Daniel might appear any minute, and then what? Salt stings my lips as I take another sip, and my mind, once again, turns to Nick. At first, I push the memory aside, annoyed with myself for letting rogue thoughts creep in. After all, I’d cried my tears, and there were no more left. So why am I thinking about him now? I recall one of the many self-help books I’d turned to after Nick left, and a particular passage comes to mind. “Trauma isn’t a single event, but rather an ongoing process. The brain wants to move on quickly, to stomp out any memories associated with the trauma. But the heart wants to understand.”
Maybe that’s the explanation for my flurry of memories today, and why I find myself thinking about our first date—a setup by a mutual college friend who, ironically, we both ended up losing contact with. We met at a pub not much different from this one. I was ten minutes early, Nick ten minutes late. It was the sort of small detail that seemed inconsequential at the time, easily forgotten, even. But if I’d been wise, I might have seen it for what it was: a warning sign.
A few minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find a tall man with an athletic build smiling at me.
“I was told that a beautiful American asked for me,” he says with a grin that reveals a small gap between his two front teeth. He’s about my age and attractive, with dark hair, pale blue eyes, and a light dusting of freckles on his nose.
My hair is still damp, and I nervously run my hand through the ends in a last-ditch attempt to pull myself together. “Yes, hi,” I say. “I’m Valentina.”
He waves at the bartender, who quickly fixes him a whiskey on the rocks as he slides onto the empty stool beside me. “Now,” he says. “Please satisfy my curiosity and tell me why such a beautiful creature has materialized out of nowhere and asked to meet me.”
“Well,” I fumble. “I…found something of yours, from a long time ago, and I wanted to meet you in real life, to return it.”
“Found something? What?” He pauses. “Wait, did you find my wallet? I left it at Wembley Stadium last week. You’re an angel.”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m sorry about your wallet. But I came to see you about…something else.” I reach into my bag and hand him the book, then watch as he flips through the pages.
“You see, Daniel, this book is—”
“Wait, did you just say Daniel?”
“Isn’t that your name? Daniel Davenport?”
He shakes his head. “I hate to say this, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m David Davenport.”
“Oh,” I say, disheartened. The professor must have keyed the wrong name into the alumni database.
He nods at someone in the kitchen, then turns to me and grins. “Listen, I’ve got to run. But—if you don’t find this Daniel of yours, why don’t you let me take you out sometime?” He grins. “Daniel, David, Donald—I can be whoever you want me to be, love.”
I force a smile as he disappears into the kitchen, leaving the barstool beside me…empty.
Well, that’s that.
When I step outside, I’m happy to discover that the rain has stopped. The air is bone-chillingly cold, and I cinch my jacket tighter as I round the next block and wave down a cab. “Primrose Hill,” I tell the driver as I climb into the car and sink into the backseat.
When I realize that it’s not quite five, I decide to call Queen Mary University and ask to be transferred to Professor Ellison, who, I’m happy to discover is still at his desk. I tell him about the Daniel-David mix-up, and he’s immediately apologetic. “Let me do another search,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Ah, yes, there is a Daniel Davenport on file, and he was a literature major. Class of ninety-eight. But, I’m very sorry, that’s all I have on him. I do know that the alumni database is in the process of a major upgrade at the moment. But you know how long things take at universities.” He sighs. “It’s death by committee. You might try back in a few months or so.”
“No,” I say. “It’s okay. And thank you so much for your time.”
I sigh as my phone buzzes in my pocket. A quick glance, and I see that it’s a text notification from…Nick. My heart freezes as I read it: “Val, I don’t even know where to begin. But I can only say that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Can we talk? I miss you. I’m so sorry.”
Nine Months Later
Valentina Elizabeth Baker was born on a sunny Thursday morning. My water broke shortly after three a.m., and Frank had been as panicked as a schoolboy in an air-raid drill. On the drive to the hospital, he ran three red lights. By then the contractions were coming fast—one after the next. Two hours later, the pains of labor were a distant memory when I laid eyes on her perfect face.
Frank was in love, too. When the nurses whisked her away to the nursery, he became distraught with the pain of missing her.
“Would you look at this sweet baby!” Bonnie gushed the day we brought her home. She lifted her out of my arms, cooing and whispering phrases in her native language.
“Is everything prepared?” Frank asked, carrying our bags upstairs.
“Yes, Mr. Baker,” Bonnie replied. “Just as you specified.” She smiled at me.
Frank pointed to the mahogany crib with yellow gingham bedding nestled against the side wall. I ran my hand along its slats, eyeing the mobile hanging overhead with its cluster of plush pastel-colored stars and a windup music box.
“See, it plays ‘London Bridge,’？” he said, smiling proudly.
“Soon to be her favorite song,” I said, sinking into the rocking chair upholstered in beige linen speckled with yellow-and-gold stars. “It’s…perfect,” I said, indulging his need for approval.
Bonnie appeared, holding the baby. “Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Baker,” she said. “But Valentina is beginning to fuss. I think she might be hungry.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s been a few hours.” I took her tiny, swaddled body into my arms and Valentina latched on to my breast as Frank and Bonnie tiptoed out of the room.
“Val,” I said when her belly was full and her eyes sleepy. “You have a favorite song. Now you need a favorite book. One day I’ll show you the pictures, but for now I’ll just say the words out loud.”
She cooed softly, as if in agreement.
“？‘In the great green room,’？” I began, then stopped.
“I forgot to tell you the title of the best story of all. Goodnight Moon.”
Val shifts in my arms, as if to hear me better. “？‘There was a telephone And a red balloon And a picture of…’？”
I knew all the words by heart, and soon Val would, too.
She was too young to know that the author who so beautifully chose the words for her story didn’t have the most beautiful life. I knew from reading her biography that she was unlucky in love, with a broken engagement, a disastrous affair, and a longer romance that ended at the time of her sudden and early death.
Hers was a tragic tale. I held Val tighter, determined to set my daughter on a path toward happiness, one that mirrored the very best stories. Hers would have a happy ending.