“Well, hello there,” he says, his tall frame looming over the table.
“Hello,” I say in a squeak. I don’t know what to do with my hands and I feel as if my legs have quite possibly become paralyzed, or maybe it’s that they’ve melted into pools of gelatinous liquid beneath the table. I can’t feel them. I can’t feel anything, and I’m positive that my cheeks are at least fourteen shades of crimson. Possibly even sixteen.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” he says, sliding into his chair.
A man who apologizes for being on time? Who is this guy? Is he even real?
“Oh no,” I begin. “The thing is…my ex was always late. And I’m always early. So, I guess I’m just used to men being late.” I cover my mouth. “Oh my gosh, I must be nervous. I’m rambling. And talking about my ex. Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I’ll shut up now.”
“Don’t apologize,” Daniel says. Look how white his teeth are. “I’ll confess that I’m a little nervous, too. First dates are awkward, but I have to say, you’re even prettier than I imagined. And, don’t get me wrong, from the way Deb described you, I imagined you’d be quite pretty.”
“Well, thank you, I guess,” I say, straightening my fork on the table so it’s parallel to the knife. “You’re quite handsome yourself.”
“Deb also tells me that you’re trying to solve a mystery,” he adds. “As a documentary filmmaker, I must admit that piqued my curiosity.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s about an old book, filled with annotations—”
He nods, then picks up the menu in front of him. “There’ll be plenty of time to delve into all that over dinner. What sounds good to you?”
I glance at the list of entrées, though they fail to hold my attention. My eyes drift up to his face again and study his deep-set brown eyes. When a waiter comes to check on us, Daniel orders a bottle of wine.
“I’m afraid it all looks good,” I say, setting my menu down. “Perhaps you should order for us?”
“Well, there’s always the eggplant ceviche,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “It was written up in The Times recently.”
“Oh,” I say. “About that. Um, I have a confession to make.”
He leans in.
I crinkle my nose. “I’ve…never liked eggplant. Um, or ceviche.” I smile. “And you’re probably seriously doubting my investigative abilities right about now, given that I can’t even parse a menu.”
He bursts into laughter. “No, I trust your instincts even more. I actually hate eggplant.”
“But you suggested it!”
“I know,” he continues with an air of self-deprecation. “I was trying to sound posh. But…I got caught.”
“You know,” I say, laughing, “that’s one of the funniest confessions I’ve heard in a long time. You’re an eggplant fake.”
“Guilty.”
“We both are,” I add.
He cocks his head to the right, looking at me with an amused and rather boyish smile. “You know, I have a feeling that we have more in common than our aversion to eggplant, Ms. Valentina Baker.”
“Oh really, Mr. Daniel Davenport?”
* * *
—
“Would you like to walk for a bit?” Daniel asks after the waiter has cleared the table. He takes care of the bill before I can even offer to contribute. “Indulge a documentarian,” he says. “I have questions, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
I laugh as we walk outside, grateful to see that the rain has subsided. “Yes, sir,” I say. “But only as long as you let me turn the camera on you. Debbie says you have quite the interesting career in film.”
“Right. I see she told you about my twenty-nine Academy Awards, did she?”
I glance over at him, grinning. “Well, she did sing your praises.”
“The problem with working in film is that everyone thinks it’s very glamorous, when, in fact, you might even find it a bit dull. At the end of the day, I’m just a humble storyteller—with no Academy Awards.” He smiles. “Do you still like me?”
“I’d hardly call that dull,” I say. “It sounds fascinating. And yes, I still like you. Tell me, what subjects most interest you?”
“Oh, it runs the gamut. We put out a film last year about what life is like for children in one of the poorest regions of the Philippines, specifically Apayao. It garnered some humanitarian interest that seems to be making a difference, at least a bit.” He smiles. “That’s really all that matters to me.”
“I love change-making projects,” I say, blowing some warmth onto my cold hands “That’s sort of what I’m doing here in London, at the Book Garden.”
“And what drew you to books?” he asks.
“In a nutshell? My mother. She read aloud to me from the time I was a baby. She loved books and taught me to love them, too.”
“So how did you end up in London again?”
I tell him about my mother’s abrupt departure from my life, when she’d left for London to start a new life—or maybe the same one, all over again.
“Ah,” Daniel says. “Just as I suspected. We’re getting to the source of your deepest unknowns.”
I smile nervously. “The documentarian takes note.”
“So, after your mother left, how did you stay connected to her?”
“I didn’t, really. She went from being my whole world to being…gone. For a long while, time seemed to stand still. Or perhaps it was just me who remained frozen in place. But books saved me. I spent a lot of time at the library, reading books I thought she might have enjoyed. I studied library science and worked as a librarian for many years.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” Daniel continues. “And then what happened?”
“Well, after my marriage ended—and that’s the subject of another inquiry—I came here to London and took over her bookstore, which has been like a treasure trove for me. She even left a scavenger hunt, with clues all over Primrose Hill that I’m still finding.”
“She loved you very much,” he says. “That’s abundantly clear.”
I nod. “I know that, and also I…don’t.”
He nods, pausing in front of a closed café as he looks up to the sky. “The stars do, though.”
I look up, too, taking in the sky over London. “My mum used to tell us that the stars have this thing with the city lights—a battle, so to speak. Eternity versus modernity, or something like that. It always gave her comfort that no matter how much technology advanced or how sophisticated we think we are, the stars still shine brighter. They always will.”
“Wow,” he says. “That’s…really beautiful, and thought-provoking stuff. When did your parents split up?”
“When I was twelve. Divorce is awful, and apparently, history repeats itself. Mine will be finalized soon.”
He stops suddenly, turning to me with a grave expression. “I’m sorry, Valentina. It’s been a…really fun night, and it’s been lovely meeting you, but I don’t think I can be with someone who’s divorced.”