“No, not at all,” I say quickly. “In fact, you bring up an excellent point. What you just said—about knowing someone, but not knowing them…it’s so true—especially when it comes to our parents. They lived entire lives before we were born, weathered their own private storms, but as children, we don’t know them that way.”
He nods in agreement.
“Like you, my mother was also my whole world, and when she moved to London, I was never quite able to fill the hole she left. I spent a long time feeling confused by her sudden departure, and later angry. But now that I’m here”—I pause, exhaling deeply—“I’m beginning to realize that there’s more to her story than I knew. I still feel the pain of her absence, but I’m…trying to understand it, if that makes any sense.”
Eric’s eyes burst with compassion, and it warms me. “It absolutely makes sense, and I can’t begin to imagine what you must have been through. But if it’s any consolation at all, you should know that Eloise talked about her daughter—the amazing Valentina—so often that it was almost as if you were a fixture in the bookstore.”
I smile. “Really?”
He nods as the waiter sets our salads on the table. We both forgo the fresh-ground pepper.
“Were your parents ever happy together?” he asks.
I shrug. “I mean, yes, in an outside-looking-in sort of way. But even as a child, I suppose I always knew that something was off. They led separate lives.”
“Mine too,” he says. “I was the one thing that—”
“Kept them together,” we both say, then laugh.
Eric smiles, but there’s hesitation in his eyes. “I guess not everyone gets a fairy tale.”
I adjust my napkin in my lap. “And you don’t think you’re one of the lucky ones?”
“No, I mean, I do—I mean, I hope so.” He pauses. “Fiona and I are lucky, and happy—I guess. But watching my parents all those years made me extra cautious about forever, if that makes any sense.”
I nod.
“She wants to get married, have a family, and I do as well, but…” He rubs his forehead. “I just want to be certain, you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
“Sorry,” Eric says, setting his fork down. “I’m oversharing.”
“No, your honesty is refreshing.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re becoming friends, Valentina.”
“Me too,” I say, smiling.
I decide to tell him about the scavenger hunt my mother left for me, and he’s immediately fascinated.
“That’s brilliant,” he says.
I fill him in on her latest clue, left in Regent’s Park—omitting the bit about running into Fiona—and his eyes widen.
“Of course, she’d bring up Cicero,” he says, beaming. “But it’s not a book she wants you to find.”
“Then what is it?”
He scratches his head and looks off into the distance as if sorting through a flurry of memories. “When my mum used to take me to Eloise’s read-aloud hours, all the children would sit around her on the carpet and before she began, she’d pass around this little wooden box and we’d each pick a lollipop from inside. It was magic.” He smiles. “That’s it, Valentina.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The box—I can still picture it, like it was yesterday. It was made of mahogany, with a shiny varnish. But here’s the thing: On the top, there was an engraving that read: ‘Cicero’s Sentiments.’ I had no idea what it meant at the time, and as a kid, I read it phonetically, at least in my mind, as ‘kick-er-o.’？” He laughs. “But looking back, I think it was very telling of your mum’s literary humor. I mean, Cicero was one of the greatest thinkers of the Roman era, right? And she kept candy inside. It was brilliant.”
She was brilliant.
“Anyway, if you can find the box, I bet you’ll get your next clue.”
“Wow,” I say, astonished. “Thank you. I’ll ask Millie about it.”
Our conversation shifts to other topics as we finish our meals. I ask him about his work, and he tells me he’s a journalist, which piques my curiosity, but Jan returns to the table before I can ask him more.
Eric reaches for his wallet, but she insists on treating us, and waves us off before we can stage a protest.
“That was fun,” he says on the street outside. “Maybe we can get together again sometime?”
“I’d like that,” I say, and then we part ways—he in his cab, and me in mine.
I tell the driver to take me to Queen Mary University, then lean back against the seat smiling to myself as I think about the last hour at Café Flora. If I ever do meet Daniel Davenport, I wonder if—and if I’m being completely honest with myself, hope—he’d be a little, or a lot, like Eric.
* * *
—
When I see Tower Bridge approaching, I ask the driver to drop me off so I can take in its iconic structure up close. I think of my mother’s stories of her beloved London, which most often included references to this very bridge—a stalwart of her formative years. She told of riding her old bike, with an attached basket and a bell on the handlebar, pedaling gleefully, wind in her hair, across the River Thames. I knew her childhood in one of London’s poorer neighborhoods hadn’t been easy, but to me, her stories still seemed like the very best fairy tales, and I longed to live in them.
I follow the path that leads to the bridge’s pedestrian walkway, dodging an oncoming jogger and brushing off a stray droplet of his sweat when it hits my arm before zigzagging past a group of tourists ambling along slowly behind their guide. When I reach the other side, I check the navigation on my phone and realize I’d miscalculated the walking distance to the university, which is still forty-five minutes away. I could hail a cab, of course, but the sunshine beckons, and I decide to keep going. These are my mother’s old streets, after all. And even though we’re separated by so many years, I cautiously let myself imagine her walking beside me now, our strides in step, as she shows me her homeland. It’s almost as if she were whispering in my ear. “Do you see that corner over there. It’s where I skinned my knee walking home from school when I was eleven. The pain wasn’t nearly as bad as my embarrassment that Johnny Easton saw the whole thing. And, Val, look, the old Cornish Café. On the last Sunday of each month, if my mum had any spare change, she’d take me there for breakfast.”
I think of what Eric and I spoke about at lunch, about knowing our parents as adults. Would we be friends, my mother and me, if she were here right now, if I could…forgive her?
After I cross the bridge, I walk on, lost in my thoughts, while checking the navigation on my phone from time to time. Eventually, Queen Mary University’s sprawling campus appears in the distance. I round the next corner, then follow a brick walkway, where a regal-looking white stone structure stands in the distance. It looks like a palace, which is fitting, given the sign at the entrance that reads QUEEN’S BUILDING. A clock tower in matching pale stone juts out above the trees, presiding over students as they scurry in and out of the entrance.