“Give him time, dear,” she said. “Mr. Baker can be set in his ways at times, but he’s a generous man, and he loves you. He’ll come around.”
I wanted to believe Bonnie, desperately so, but I struggled to understand. If he professed to love me, as he did, wouldn’t he choose to support my dreams instead of disregarding them? But no, I feared that I knew something about Frank that Bonnie didn’t: When he made a decision, it was final.
“Anyway,” I said with a sigh as she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, “it’s okay.”
“It’s late, dear,” she replied. “Being a hostess is hard work. You need rest. The sun will shine tomorrow.”
It reminded me of something my mother—the ultimate optimist—would have said, even in spite of her own troubled life. Yes, the sun would shine tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and I’d continue on the hamster wheel, pretending to be happy, pretending that everything was fine…pretending.
“Yes,” I said with a yawn. “I should probably turn in.” But I couldn’t shake what I’d overheard Gabrielle whispering at the table. I didn’t dare bring it up with Frank, but I wondered if Bonnie could provide some reassurance.
I stood up, turning to the kitchen door before glancing back to her. “There’s just one more thing,” I said. “During dinner, one of the women said something that was…rather strange.”
“Oh?”
“I probably misheard, and perhaps they were referring to another person entirely, but Gabrielle and Connie were talking about another woman, and it sounded like…Frank’s first wife.”
Bonnie’s eyes widened.
“Which is ridiculous, right? Frank wasn’t married before. Surely he would have told me if he was.” I searched Bonnie’s eyes for validation, but didn’t find any. “Wait, is it true?” I paused, my pulse quickening, as Bonnie turned to the kitchen sink, her back to me.
“Bonnie, please, I have to know.”
“And you deserve to,” she said, shifting to face me, her eyes filled with regret. “But…it isn’t my place.”
“But if not you, then who?”
She nodded hesitantly, her expression troubled and pensive. “All right,” she finally said with a sigh. “Please, dear, sit.” I slid back into the chair as the muscles in my stomach tensed and the pain I’d felt earlier returned, but this time, more intensely. Still I kept my eyes focused on Bonnie’s, not wanting to miss what she was about to say.
“Mr. Baker was married once, a long time ago,” she began. “Shame on those women. They were cruel to her, too.”
I shook my head as the tears welled up. Suddenly Frank’s moods, the unexplained distance—it all started to make sense. In London, I was a fantasy, but in California, only a square peg that, try as he might, didn’t fit into the round hole—the gaping hole—left by the woman in his past. I was not her, and would never be. Nothing I could do or say would be good enough. “But, Bonnie, why didn’t he tell me?”
“Dear one,” Bonnie said, pulling me to her ample chest. “He would have, when he was ready.”
I tried to picture her, this woman I knew nothing about, other than the fact that she once occupied the bed I shared with Frank. Was she beautiful? Accomplished? Did she break Frank’s heart? I wanted to ask Bonnie a thousand questions, but I chose only one.
“Does he still love her?” I closed my eyes tightly, as if instinctively protecting myself from what Bonnie might say. I’d gone from being casual about Frank’s love to desperately needing it. And I needed it more than ever when the pain in my stomach radiated to my lower back, releasing a slow trickle of warm liquid that ran down my legs.
“Eloise,” she continued as I noticed a patch of bright crimson soak through the edge of my dress. Blood. “Diane died five years ago in a car accident. She was pregnant.” She paused, swallowing hard as I clutched my belly. “Frank was at the wheel.”
“You ready?” I say, poking my head into Liza’s flat the next morning. We’d agreed to set out for Regent’s Park at nine, and I wait in her doorway as she laces up her sneakers.
It’s a sunny day, and the park is only a ten-minute walk, so we set out on foot. “I packed a blanket and picked up some treats from Café Flora this morning. We can have a picnic.”
“Great,” Liza says. “I’m starving.”
As we walk, she points out various places, including her ex-boyfriend’s flat （his name is Earl and she despises him）， along with her favorite pubs, and an old church with a pointy steeple that she tells me she’ll get married in someday—when she finds the man of her dreams, of course. I smile to myself as she chatters on about this and that, until we find the entrance to the park. A gravel, tree-lined pathway deposits us on the edge of a large lawn, buzzing with activity, mostly children playing and a handful of people flying kites. The scene reminds me of Mary Poppins’s mythical chalk-art excursion.
“Look at the photographers over there,” Liza says, pointing ahead. “It might be a celebrity.”
I eye the photoshoot in progress, where a blond woman sits on a stool in a pink sequined evening gown, which looks jarringly out of place against the backdrop of the park, but maybe that’s the idea? Her hair is swept up in a loose bun, and when she turns in our direction to adjust her necklace, I recognize her immediately—but not because she’s the celebrity Liza had hoped. “Wait, I think I know that person.”
“You do?”
I nod. “It’s…Fiona. She’s the girlfriend of this guy who came into the store recently—Eric.”
Liza shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve met him.”
I watch as a stylist smooths a flyaway from Fiona’s temple. “He grew up coming to the bookstore. He knew my mother. Anyway, his girlfriend, Fiona, isn’t really a reader, and he is, so he asked me to help him find something to entice her.”
“That’s adorable,” Liza says. “I’m telling you, a man who thinks of special things like that is rare in this world.”
“Well, I hope she found the book as special as his gesture.” We continue on, but when Fiona waves at me, I pause and walk over to her.
“Valentina, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “And this is my friend Liza.”
“Hi,” she says, her expression feigning embarrassment, though it’s obvious that she’s someone who likes the attention. “How funny do I look in this gown in the middle of the park?”
“It’s…gorgeous,” I say.
“Well, when D Magazine asked to feature me in a cover shoot, I had no idea it would entail freezing my ass off in a ballgown.” She smiles at the photographer.
“D Magazine?”
“Design Magazine,” she says. “It’s the most important interior design publication. Everyone reads it. Oh but, right, you’re not in the design world—duh!”
“Right,” I say, smiling mechanically. “Well, congratulations, on the cover. That’s a…a huge accomplishment.”