I shake my head. “Wait, he could be a…”
“Serial killer!” Liza says, stealing the words from my mouth, then shaking her head. “But think about it, would Jack the Ripper really write such thoughtful things inside a book?”
“I guess not…”
“That’s right. Your Daniel is not a serial killer.” She pauses, as if hit with a sudden stroke of genius.
“My Daniel. I love how you’re really going for this.”
“You have to call him. Tonight. Right now.”
I wince.
“You know who would have loved this so much?” She smiles. “Your mum. And she would have taken my side.”
Her comment is like a slingshot to my heart. She’s right, of course, my mother would have loved every second of this literary mystery. And even though it will probably—no, definitely—lead nowhere, for some reason, I feel the sudden urge to pick up the phone. For Cezanne, the book’s heroine, for Liza, but, really, for me. It’s a silly, girlish thing to do, of course, but the mere idea of Daniel makes me feel—momentarily—light, when my heart has felt so heavy for so long.
I take a deep breath and punch the numbers into my phone.
“Here goes nothing,” I whisper.
One Month Later
May 16, 1968
The daffodils came, and then they went.
Frank petitioned right here in London to sponsor my immigration visa. We’d marry in California, and I’d become a lawful permanent resident of the United States. All that was left was to say goodbye to my homeland—and my best friend.
“Millie,” I said, knocking on her bedroom door. She appeared a moment later with a half-smile on her face. It was clear she’d been crying. “Frank’s driver will be here in a few hours. I still haven’t sorted through my closet. Can I talk you into lending me a hand?” It was less about needing her help, and more about needing her.
She nodded, looking into my eyes. “Oh, El, do you have any idea how much I’m going to miss you?”
“Millie,” I cried. “I’m going to miss you that much and more.”
She inhaled deeply. “It’s time I make peace with your decision, even if this is all so…hard for me.” She forced a smile. “Why can’t that thickheaded bloke of yours agree to settle down here?”
“I wish,” I said, blinking back tears. Millie already knew how hard I’d tried to convince Frank to relocate to London, but he was resolved that Santa Monica was his home, and that it would also be ours.
“California has no idea how lucky it is to be getting you,” Millie said, hugging me.
“It breaks my heart to leave.”
She shook her head. “No, I think this will be good for you. You’ve outgrown this old place, El. It’s time for a bigger pond, bigger stories.”
I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that I belonged right here, with her, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was failing her.
Since we were barely thirteen, all we’d talked about was the bookstore—our bookstore—the one we’d open someday, together, in a delectable, pastel-colored storefront in Primrose Hill. There’d be comfy chairs, reading nooks, and a fluffy, overfed cat who we’d pre-named Percival （Percy for short）。 Our customers would regard us as literary practitioners. Just like doctors prescribed medicine for physical ailments, we’d prescribe books for the soul. We had it all planned out and it would be…so perfect. Then I’d gone and ruined everything.
“Maybe someday,” I said to Millie, “we’ll still get that bookstore.”
She forced a smile, but her eyes were filled with regret, disappointment. “It was just a silly childhood dream. They don’t always come true.”
“No, Millie. It was our dream. It still can be.” I needed Millie to believe, for me.
She opened her mouth to speak again, but stopped when we heard a knock at the door. “That can’t be Frank,” I said. “He’s not supposed to be here until two.” I unhinged the lock, and the older, distinguished-looking man standing in the hallway outside our flat was, indeed, not Frank.
“Miss Wilkins?”
“Yes,” I said as he handed me an envelope with a wax seal on the back engraved with the letters E.S. And then he was gone.
Millie looked over my shoulder as I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card inside.
Eloise,
You disappeared, and now I must find you. But you’ll have to find me first.
Roses are red, violets are blue, imagine what you might discover inside a nearby shop filled with shoes.
I’ll be waiting.
With love,
Edward
“What is this?” Millie asked impatiently.
I didn’t have time to fill her in. “I’ll tell you later,” I said, my heart racing as I reached for my sweater on the hook by the door. “I have to go!”
“Eloise, wait!” But I didn’t stay a moment longer. I bolted down the stairs and out to the street. The local cobbler was just around the corner, and when I burst inside, the clerk at the counter’s smile confirmed that I’d found the right place. He handed me another envelope, sealed just like the last one, and I opened it immediately.
Eloise,
One step closer, congratulations. Do you remember the night we met? I do. I think about it every day. The memory, I believe, will be forever stitched on my heart, that is, unless you know of a good tailor.
Come find me,
Edward
Mr. Watson, the local tailor! I ran with pink cheeks to his storefront, but the door was…locked. “No, no, no,” I muttered, pounding on the door, then peering into the dark window, where a CLOSED sign hung against the glass.
“Edward!” I called out into the foggy street. Could he be here right now, watching me from the edge of a street corner? A moment later, a man approached—Mr. Watson, with a pastry in his hands. “Sorry, miss, I just stepped out for a quick bite. How can I help…” He paused, his eyes big. “Wait, are you the one—”
“Yes!” I said, reading his mind.
He unlocked the door quickly, and handed me the next envelope.
Eloise,
Checkmate. Now it’s time for something sweet—as sweet as you. You know where to find me.
Love,
Edward
Sweet? It had to be the bakery, which grumpy old Mrs. Burbank ran. Her scones were legendary, as was her perennially foul mood. When the church bells chimed, my heart beat faster. Frank would be arriving soon. I didn’t have much time, but the bakery wasn’t far, and I picked up my pace.
When I arrived, there was a line out the door, but I elbowed my way inside to the front and waved at Mrs. Burbank. “It’s Eloise,” I said as she eyed me with indifference. “I’m here to receive my message!” The irritated man behind me mumbled something incoherent.
“Look, lady,” the disgruntled baker barked. “I don’t know what on God’s green earth you’re talking about, but if you want something to eat, get in line.”
“Oh yes, right,” I said, deflated, slowly turning to the door, which is when I saw him. He stood outside, in front of the window, like a strong ship in rough waters, his eyes wild and an enormous smile across his face.