I walk home with a new sense of strength, and purpose. My life is no longer the tragic novel I’d assumed it was, but something entirely different—a great adventure, a thriller, even, and maybe, just maybe, a brilliant love story.
Once home, I sink into the sofa, and reach for a new thriller that came into the store recently. I don’t know the author, and I’ve rarely dipped into the genre, but a quote on the cover caught my eye: “Heart-stopping and unforgettable, this story will make you question everything—from the roads not taken to the person lying beside you in bed.”
And it does, indeed. I read for two solid hours, then snap a photo of the book and share it in an Instagram post:
Whether trying out a new author or genre, or making a big life change, I’m the first to admit that stepping out of our comfort zones can be a little scary. But what if we could see our lives in reverse and confirm that those risks, hard decisions, even impulsive leaps of faith, were the key ingredients for a fully maximized life? That’s what I’m thinking about, anyway, even if I have no idea what might lie on the road ahead. But I have this book to keep me company, and it’s quite the unusual pick for me. But I’m open to what I’ll find in its pages and in my own life. Tell me, what big risks have you taken—literary or otherwise? xoxo, Val #takingachanceonbooks #newgenre #onedayatatime
I crave tea, so I put the kettle on the stove in my mother’s kitchen that is now my own, then search her record collection until I find just the right album: Art Tatum. I release the vinyl from its sleeve and carefully set it on the turntable, listening for the familiar crackle, the melodic piano. “Tea for Two.”
I close my eyes, and there we are, Mummy and me. We’re far away and many years from here, twirling in our Santa Monica living room. It’s as if nothing has changed, even though everything has. For now, maybe that’s the secret. I could pretend the pain away, and so I do.
Tea for two and two for tea. Me for you, and you for me.
Santa Monica, california
Ten Years Later
After dinner, I scanned the estate sale finds I’d carted home—a large crystal vase and a stack of rare books. But my favorite purchase of all was obtained by pure happenstance. I decided to take a rare jaunt out of our neighborhood and cab to Beverly Hills, the site of a particularly interesting newspaper listing. Though the sale had been, at first, a disappointment, I found my way into the grand home’s library, while the other bargain-shoppers scoured through bins of the previous owner’s stash of vintage Chanel. And, oh, what a discovery. Not only did I procure a bagful of first editions, but I also found the unlikeliest of treasures, if only to me.
On a coffee table in the home’s library lay a varnished wooden box engraved with the words “Cicero’s Sentiments.” The green sticker on its lid signaled its price: one dollar. When I saw it, I smiled with curiosity, wondering if it had once held sentimental value for its owner. Noticing the hinges, I kneeled down and lifted the edge. I laughed when I saw what was inside: candy—in particular, individually wrapped lemon drops.
Of course, I knew that Cicero was a revered philosopher and writer dating back to Roman times, but I couldn’t help but admire the juxtaposition—candy inside a box labeled as the sentiments of a literary great. I loved it instantly, especially when thinking of my long-held dream of opening a bookstore. Even if I knew it was a near impossibility in California, still, I let my imagination think otherwise. In my mind’s eye, there I was, the proprietor of a lovely corner bookshop, where I opened the little box to pass out treats to youngsters who came in for story time.
A long time ago, Frank had squashed my hope of making that dream a reality. But ten years had passed since then, and I wondered if this time, I could convince him. True, the brief spark we’d rekindled before Valentina’s birth had dimmed and we’d settled into a stale domestic routine, but we weren’t adversarial. He just lived his life, and I lived mine. And, over the years, as Frank recoiled deeper into himself, and away from me, I stopped trying, too, and instead, accepted our marriage for what it was—two completely different people held together by the mutual love of their child.
Valentina was the glue, and being her mother was the greatest joy of my life, and yet, the older she grew, the less she needed me, which is when the bouts of loneliness returned. One day, when she was at a playdate at a friend’s house, I decided to speak to Frank.
I found him in his favorite chair in the living room, barricaded behind an open newspaper.
“Can we talk for a second?” I asked.
“Sure,” he replied. His eyes remained fixed on the article that held his attention.
“Frank,” I said taking a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking…Valentina is growing up. She doesn’t need me as much as she used to. She’s so mature and independent, and well…I have more free time to pursue other things and I think—I think I should.”
He nodded blankly, which I took as a cue to proceed.
“I…mentioned this a long time ago…you may not remember, but, Frank…I want to open a bookstore.”
He finally set his newspaper down, then looked up at me—his expression a mix of amused and annoyed. “Eloise, you were a salesclerk at a department store when I met you. What on earth makes you think you can operate a small business?”
His response cut deep. I steadied myself and ignored the lump in my throat. “Frank, this has always been my dream—the one I’ve had for as long as I can remember.” I took a deep breath, inching forward. “Listen, there’s a storefront on Ocean Drive that’s available the first of the month. It’s lovely, with a sunny little window seat.” I felt silly, and nervous, like a little girl convincing her father that she wants a pony, but I pressed on. “We’ll source mostly used books, all kinds of hard-to-find treasures. It’ll be a place where people can find homes for their old books and discover new ones, too.”
He chuckled. “Darling, I’m afraid to say it, but that doesn’t sound like the most profitable enterprise. Especially since you only seem to read one book, over and over again.”
I frowned at his dismissive reference to The Last Winter. It was true that I lingered in Cezanne’s world often, but Frank’s comment discredited the stacks of books on my bedside table. But he didn’t know that because he was never in my bedroom. He had his own.
“Listen,” Frank continued, cutting into my thoughts. “Clearly you have spare time on your hands that you’re looking to fill. Why don’t I make some calls and see if I can get you a job on the sales floor at Fred Segal? Your work at Harrods might just get your foot in the door. How would you like that?”
“How would I like that? Frank, you’re missing the point entirely. I don’t want to keep busy; and I certainly don’t want a job at Fred Segal. I want to follow my heart and do what I’m passionate about. I need this, Frank. I need a reason to get up in the morning—a purpose. Can’t you understand that?”
“And our daughter isn’t purpose enough for you?”
“Don’t bring Valentina into this,” I snapped. “It’s perfectly normal for a woman to need more than motherhood to fulfill her.” I thought of a handful of people we knew socially. “Do you think Barbara Matthews loves her sons any less because she works at the hospital? Or Claire Greenspan. Does her architectural career make her less of a mother?” I shook my head. “Frank, I know we have plenty of money. You bought a new Porsche last month. The start-up costs for my business would be a fraction of that.”