“What do you mean?”
“El, I knew nothing of this man, only his name, the jacket in the closet—and the look in your eyes. I had to find him. I just had to. And when I did, well, I understood. I understood everything. We had lunch that day, and we met again a week later. Eventually, we became good friends, and I…got to know him very well.”
I shook my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I should have, but…” Her voice trailed off. “Listen, I knew that you cared for Edward very much, and I didn’t think it would help your situation in California to ramble on about him in my letters. We became dear friends, bound by our unique bond: you. We both missed you so very much.”
I smiled, listening in rapt attention.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Millie continued, clearing her throat, her expression suddenly pained. “In time, I began to…feel more for Edward.”
I looked away, my heart filled with pangs of emotion—jealousy, hurt, surprise. This was the last thing I’d ever imagined my best friend telling me, and yet, I knew I had no right to feel betrayed. After all, I married someone else and moved halfway around the world.
“He didn’t feel the same way,” she finally said. “His heart was inextricably yours.”
I didn’t know what to say or do, and so we just sat there for a long moment in silence until I finally found my voice.
“Where is he now? Do you know?”
She nodded. “He moved to the countryside…with his wife and child.”
The revelation hurt as much as it warmed my heart. “Good,” I said. “He’s tending his tomatoes.”
Millie shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “He’s happy. That’s all I needed to know.”
Millie walked to her bedroom, returning with a man’s evening jacket on its hanger, which she handed to me. I knew it in an instant, of course, and the memories of the night we met came rushing back.
“You kept it, all these years?” I asked, astonished.
“Well, I made a promise, didn’t I?”
I smiled.
“El, will you forgive me? I never meant to—”
“I’ve already forgiven you,” I said, nodding. I was just as eager to put the subject back on the shelf as she was. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”
“I just want you to know that there was only one woman Edward could ever love. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anyone else. Eloise, it was always you.”
I pressed my nose to the jacket’s collar and breathed in a mix of mothballs, Millie’s favorite candles, and…memories.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
The Next Day
“Morning,” Liza says, bursting through the door with an armful of pastel pink flowers—I spy roses and peonies—which she places in a bucket of water beside the windows. “Did you have fun at Sexy Fish?”
Millie looks up from the desk, confused. “Sexy who?” She shakes her head. “Whatever are you girls talking about?”
“It’s a restaurant in Mayfair, and also a club, well, sort of.” I smile at Liza, then turn back to Millie, who is staring at the computer screen, fretting. I know she’s stressed. I am, too; I’ve been constantly refreshing the GoFundMe page on my phone. Eric’s newspaper column had been a boost, but, sadly, it appears we’re still net short.
“What did you end up doing last night?” Liza asks, ignoring Millie’s mood. “Did you head home right away?”
“I just wandered over to Berkeley Square,” I tell her, “where I ran into Eric, actually.” I feel Millie’s eyes on me. “We talked for a little while. He broke up with Fiona.”
“Good riddance,” Millie says.
“Hold on, Shakespeare is single?”
“He’s a columnist, not a playwright, my dear.”
“Well, either-or, I’m glad to hear that he’s rid himself of that awful woman.”
“Me, too,” I say, thinking back to our conversation last night. “He looked happy.”
A black town car pulls up in front of the bookstore—probably the same one I’d noticed driving by the other day, though I hadn’t mentioned it to Millie. Probably another real estate developer. They were circling like vultures.
When the car drives off, I sigh, directing my attention to the ringing phone.
“Is this Valentina Baker, by chance?”
“Speaking.”
“Ah, good. Ms. Baker, this is Bill Fairchild, your account manager at London Trust Bank.”
“Yes?”
“Ms. Baker, this is highly unusual, but we’ve just received a wire notice for your account.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes. It’s only half-past nine, and I’m already exhausted. “I don’t understand. Are you saying that a check was canceled?” It occurred to me that Millie might have paid a bill before the proceeds from the fundraiser cleared.
“No, ma’am,” he continues. “Actually, it’s just the opposite. There’s been a deposit into your account, and a pretty large one at that.”
“Hold on, what?”
“Ms. Baker, three hundred thousand pounds just posted this morning.”
“I’m sorry, is this some kind of joke?”
“I assure you; this is not a joke.”
“Who would have sent that kind of money?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
“There isn’t a name on the transfer slip, just an account number. I could look into it, if you like.”
“Yes,” I say, the news slowly sinking in. “Sir, do you know what this means for us? Do you know?” Millie and Liza hang on my every word, even if it’s only half of the conversation.
“Ma’am,” he says. “I do not. I’m merely a banker.”
“Well,” I continue, “you wonderful, magnificent, brilliant banker. You see, you’ve just informed me that our little bookstore here in Primrose Hill will be able to carry on. I could kiss you right now!” I lay a smooch on the phone’s receiver before hanging up and leaping over the counter. “Guess what?”
Liza grins. “You have the recipe for Café Flora’s cinnamon rolls, and they’re calorie-free?”
“Even better!” I cry. “Someone just wired three hundred thousand pounds into our account. Three hundred thousand pounds!”
Millie searches my face cautiously. “Is it true? The Book Garden will…survive?”
“Survive and thrive!”
Liza walks to the window, scooping up Percy, which is when the same black town car circles back again—and this time it parks out front. “Why don’t you people go piss off,” she says through the window.
“The nerve of them,” Millie says. But as the driver emerges and opens the passenger door, helping an older gentleman out onto the sidewalk, her eyes get big.
“Millie,” I say. “Who is that?”
The doorbells jingle as the distinguished older man walks inside. “Hello, Millie,” he says. His thin gray hair is neatly combed and his clothes freshly pressed. He’s handsome for an octogenarian, and has the appearance of someone who was probably even more so in his day.