She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, El, I don’t know what to say.” She searched my face. “I know you always suspected something like that was happening, but,” she said with a sigh, “this is cruelty…beyond comprehension.”
When I noticed an envelope taped to the inside edge of the box, I opened it and read it aloud:
Dear Eloise,
This may come as a shock to you, and I’m very sorry. After my brother, Frank, passed, I found these letters in his study, and I felt that you deserved to have them. As a mother myself, it seemed inconceivable that he would have kept them from Valentina, but I’m sure Frank had his reasons and I won’t question those, especially now. I considered giving them to Val, but I didn’t feel it was my place. Instead, I’m sending them back to you. I hope you will one day come to forgive Frank. I can only imagine that he had many regrets at the end of his life. Despite his challenges, he was a good man. And I know he did love you once, very much. Again, I’m very sorry.
Kind regards,
Barbara
One Year Later
It’s the first of December, and when Millie and I arrive at the store that morning, we find Liza wrangling a strand of white fairy lights. She quit her assistant job a few months ago and came to work for us on a full-time basis, which was a great comfort to me. If I remember correctly, the letter of resignation she sent to her boss consisted of only two words: “Piss off.”
“I found these in the back room,” she says. “I thought we could decorate today.”
I smile, lifting a faux evergreen wreath from the open box beside her, which I hang on the front door. “Here,” I say, grabbing the end of the strand. “Let me help.”
“Thanks,” she says, pointing to the window seat, where dozens of plants with ruby-red leaves stand at attention. “The poinsettias came in today, look.”
I smile, remembering my childhood Christmases in Santa Monica. “Mummy loved poinsettias.”
Fernando appears in the doorway with his morning deliveries. He waves at Liza and me, then gives Millie a quick kiss. Her engagement ring sparkles from across the room.
“I brought in the mail,” he says, depositing a large pile on the counter.
Millie sorts through the stack, then pauses when something catches her eye.
“Look, Val—you got a postcard,” she says, handing it to me. “From Daniel.”
I smile at the photo of the Taj Mahal, then flip it over to read his note.
“So,” Liza says, leaning over my shoulder. “What did he say?”
“He says India has been amazing and his project is almost complete. He plans to come back soon, maybe by Christmas.” I set the postcard down. “He says hi to you two.”
“That was nice of him…to think of you,” Millie says.
“It was,” I say, though I remained rather unfazed. When he left for India, Daniel and I agreed to go our separate ways, and I hadn’t thought about him much at all over the past year.
“Maybe the story isn’t over for you two,” Liza says, glancing over from her flock of poinsettias.
“I think it is,” I say with a shrug. “But that’s okay.” And it was. For the first time since I could remember, I felt happy. Perfectly happy. I’d just completed a light remodel of the third-floor flat—repainting the kitchen, updating the appliances, and retiling the bathroom. Over the months, I read Mummy’s letters, every one of them. They offered the greatest gift of all—healing. I finally understood her, and when I looked up at the stars at night, I prayed she understood me, too. Everything finally felt as if it had found its place, including me.
“Shoot,” Millie says, fumbling beneath the desk. “Where’s my mind? I was going to ask Fernando to take a box of books over to Mrs. Wilson this afternoon. She’s been ill, and her special order came in yesterday.”
I reach for the box, eyeing the address. “That’s not too far, is it?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t worry, I can bring it over to her later,” I say. “I planned on taking a walk today.”
“Thanks, honey. She’ll be grateful. But bundle up. I hear there’s snow in the forecast.”
I glance out the window, smiling at the thick clouds rolling in. “I hope so.”
* * *
—
Around three, I lace up my boots and tuck a scarf around my neck, just in case, then reach for a tote bag hanging on the hook by my door. I tuck my wallet and Mrs. Wilson’s package inside, then sling it over my shoulder and set out down the street, waving at John in the bakery, and Jan in the window of Café Flora. Life could bring joy or sorrow, and a million twists and turns, but it comforted me knowing that Primrose Hill would remain unchanged, down to its pastel-colored soul.
I greet Mrs. Wilson on her front porch. She looks pale, but her expression warms when I hand her the box of books. It warms me, too.
I walk ahead, the cold air kissing my cheeks. If I take a slightly different return route, I can follow Prince Albert Road to Primrose Hill park. I notice a café on the next block, and I decide to stop in for a coffee and the chance to thaw my chilly fingers.
“You look like someone who could use a warm drink,” says an older man behind the counter.
“Yes, please,” I say, ordering a cappuccino. As I reach into my bag for my wallet, I notice a stowaway inside—The Last Winter—and I realize I’d completely forgotten about it. I sit down in a chair by the window, fanning the pages. It feels good to be reunited with an old friend, even if “Daniel” didn’t quite turn out as I’d expected.
I sip my coffee, thinking about the last year, and my mind turns to Eric. I’d seen him a few times, when he’d stopped in to the bookstore on occasion, but it has been months since his last visit. I knew from reading his columns that he was on assignment in France, but it wasn’t clear if he’d returned to London yet. Then I remember that he’d given me his card. I have it in my wallet somewhere, so I have a look, and sure enough, there it is, hiding behind the old Amex card Nick and I used to share. I make a mental note to cut it up at home.
Eric Winston, columnist, it reads. His cell is printed on the bottom line, and without giving it a second thought, I spontaneously dial the number. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hi Eric, it’s Valentina,” I say.
“Valentina, hi! How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. I don’t know why, but you just crossed my mind…and I wanted to call to say hi. Are you back from France?”
“I’m so glad you did,” he says, “and yes, I’ve been home for three weeks now. What are you up to?”
I look out the window as people pass on the sidewalk, watching a little girl—no more than three—skipping along in pink rain boots, clutching her mother’s hand. How lucky she is, I think, to be able to hold her mother’s hand. “Reminiscing, you could say. I was out walking after dropping off some books for a customer, and I popped in to a little café up on the hill.”
“What café?”
I peer at the sign on the wall. “Greenberry Café.”
“You’re kidding me,” he says. “My flat’s just around the corner.”