“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”
My sweet daughter, do you agree?
Come find me. I’ll be waiting.
Love,
Mummy
July 12, 1977
I held the vintage string of pearls to the nape of my neck, eyeing my reflection in the window. Nine years had passed since I moved to L.A., and, in some ways, little had changed since I stepped off that airplane. California still felt as strange as it did then. I’d thought about that earlier this morning as I took a cab to the ritzy Pacific Palisades neighborhood for an estate sale that had gotten a lot of buzz in the newspaper—and judging by the assortment of treasures I’d found, for good reason. In fact, it took all my self-restraint to stifle my excitement when I’d discovered a beautifully preserved copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast that even bore the faint mark of the author’s signature on the title page.
“That necklace looks stunning on you,” a fellow bargain-hunter said, catching my eye. “Definitely, get it. Your husband will think you’re a goddess.”
I smiled at the kind stranger, but she had no idea how wrong she was. There was no necklace on earth, I feared, that would make Frank think I was a goddess.
I’d come to Los Angeles as a young bride, hopeful that I’d made the right choice, even if it was my only one. The pregnancy bound us together, replacing my hesitation with duty, which remained even after the miscarriage and its onslaught of pain. Frank and I grew increasingly distant, and yet, somehow, the chains that bound us together were tighter still. It made no difference if I’d left my heart in London. We’d created a life together, and lost it. For that, our lives would be forever entwined
Frank was appalled when I suggested the baby—a boy—be cremated. At the time, things were so bad between us that I considered filing for divorce and imagined taking his ashes home with me—to London. But Frank insisted that his son be buried in a plot beside his parents—and first wife—in a local cemetery, and that was that. I was too heartbroken and weak to argue, and I was still bleeding at the burial. A part of him—Frank, Jr.—was still leaving my body as the tiny casket was lowered into the earth.
After that, we didn’t argue much, nor did we really speak at all. We merely floated—passing each other in the house like ghosts in the night, each so haunted by the past that we were unable to remain in the present.
I paid for my estate sale purchases—including the pearl necklace—then caught a cab back home thinking about something Bonnie had said to me years ago. “Grief is a treacherous journey, but it doesn’t last forever.”
What if she’s wrong? I asked myself, lying by the pool later that day. What if it does last forever?
I looked up from the chaise longue when I heard the front door open and close. “Bonnie?” I said, squinting at the sliding door, confused because it was Tuesday—her day off.
Instead, it was Frank, and his appearance on the patio startled me. “I thought you’d already left for Hong Kong,” I said, sitting up. The two-week trip had been on the calendar for months, and, as I understood, with an imminent business merger, it was a very important one.
“Darling,” he said softly, sitting down beside me. “I…canceled the trip.”
I adjusted the right shoulder strap of my new blue bikini. “Why?”
“Eloise,” he continued. “We need to talk.”
This is it. He’s going to suggest we divorce.
I imagined myself packing. It wouldn’t take long—I’d only bring the essentials. It would sting, of course, like the final opus of a tragic opera, but at least I’d have an ending. And I could finally go home. Of course, I’d have to make a new life for myself. I had nothing waiting for me there, except for Millie. She had a flat and a successful career as a barrister. I could stay with her until I got back on my feet. It would be like old times, as if I’d never even been to California. As if…none of it ever happened. All these years, I’d felt unable to break from the confines of our union, but what if Frank could…set me free?
The wheels in my mind were turning so fast that when Frank began caressing my shoulder, at first, I barely noticed his touch. But then our eyes met, and I saw the longing in his gaze. It was clear, then, that he wasn’t about to say goodbye.
“Eloise…” Frank continued. “These years have been hard, for both of us. I haven’t been there for you. I only pray that you can…forgive me. If you’re willing, I…want to try to mend things.”
My book fell to the ground. I’d been rereading my favorite, The Last Winter, about the lonely ballerina Cezanne, who found herself caught up in a complicated love affair. But in some ways, mine was even more so. There was Frank, finally opening his heart to me, but I didn’t know if I could open mine to him.
I felt caught between Cezanne’s fictitious world and my own, but then I reminded myself: The ending to Cezanne’s story will never change, but mine can—if I try.
“Darling,” Frank said. “I work and travel and leave you here alone far too much. You’re lonely, and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry about…us. I’m deeply sorry about what our marriage has become.”
I slowly nodded, taking in his words, but struggling to process them. I’ve never felt that Frank understands me, but is he finally trying?
“Let me take you out tonight. Let’s get dressed up and have fun like we used to…in London.”
I thought of our weekly dates when he was courting me. It felt like a lifetime ago. I did appreciate the care he took, the way he surprised me with reservations to all the best establishments. The way he adored me. How I missed being adored, being noticed. In California, I felt veritably invisible, wandering in and out of the pages of novels, one endlessly sunny day blurring into the next.
But in that moment, I was suddenly back at Rhett’s Supper Club. Frank’s adoring eyes were fixed on me. It was also the night I saw Edward with another woman. The night I accepted Frank’s proposal of marriage and took a bold step forward—to a new life.
Then I remembered what Bonnie told me shortly after I’d arrived in California. “Frank needs you.”
Edward never needed me.
I began to wonder if I needed him, too. Needed him in more ways than I’d ever imagined, my American cowboy. We’d had better days, but maybe we could have them still?
“A night out sounds…nice,” I said, my face softening into a smile.
He smiled back at me, his pale green eyes matching the hue of the pool. As he reached for my hand, I wondered what had sparked Frank’s change of heart, what had melted all those years of ice. But whatever it was, it didn’t matter. We were at a fork in the road. I could explore the next leg of our journey, or I could turn back—alone.
“So, what do you say?” he asked, searching my eyes. “Will you let me take you out?”
I felt pulled in both directions—the road forward, and the road back. True, I wanted to go home, desperately so. But Frank’s eyes beckoned. His expression was filled with anticipation, but also something I hadn’t seen in so long: love.
“Yes,” I finally said.