The Next Day
“How do you feel about carnations?” Liza asks, tapping a pen against her chin.
“Well,” I say, looking up from the computer screen at the bookstore. “I guess I’ve always thought that they’re kind of…sad?”
Liza nods. “Exactly. They have a bad reputation. But what if we changed that? What if we gave them a rebrand?”
“That might be a slightly ambitious goal for carnations, let alone our fledgling flower shop,” I say with a laugh. “But if you’re up for the task, then why not?”
Liza shrugs, turning back to her laptop screen where she’s perched in the window seat at the front of the store. She arrived early this morning to take an inventory of the space and make a list of the various items we’d need for our new botanical endeavors: potted plants and succulents （which are all the rage right now, she says）， large containers to hold cut flowers, a greeting card rack （smart idea）， and a few small tables for novelty gifts and sundries.
“Look,” she says, shifting her screen so I can see. “With the empty shelves in the storeroom and those tables we aren’t using, we should only have to buy a few things before we’re ready to roll.”
I smile. “That makes me happy.”
I tell her about Nick’s text, and that I still haven’t replied.
She shakes her head. “I’ve heard that line before. Don’t take the bait.”
“I didn’t.” Though I admit I did scroll through our wedding photos on my phone. Damn, did he look good in a tux.
“But you’re thinking about it. I can see the look in your eyes.”
Millie pokes her head in on our conversation before I have a chance to respond. “See what look in your eyes?”
“Val’s ex texted her,” Liza explains. “He wants her back.”
Millie frowns. “And you’ll have none of that! Tell that rotten man to piss off.”
“Don’t worry,” I say with a laugh. “I have no intention of rekindling anything with him.”
“I would think not,” Millie adds.
The bells on the door jingle again as the FedEx man arrives with two boxes. It’s Fernando this time, and by the look on Millie’s face, she’s obviously elated—and tongue-tied.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” he replies.
They’re like a pair of love-struck teenagers, and Liza and I are their peanut gallery.
“I thought you were…gone,” Millie says. “I mean, assigned to another route.”
“I was,” Fernando says, taking a step closer. “But I asked to be put back on this one. I really missed…my customers.”
“Oh,” Millie says, beaming. She’s obviously trying to keep her cool, but it’s clear that her heart is doing a backflip.
Fernando sets the boxes on the counter beside Millie. She really is substantially taller, and he really is substantially younger, but somehow neither detail matters. I smile to myself. They might be the most awkward couple of all time, but perhaps also the most adorable.
“It’s always so nice to see you, Millie,” he says, smiling as he turns to the door.
“You too, Fernando,” she replies, her cheeks flushed.
When the door closes Liza gasps. “Millie, I’m telling you, he is smitten.”
“I agree,” I say. “Next time he comes in, you should slip him your phone number.”
“You girls are very sweet, but clearly out of your minds. For heaven’s sake, I’m old enough to be his mother!”
“Love is ageless,” Liza argues as Millie rolls her eyes.
“And also confusing,” I say after I glance at my phone and see a new text from Nick: “Val, can we talk? I love you. I miss you so much.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I ask Millie about my mother’s Cicero box, which Eric had told me about yesterday. “Ah, yes,” she says, peering underneath the counter. “The famous candy box. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. She kept it right here, under the—”
I watch her fumble through the lower shelf, then another. She looks through two drawers and then a third. “Where in the world would it have gone?”
“Did you possibly put it away when we were cleaning recently?”
“Maybe,” she says, disappearing to the back room, but she returns a few minutes later empty-handed. “I’m afraid it’s not there, either.”
I sink into a chair beside the nonfiction section.
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. We’ll find it.”
“But will we?” I say with a sigh. What I’d initially approached with amusement, curiosity even, has turned into so much more. My mother was trying to tell me something. She was trying to help me understand. But would I?
“Valentina, good things take time,” Millie says. “Don’t lose hope.”
She’s right, of course. I read somewhere that it took Tolkien sixteen years to write a follow-up to The Hobbit. I’d find Mummy’s message, and I’d find my way in life—eventually.
“You’ve been working so hard,” she continues. “Why don’t you go for a walk—to clear your head. Liza’s here; we’ve got things covered.”
I decide she’s right, so I set out on Prince Albert Road toward Primrose Hill park. What once was royal land, and the private hunting ground for Henry VIII, is now a small public park. Liza told me it was a favorite among locals and tourists alike for its panoramic views of London, and I’m somewhat of both.
Primrose Hill is already above sea level, but Primrose Hill park rises even higher. Just as my driver had noted on my first ride into town, the elevation is sixty-three meters above sea level, which the sign at its entrance declares. In the distance, architecture enthusiasts cluster, pointing their cameras at BT Tower and the London Eye. But I’m here for the literary landmarks. On the slope, there’s an oak known as Shakespeare’s Tree, planted to commemorate the three hundredth anniversary of the playwright’s birth; goosebumps erupt up and down my arms when I see it.
Turning in a slow circle, I take in my surroundings. The grass is green, and the trees are low so as to show off the view of all of London. I spot the Shard and the towers of Mammon, landmarks I’d only ever heard about or seen photos of, but now they’re right before me—in my own backyard.
I continue climbing until I reach the summit and my ultimate prize—a stone engraved with the words of William Blake. I post a photo to @booksbyval with this caption:
“I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill,” said William Blake. He saw the light, and so have I. I’m finally and utterly at home.
Within mere moments, my Instagram notifications flood in, and one in particular catches my eye—from Nick: “Your heart is my home. I love you.”
I feel a pang of emotion, which quickly morphs into anger. While his previous texts had, admittedly, stirred my heart, this note does the very opposite. In fact, it gives me greater clarity and understanding. How dare Nick post something so personal on my Instagram? He hadn’t commented on any posts on @booksbyval in our entire marriage, and now he jumps into the ring looking like a wounded husband who misses his wife? I’d done my best to keep our private matters, well, private, and now he has the gall to use my platform to get my attention, or worse, elicit pity from my followers? My cheeks burn red, and I consider deleting his message, or even blocking him entirely. Instead, I tuck my phone into my bag and try to remain in the present. Nick left me, and I’ve made a new life for myself—or at least, I’m making one. Nothing he can say or do will change those facts. Just like my mother’s life in London, with her secrets I wasn’t privy to, this is my time, and mine alone.