I let her play for a few more minutes before we headed back to the car.
“That man was nice,” she said suddenly, brushing a dusting of sand from her cheek and watching me with an air of wisdom far greater than her years.
“He was,” I said, unlocking the car. I turned on the engine then lowered the windows to let out the hot air.
Val pointed to the windshield. “Mummy, what’s that paper under the windshield wiper?”
“Great,” I said with a sigh. “After all that, I got a parking ticket.” I stretched my arm out to retrieve the slip of paper, but upon further inspection, I realized it wasn’t a parking ticket.
“What is it?” Valentina asked curiously.
“It’s…nothing,” I said quickly, tucking the scrap of paper into the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t tell her that it was actually a note—from Peter—and that he’d left his phone number. Of course, it all meant nothing. I would never call him, nor would I ever let myself think of what might happen if I did. I gazed up at the condo building facing the beach and smiled, feeling girlish and effervescent, like that fluttery sensation that comes only after the third sip of champagne.
* * *
—
As I sorted the mail, I noticed a letter from Millie by the familiar curve of her handwriting and opened it immediately.
Dear Eloise,
How are you, my old friend? It’s been ages, and I miss you—so much. London will never be the same without you. I suppose your life in California is way more exciting, though. I have a bet going with a friend at the pub that one of these days I’ll see you on television. “That’s my best friend,” I’ll tell everyone, but of course, no one will believe me. Remember Susan Whitehall? She asked me when you’re going to divorce Frank and marry someone like Tom Cruise. If anyone could pull off something like that, it would be you, El. Bloody hell, I really hope Frank isn’t reading this letter. I should probably mention how handsome, smart, and wise I remember Frank being. Okay, okay, I’ll just stop this subject there.
In your last letter, you asked if I ever think about our old bookstore dream, and yes, I still do—a lot, actually. I’m sorry that it didn’t work out for you to open a store in Santa Monica, but selfishly, it made me hope that our little venture may one day have a chance! Can you imagine how lovely it would be, and how much fun we’d have? Well, dreams never die, do they? That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
How is Valentina? I think of you both so often. Send photos!
With love always,
Millie
Tears stung my eyes as I tucked the letter away. I missed home, and Millie, more than ever. I decided to have a word with Frank about taking Valentina to London.
I smiled, thinking of all the sights I’d show her. The crown jewels! Buckingham Palace! That little bakery I used to love in Notting Hill. Would it all still be there, waiting for me, just as I remembered it?
The phone rang in the living room, and I hoped it was Frank, so I could propose the idea straightaway. He could probably have his secretary help us with airline tickets, hotel reservations, and the like.
“Hello?”
“Hello, darling,” Frank said. “I just made it to Chicago and I—”
“I’m so glad you called,” I said. “I…I wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“Frank, I…want to take Valentina to London.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Frank? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes. Here.”
“I said, I’d like to take Valentina on a trip to see London.”
“I heard you.” His voice sounded sharp, businesslike.
“Oh, okay. So, may I, please?”
“Darling, I’m afraid I just can’t support that. There are far too many terrorist attacks in Europe these days. I couldn’t live with myself if—”
“And I couldn’t live with myself if I don’t get the chance to show my daughter my home.”
Frank raised his voice to get the last word.
“Your home is in California, and our daughter will be fine waiting until she’s of age to travel abroad.”
* * *
—
I’d given Bonnie the night off, and with Frank gone and Valentina at a sleepover, the house felt emptier than ever. Normally, I’d drown out the silence with a book, but instead, I went to my closet and selected a lightweight blue sweater and jeans. I added a belt and a pair of nude heels, then tucked my wallet and a tube of lipstick into the quilted Chanel bag Frank bought me for Christmas the year Valentina was born. I reached for a silk scarf in the top drawer of my dresser and paused when the jewelry box in the far corner caught my eye. My mother had given it to me on my eleventh birthday. She could never afford to buy something so expensive; it had been passed down from her own mother, who had been given it when she worked as a seamstress for one of London’s wealthier families. But it wasn’t the jewelry box that pinged my heart—it was what I’d placed inside.
I lifted the lid and pulled out the note that I’d found on my windshield, from the man at the beach. Peter. I should have thrown it away immediately, but for some reason, I simply couldn’t. And there it was, and here I was, in heels on a Friday night. I tucked the scrap of paper into my purse and reached for my car keys.
* * *
—
Later that evening I slid onto a barstool at Vino Volletta, a newly opened wine bar in the neighborhood. It felt strange to be out at night alone, but also strangely wonderful.
The bartender smiled at me, sliding a water glass and menu across the marble counter. “Anyone joining you tonight?” he asked, hesitating as if to reach for another menu.
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just me.”
He nodded, pointing to the top of the menu. “Our appetizers are right here. Below that are salads and starters, then mains. The chicken is really nice tonight. And on the other side, you’ll find our wines. The flights of three are at the bottom.”
“Oh yes,” I said, liking the sound of a flight. “I’ll have one of those. Which of the reds do you recommend?”
“Well,” he said, “considering your accent, I take it you might have an affinity for European varietals?”
I smiled. “I do miss home.”
“Then I’ll bring out a flight of French reds,” he said decisively. “You won’t be disappointed.”
I certainly wasn’t, and when I finished the three pours, I decided to order a glass. The bartender immediately reached for a bottle he described as “special,” and it was. A few minutes later, I was feeling light and happy and, perhaps, a bit emboldened. I reached into my pocket.
I remembered how Frank had spoken to me on the phone, how he’d dismissed me. I’d been so lonely for so long. He’d admitted as much himself. What would be the harm in merely…talking to someone who wanted to talk to me? I took another sip of wine, then waved to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I borrow your phone?”
“Sure,” he said, pointing to the end of the bar.
I walked over and dialed the number. It rang two times before he picked up.