“Yes,” I said, feigning cheerfulness.
I took one last look at Millie before turning to follow Frank down the stairs. My legs felt leaden, and each step oozed of irony. I’d spent my whole life dreaming about the day I’d finally leave the East End, kissing my past goodbye, and now that it was happening…all I wanted was to stay.
“It’s ringing,” I whisper to Liza, my pulse racing after I dial Daniel Davenport’s number.
“Hello?” a youngish-sounding woman says. Her voice is urgent and perhaps even a bit annoyed, but it’s hard to tell over the commotion in the background—dishes rattling, water rushing from a faucet.
“Oh, um, hi,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry, uh, I was calling for…Daniel.”
“Daniel? Daniel who?”
I clear my throat. “Daniel Davenport.”
“Daniel Davenport, huh?” She laughs. “That’s a good one.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You’re calling for my ex, obviously,” she says. “Tell me, what kind of man gives out his home phone number when attempting to cheat on his girlfriend?” She sniffs. “Yeah, no cellphone—he missed too many payments. First it was Clyde Humphrey, then Ben Calloway, and now…What was it again? Oh yeah, Daniel Daven-whatever.” She laughs. “It’s not your fault, sweetie. I feel sorry for you, and all of the poor women he’s duped—including me. But now the joke’s on him.” I shake my head at Liza, who’s hanging on my every word. “He was arrested last week for mail fraud. They finally got him. Good riddance.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m…sorry. I…”
“Don’t be,” the woman replies. “Just learn your lesson like I did and don’t fall for a sociopath.”
“Yes, right,” I mutter. “Thank you.” I end the call quickly and set the phone down on the sofa, staring at it like it’s a stick of dynamite.
“So?” Liza asks, wide-eyed. “Tell me everything!”
“Wrong number.” I sigh. “Either that, or our Daniel Davenport is a cheating sociopath who is currently in prison.”
“Let’s go with the first scenario.”
I shrug.
“Don’t lose heart,” Liza says.
“I think I already have,” I say, yawning. “But for now, I need to get some sleep.”
Liza reaches for her sweater and casts me a cheeky smile from the doorway. “Good night, honey. May you have the most romantic dream about the handsome and mysterious Daniel.”
* * *
—
The next morning, while I don’t wake with fond memories of any particularly romantic dream, I do feel unusually steeped in a newfound sense of clarity—about the Book Garden. My mother’s life might remain a painful mystery to me, but she did create something beautiful, and worthwhile. I think of the customers who came into the shop the other day—Eric, in particular, even if his girlfriend is somewhat questionable. He practically came of age in the store! I’d witnessed how Jan at Café Flora was practically lit from within when she recounted the Book Garden’s important place in the community. If my career as a librarian had any meaning, this could have just as much—or more. How could I live with myself if I didn’t at least try to breathe some new life into the bookstore? As I fill the teakettle and set it on the back burner of the old stove, I reach for my phone and make some changes to my bio at @booksbyval. I delete “librarian” and “Seattle.” I can’t straddle two worlds; I must choose one, and I’ve made my choice. I should be sad, maybe? Instead, I feel a rush of pride when I type the new entry. Bookseller. The Book Garden. Primrose Hill, London.
This is the life that my long-lost mother has gifted to me. I have six months to make it mine.
* * *
—
The door bells jingle as I walk into the store. “Millie?” I call, out of breath, waking Percy, who stretches his legs in a sunny spot near the front window.
“Just a minute,” she replies from the back room.
A moment later, she appears, a bit disheveled, with a broom in her hand. “Wouldn’t you think bees would have better sense than to build their hive in a bookstore?” She shakes her head. “They got in through that blasted window again. It happens every year about this time. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed, and this is the price one pays for procrastinating.” She sets the broom against the back wall, but it stubbornly falls to the floor with a smack. “Next there’ll be hornets in the Hemingway section!”
“Sorry,” I say, stifling a laugh, as I detect a scratching sound coming from the back of the store. “Wait, what is that, certainly not bees?”
Millie rolls her eyes. “Percy! He thinks the corner bookcase in the history section is his personal scratching post.” She shoos him back to the window, then pauses for an elongated moment, studying my face before raising an eyebrow. “Your expression,” she says with a nod of certainty. “Your mother used to make the very same one when she was on the verge of something.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Millie holds up her hand to silence me. “Something’s brewing. I know it. Let’s just cut to the chase. You’re putting us out of business. You’re closing the store, selling the building. Go ahead. Just say it.”
I shake my head. “On the contrary, Millie, you could not be more wrong. I’m not selling the store. Quite the opposite, actually.”
She narrows her gaze, still unconvinced.
“Listen,” I continue. “When I first learned that my mother had left me her estate, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I hadn’t seen or heard from her since I was twelve years old. That’s a long time.” The familiar ache pulses inside, but I continue, pushing past the emotions. “I’ve carried a lot of hurt with me ever since. So yes, when I stepped off the plane, I didn’t feel all that nostalgic or warm.”
Millie listens as I continue. “But then I came here, to Primrose Hill, and saw the store with my own eyes. I met you and Liza, Jan, that quirky guy at the market with the—”
“Beret,” Millie adds, smiling as she finishes my sentence.
“And a fake French accent, if I might add.”
She nods. “It’s unequivocally fake.”
I smile. “But it fits, doesn’t it? It all fits. All of you. All of”—I pause, glancing around the store—“this. I guess what I’m saying is that…I’m not going anywhere. I can’t.” I catch her eyes, harnessing her gaze to mine. “I may never understand my mother’s past, but I’m going to fight for the Book Garden.”
Millie throws her arms around me. “I knew it!” she cries. “I knew you weren’t a bad apple!”
I hand her a tissue from the box on the counter and take one for myself.
“But it’s the estate tax, Millie,” I continue. “I only have six months to pay it, and I don’t have the cash. Now, if you’re willing to work with me, maybe get a little creative—”
I stop myself from where the conversation is heading. Yes, Millie is retired from her law career and might have the capital to help, but that would be a huge burden to put on my mother’s best friend. I decide to set the thought aside and help her shelve the new shipment of books, which is when I tell her about the intriguing comments in the copy of The Last Winter, and the wine-fueled evening with Liza where I mustered the courage （albeit, liquid courage） to dial the phone number written inside the cover.