“All right,” Liza says. “You be careful in that dress, now.”
I smile, waving as she climbs into the cab. When it speeds off, I release a long sigh and pull Liza’s wrap snugly around my body as I begin walking ahead, following the streetlights until I see a cab on the next block, which I flag down.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“Berkeley Square,” I say immediately. Millie had mentioned the storied London park while we sorted books the other day. It was home to some of London’s oldest living trees, many dating back to the early 1700s, she said, but also one of my mother’s old haunts. I want to see it for myself.
A few minutes later, when I step out of the cab, I take in the trees’ enormous trunks, older than the very United States of America, in fact, and then it hits me—the song by Nat King Cole my mother used to play on the record player in our Santa Monica living room: “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”
My father didn’t have the same affinity for the old tune, but I did, and I immediately hear the lyrics in my ears—and my heart: The moon that lingered over London town…how could he know we two were so in love, the whole darn world seemed upside down.
I glance up at a lamppost, as a bird—a nightingale?—takes flight into the dark sky above. I look down at my feet—Liza’s high heels are killing me—wondering if my mother had ever stood right here, in this very spot.
When I see a park bench ahead, I stop and sit, staring up at the sky. A hint of a constellation glows overhead, and I can’t help but feel like the stars came out tonight just for me.
It’s late, but Berkeley Square is abuzz. People meander past me on the pathway—a man and his dog, a hound of some sort, who presses his nose to the pavement as if he’s in the middle of a very serious foxhunt; a young couple stealing a few quiet moments while their baby snoozes in a stroller. I can’t help but notice that they seem to be arguing as a middle-aged woman immersed in a very intense run powers by, followed by a man with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I sit up when the light from the lamppost hits his face, squinting to get a better look.
When his eyes meet mine, he stops and smiles. “Valentina? Is that you?”
“Eric?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just out walking,” I say.
He grins. “In that dress?”
“It’s a long story. And it may involve me losing a bet.” I grin. “But hey, at least I can laugh at myself, right?”
He sits beside me, setting his bag on the ground. “I take it you saw the column.”
I nod.
“I hope you weren’t…offended.”
“On the contrary,” I reply. “I was flattered. What you wrote about the store, well, it meant so much to all of us. People have been calling in all day, making donations. It’s been overwhelming in the very best way.” I smile. “Thank you.”
“You should see the emails I’m getting. One person actually suggested you be knighted for your valiant efforts to restore humility to a city corrupted by overexalted egos.” He pauses, pulling out his phone. “And listen to this one.” I wait as he scrolls. “This reader describes you as a ‘beacon for our times,’ a ‘suffragette for the cause of literature.’？”
“Wow,” I say, smiling bigger. “As a humble librarian-turned-bookseller, I’m not sure I deserve those accolades.”
He nods. “You do.”
I kick off my heels and tuck my bare feet under my legs when he takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. “Here, please put this on. You must be freezing.”
“Thanks,” I say, “for the jacket, and for…what you did.” I pull his jacket around me. It still radiates the warmth from his body. “I wanted to call to thank you, but I didn’t have your number.”
“Please, no thanks necessary.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a card, which he hands to me. “And next time, you can just ring me up.”
“Okay,” I say, tucking the card into my purse. So, what are you up to tonight?”
“Oh, just heading home from the office.”
“At this hour?”
“Well,” he says. “Let’s just say I didn’t want to be anywhere near my flat today.”
“Why?”
“Fiona and I broke up; she came to collect her things today.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. This split has been in the making for two years now, and if I’m being honest, maybe even longer. We were never right for each other. We both knew that. I should have pulled the plug a long time ago, but definitely when she insisted that I replace all my light fixtures.”
I laugh cautiously. “Yeah, that did seem a bit strange.”
“Trust me,” he says. “Strange is an understatement. I haven’t even told you about the refrigerator.”
“The refrigerator?”
“It would take an hour to explain, and it would be very, very boring.” He shakes his head. “And confusing. Did you know that there are sixteen different appliance brands that don’t contain ice makers with filtered water?”
I laugh. “Oh dear. That bad, huh?”
He nods. “Let’s just leave it at that.” He looks up at the sky, tracing the faint outline of a constellation overhead with his finger. “It’s like I’ve been living in this weird, hazy dream where I have to tiptoe around in my own flat.” He exhales deeply. “I can finally breathe again.”
I smile. “Well, then I’m happy for you. But I know it’s never easy.” I follow his eyes up to the sky, thinking about the papers I’d signed, scanned, and emailed back to my attorney earlier. “My divorce was just finalized today.” It feels cathartic to say that, even better to have it all behind me.
“Sorry,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Great, even. Like you describe, I can see clearly now.”
He looks up at the sky again. “If it were spring, we’d be able to see Virgo, the maiden.”
“Who?”
“The constellation,” he continues. “She’s a rather reclusive old girl, only shows her face when she wants you to see her.” He turns to me. “When I was a kid, I found this old book in my granny’s attic. And by old, I mean old. It was printed in the eighteenth century.” My eyes widen as he continues. “Each page described a different constellation. But Miss Virgo is special.” He smiles at me. “She brings good luck and calm in a storm. Maybe she’s looking out for you right now.”
I study his face. “You really believe that stuff?”
Eric shrugs. “I believe in science—and stories.”
“I do too,” I say, feeling a shiver creep up the back of my neck.
“Where’s Daniel?” he asks suddenly.
“In Scotland—working on a film project. But he’s coming home in the morning. I’m meeting his parents for dinner tomorrow.”
“Wow,” he says.
“Should I be worried?”
“I haven’t met them, but I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Daniel’s a great guy.”