* * *
—
Later, I phoned California, timing the call to when I was sure Frank would be at work.
Bonnie answered, and I was flooded with relief at the sound of her voice.
“Hello, Bonnie,” I said.
“Mrs. Baker!” she cried. “It’s you!”
“Yes, Bonnie,” I said. “It’s me. I’m in London while…Frank and I sort everything out. Is Valentina there? May I talk to her, please?”
“Uh,” Bonnie said, pausing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker, she is…not here.”
“Oh, where is she, then?”
“She is…out with Mr. Baker.” The connection sounded muffled. “He asked me to take down your phone number and address if you called.”
I gave Bonnie the information, then asked her to have Valentina call me.
“Mrs. Baker,” she said in almost a whisper, “it’s not the same without you.”
Nothing was the same.
After I hung up the phone, I found a pen and paper, and began a letter to my daughter:
My darling Valentina,
I didn’t want to leave you, honey, but I had to. In time, I’ll try to explain.
I’m here in London now, visiting my old friend Millie, who I’ve told you about so often. Oh, Val, I wish you were here with me. I know you’d love London as much as I do. After all, you have English blood running through your veins.
There are things I wish I could tell you to help you understand, but I can’t. Because of that, I’m asking you to trust me, please. I know it’s hard when I’m not there to look into your eyes, when I can’t dry your tears or help you understand. But, I’ll be home soon. Until then, I’ll be loving you every second of every day, and always.
With love
from London,
Mummy
The Next Day
I’m standing at the store counter, sorting through paperwork I don’t have the heart to show Millie or Liza. It’s an offer to transfer deed and ownership to Brighton Construction, the company that plans to bulldoze the bookstore. Attached is a tidy architectural plan detailing a new, modern-looking condo development.
The fundraiser results are our last hope. If they don’t meet expectations, it won’t be long until the Book Garden is encased in caution tape and bracing for the wrecking ball.
The phone rings, and Millie answers.
She speaks little, ending the call with, “Thank you. I understand.”
“What is it?” Liza and I walk over to the counter.
She takes a long breath, exhaling slowly. “That was Jan,” she says. “The numbers are in. We raised…ninety-six thousand pounds.”
“Which means,” Liza says, pausing to do the math, then frowning, “we’re more than one hundred and fifty thousand pounds short.”
At first, Millie stands stoically, eyes downcast, but it isn’t long before she dissolves into tears. Every book, every shelf holds a memory, and she’ll have to say goodbye to them all—we all will.
“Why don’t you take a break,” I suggest. “Go get some coffee.” But like a captain clinging to her sinking ship, Millie refuses to relinquish the wheel and there’s no convincing her otherwise.
“There has to be something we can do,” she says before bolting to the back room in tears.
“Let her be alone for a bit,” Liza says.
I nod.
“But, Val,” she whispers, “what are we going to do?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. We need a miracle.”
She nods gravely.
“Look out for Millie today,” I say. “Obviously this is hard for all of us, but especially for her.”
“I will,” Liza promises, pointing to a stack of books. “Where should I put these?”
“Over there,” I say vacantly, pointing to the travel shelf on the far wall as I notice today’s issue of The Times on the counter. I think of Eric and pick it up, thumbing through the newspaper to find his column, which I begin reading:
I would like to address a valuable and once-prized trait now rare among Londoners. Call it evolutionary exclusion, or a form of social habit-forming gone bad, but somehow along the way, we as a people, have forgotten how to laugh at ourselves.
I smile, hearing his voice in my ears.
This came to my attention on a recent evening when an American woman made a frightful entrance at the Royal Automobile Club. Unsure on her feet in a pair of stilettos, she toppled a nearby party’s five-course dinner. Was she mortified? Why yes, she was. And so would any of us. But her next act, after pulling herself together, was truly remarkable. Few among us would be capable of what she did with ease. What was her Herculean skill, you ask? Why, it’s simple, really: She laughed at herself.
My cheeks flush as I read on.
And she accomplished this in the midst of great personal tragedy: Her mother passed recently, and a tax bill might spell the end to her family business, the Book Garden, the much-loved bookshop in Primrose Hill that has been a community fixture for decades. The results of a recent fundraiser are still pending—but will they be enough?
The article is as surprising as it is touching. I don’t know whether to be amused, flattered, mildly humiliated, or some combination of all three.
When the phone rings, I set down the newspaper and peel myself off the floor to grab it.
“Hello?” I say.
“Yes, hi. My name is Sharon McCready, and I just read the column in The Times about the Book Garden. I’m just horrified to hear that you might be forced to close your doors. I want to help.”
I pause, putting the phone on speaker, and motion to Liza to listen in.
“Ten years ago, my sister was sick with cancer,” the woman continues. “I moved in to her flat to look after her. It was just a few blocks away from your store, and I often stopped in to find books to cheer her up. Honestly, reading was the only thing that kept her going. The owner…I can’t remember her name now, I’m afraid…but she was beyond lovely. She never failed to find just the right book for my sister. I don’t know how, but she just knew.”
Millie smiles, nodding to herself.
“Her name was Eloise,” I say. “And I’m her daughter, Valentina.”
“Ah, yes, Eloise. I remember now. She was so kind. I’m so sorry for your loss, Valentina. I read in the article that she’d passed. I lost my sis, too, but because of your mum, she had stories to distract her from her pain. Anyway, is the fundraiser still open? I’d very much like to make a contribution.”
Liza sidles up next to me. “Yes indeed, ma’am. I’m Liza, the store’s…head of finance—and botany.”
“Oh?” the woman replies, a little confused.
“It’s a long story,” Liza continues, grinning. “Although the fundraiser is over, there is another way to contribute.” I watch as she opens up a Web browser to a page with our logo on the left. “We’ve set up a GoFundMe for members of the broader London community to contribute to. It would be an honor if you’d like to help.”
“When did you do this?” I whisper to Liza.
“A few weeks ago, while you were in doomsday mode,” she whispers.