I post a photo of the book in my hand on @booksbyval—with a lively scene of the store in the background—as I compose an impromptu post.
I have a memory of my mother reading this book to me as a child. It’s the story of a special house. Much like the building I’m standing in right now, the house is a final holdout of urban sprawl. It stood proud on a grassy spot, where children played in the meadow in spring and skated on the iced-over brook each winter. But change crept in like a dark cloud, bringing with it modernization and progress, cars and railroad engines, and more and more people.
At the end of the book, the little house is surrounded by a bustling city, built all around her.
There is no brook, no meadow.
Her roof is covered with soot from the city and there is no longer a blue sky overhead.
But the Little House found her way—back to the country, back to the children, back to the brook. I’m happy to share that the Book Garden will know a similar happy ending. Our fundraising goals were met, and this beloved bookstore will live on. And, as long as I am able to do so, I’ll make sure it does.
I set my phone down and reach into my bag to retrieve the Cicero box that Edward gave to me.
“Oh look, you found it!” Millie exclaims. “Where?”
I smile. “It just…turned up.” As she leans in closer, we both reread my mother’s most recent clue, particularly about Percy showing me the way and Millie having the key.
She nods to herself. “Yes. She said I’d know when you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
She reaches into a drawer beneath the counter, then says, “Come with me.”
Percy ambles ahead, to the far corner of the store, stopping to purr beside the history section. The edge of the shelf is littered with claw marks, evidence of his long-favorite scratching post.
Percy will show you the way.
I scan the shelves, looking for something, anything, in the rows of spines—a book on Paris during Nazi occupation catches my eye; so does an Istanbul travel guidebook. But what am I looking for, exactly?
Then, Millie pulls a key from her pocket, before pressing on the edge of a nearby shelf. It hinges open, and behind the false shelf is a padlocked door.
“What is this?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
She smiles. “Your mother’s secret library.”
I watch with rapt attention as she inserts the key into the lock.
Millie holds the key.
“She thought that every proper bookstore needed one, so when we first opened the Book Garden, she transformed an old utility closet into, well, this.”
The hinges creak as Millie opens the door, releasing stale air and scents familiar to every book lover, but especially this one—rosewater and leather, must and old paper. There’s a little chair in the corner and enough room for two people to fit, if rather snugly.
“She loved being surrounded by her favorite books,” Mille says. “I haven’t been in here since…she got sick.”
She watches as I run my hand along the edges of one of the shelves. I recognize some titles as old favorites. Others surprise me, but it’s clear that each book was chosen for a special reason.
“She always said you can tell a lot about a person by the books they keep,” I say.
Millie nods as I scan the titles on each shelf for clues about my mother’s private world. I pause when one spine in particular catches my eye. “I can’t believe it,” I say, suddenly feeling breathless. “The Last Winter.”
I first read the novel not long after my mother left, which makes the discovery feel less like a coincidence and more like what she always said—that books find you, or in this case, both of us. The fact that she kept it here, in her treasured library, meant that it was as special to her as it is to me.
“That isn’t the only surprise,” Millie says, smiling. “Look inside the bench for the finale.” She points ahead to an upholstered seat along the wall, then slips out, leaving me alone in my mother’s most sacred space. I run my hand along the gray fabric. It’s a bit threadbare, and its tufts are missing a few buttons, but it reminds me of a similar bench—the one that had been in my Santa Monica bedroom as a child. I kept my most treasured toys inside.
I lift the edge and it opens, revealing two cardboard boxes inside. An envelope with my name on it is taped to the top of one. I reach for it, tearing the edge open hastily:
My darling girl,
Congratulations! You’ve reached the end of our little scavenger hunt. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together for you. I wanted you to get to know my little world here in Primrose Hill, to meet the people I love so dearly, in hope that you could feel at home.
I also wanted you to know me. We missed so much time together, and that will always be my deepest regret. But I pray that the letters I wrote you over the years—inside these boxes—will help to make up for that. I’ve organized them by date, so you can start from the beginning. As you read, I pray you’ll understand.
The greatest failure of my life was leaving you. Will you forgive me, my little birdie?
I love you,
Mummy
I wipe away the tears on my cheeks, then pry open the edges of the first box and gasp. Just as she wrote, there are dozens of thick stacks of letters, bundled with rubber bands. I reach for the first, and pry the letter on top out. It’s from Mummy and addressed to me, but unopened. The postmark is June 13, 1990. I tearfully open it, pulling out the carefully folded page inside.
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
With love from London. My heart feels as if it might burst, and it nearly does as I pull out another bundle of letters, and another. All of them are the same—to me from Mummy—all unopened. My father must have kept her letters from me—and yet she kept writing. Every day. I think of all the letters I wrote to her, too—how I’d handed them to my father each day to stamp and take to the post office. Did he intercept those, too? Is that why he felt such remorse when he apologized to me at the end of his life?
I feel weak—and angry—as I sink into the chair beside me. But for the first time in so long, I also feel loved.
Seventeen Years Later
Valentine’s Day
A deliveryman walked into the bookstore holding an enormous bouquet of ivory and pink roses. “Eloise Baker?”
“Yes,” I said, a bit confused. “There must be some mistake.” Who would send me flowers?
He shrugged, handing me an envelope. I tore open the edge and read the card inside:
Eloise,