom.”
“Well, speaking of men in books,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “When I met my husband—my ex-husband—I actually believed that he was a modern-day Mr. Darcy.” I shudder at the words, embarrassed at my naivete. “I mean, I did. I really did. I thought he was this aloof romantic hero, rough around the edges, yes, but with a solid heart—a gentleman’s heart. And then, well…how wrong could I have been?”
Liza places a hand on my arm. “Don’t feel bad, honey. I once fell for a man who had a pet monkey. He actually had a whole act, with a banana bit, that he did on Oxford Street on Saturday afternoons.”
I burst into laughter. “Dear Lord.”
“He told me that it was just a side gig to pay the rent while he finished his master’s degree,” she says. “But I later found out that he lied about that, oh, and also, he lived on his mate’s couch. Can you believe I fell for that?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “I can’t.”
She cringes. “The monkey was lovely, though—a total sweetheart. His name was Charles.”
Liza’s eccentric monkey-trainer boyfriend reminds me of my own dating disasters in college, before I met Nick, who, ahem, also turned out to be a disaster. I try to remember what Joan Rivers wrote in her memoir. It was something like “Don’t take life too seriously. No matter what, just laugh because at the end of the day, it’s all funny.” I can’t recall the exact quote, and if I tried to recite it, I’d butcher it, for sure. But the sentiment rings true. If only it were that easy—to just laugh at all the absurdity, from my failed marriage to my mother’s dual exit from my life.
“It’s good to see you laughing,” Liza says.
“I’m trying, but…I’m not all there yet.”
She squeezes my hand. “I know.”
“I mean, one moment I’m laughing, and the next”—I pause, feeling the familiar lump in my throat—“I’m on the verge of tears.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m going crazy?”
“Val, you’re not going crazy. You’re just going through a lot. It’s normal to feel all the feelings.”
I nod. “You want to hear something that’s a bit crazy?” I reach for the marked-up copy of The Last Winter on the coffee table and point out the notes in the margins on one of the pages. “His name is Daniel, and…I don’t know…he has the most insightful things to say about the story. It’s like we’re the same mind, or something.”
She flips through the book, reading a few of the entries, before placing her hand to her heart. “Val, this is…so romantic,” she gushes. “You have a crush on a man you’ve discovered in a book!”
“Now, let’s not get carried away,” I say with a laugh. “I do not have a crush on him.”
“Well, what would you call it, then?”
I look up at the ceiling, collecting my thoughts. “I’d call it a common interest. Or maybe a kinship.”
“A kinship,” Liza says, completely straight-faced before cracking up. “I thought you said this was a mystery, not an origin story.”
“Kinship, kindred spirits, whatever,” I say, laughing at myself, though I have L. M. Montgomery to blame for my preference for old-fashioned word choices. I was obsessed with Anne of Green Gables as a girl. Fact: I even begged my parents to let me dye my hair red.
“So, this kindred spirit of yours,” she continues. “Stay with me here…what if he’s actually your soulmate?”
I think of Nick and all his broken promises. “I really don’t believe in soulmates—at least, not anymore.”
“Girl!” Liza continues. “That’s like saying you don’t believe in Santa, or…fairies!”
“Liza, you do realize what will happen if you tell people you believe in fairies. Or, good Lord, Santa.”
She brushes off my comments as she flips through the book another time. “What did you say this guy’s name was again?”
“Daniel,” I reply, my heart beating a little faster. “His name is Daniel.”
She nods, simultaneously finding his name on the inside cover of the book. “Daniel Davenport. Ooh la la! And look, his number is written right here. I insist that you call him!”
I grimace. “No way. Besides, he’s probably married. Or deceased. Or maybe he’s not even the one who wrote those notes?”
Liza nods. “True. If I’ve learned anything from living above a bookstore all these years, it’s that the life of a book can be the craziest journey.”
I pour us each more wine, spilling a drop on the coffee table, which I wipe up with the edge of my napkin. “What do you mean?”
“Well, your mother called it a journey, but Millie prefers the term ‘life span,’？” she continues, sitting up. “Which is actually a pretty brilliant example of their different personalities, but that’s for another conversation. Anyway, Eloise used to say that a book—particularly, a very good one—is likely to pass to an average of seven readers in its life, sometimes more.”
“Yes!” I say, remembering my mother recounting those very same sentiments. “When I was a child, she used to frequent estate sales in our neighborhood and try to imagine the people who had once owned the vintage jewelry or rare books she’d find. Their joys and sorrows. The stories of their lives.”
“Tell me more about your mum when she was in California,” Liza asks cautiously.
But instead of closing up again, I remember my mother’s reminder to keep my heart open, so I try. My memories are random and disconnected, but they spill out in a cadence all their own. I tell Liza how she’d only get her hair cut on a full moon （one of her superstitions）， how she’d taken up the habit of pressing flowers between the pages of her favorite novels （little surprises to find later）。
Liza nods. “She really did live life with a flair all her own, didn’t she? She had a gift for finding beauty tucked away in the most unexpected places.” She picks up The Last Winter again, and grins. “And maybe you’ll find Daniel in the same sort of way.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “He could be anyone. I mean, what if he’s like nineteen years old? I may be a divorcee, but I assure you, I am not a cougar.”
She laughs. “Suit yourself. I rather like younger men.”
“Well, I don’t. And even if he is…age-appropriate…he could also be…really…old! What if those notes in the book were written in, like, oh my gosh, 1953?”
“What’s wrong with older men?”
“Okay, point taken: You like all men.”
She laughs. “That’s probably true.”