I listened as he cleared his throat. “A long time ago, I…owned this building. I was all set to sell it when a particularly interesting duo approached my agent with the dream of…starting a bookstore.”
I gasped.
“You see, some might have considered the venture a losing proposition, but I thought otherwise. Primrose Hill needed a bookstore. You needed a bookstore.”
I smiled between labored breaths. It was him. It was always him.
“Oh, Eloise,” he cried, tears running down his face.
“No,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I need to see your smile. I want to memorize it, for…eternity.”
My eyelids were so heavy, but I drew on my meager reserve of strength to keep them open for a few more moments to see the smile that he produced for me.
He squeezed my hand as my eyelids fluttered, then finally closed. I could still see, however—at least, on the big screen in my mind’s eye. It was a different sort of sight, but it was crystal clear. And there we were, the two of us. We’d shed the trappings of age and illness leaving only joy, the very brightest sort, radiating from our faces as we ran, hand in hand, through a grassy field speckled with wildflowers. Millie and Valentina were there, too, waving. I was at once filled with the thing I’d been chasing my entire life: peace.
Christmas Eve
The table is set, and Bing Crosby is playing on Mummy’s old record player. I glance at the kitchen, grateful there isn’t smoke streaming from the oven, only the savory scent of rosemary and roast beef. I smile to myself, thinking of my first day in London, with Liza holding that smoldering pan. It felt like a thousand years ago, and also…yesterday. She might not be gifted in the kitchen, but as I eye the flower arrangement on the table, it’s clear that she’s found her calling.
“Can you grab that, doll?” Liza says to me when the doorbell rings. “I’ve got to wrangle this beast.” She heaves the enormous pan out of the oven and onto the stovetop, muttering obscenities under her breath. “Bloody hell. Aren’t you the devil incarnate. Thought you’d kill me now, did you?”
Millie and Fernando have just arrived. She hands me a tray of fudge, and blushes when I point to the mistletoe, which I hung over the entryway this afternoon. Fernando isn’t bothered in the slightest, however. He stretches onto his tippy toes and kisses her.
“Do I have anything in my teeth?” Liza asks nervously when the doorbell sounds again a moment later. I tell her she looks perfect as I reach for the doorknob again, eager to meet the new love interest she’s been unusually tight-lipped about. And there he is, a friendly-looking man in his forties—with a purple mohawk.
“I’m Jiles,” he says, anxiously cracking the knuckles on his tattooed left hand. I smile as Liza gives him a quick kiss.
Fernando introduces himself with a firm handshake. “You live or work around here?”
“Both,” Jiles says.
“Ah, we’re neighbors, then.” He smiles. “What did Liza say you did for a living?”
“I’m an accountant,” he says.
“But Jiles is also in a band,” she adds, giving me a knowing smile. “Honey, tell everyone about Night Shredder.” She beams. “He’s the lead singer.”
“Aww, it’s nothing much. Just a bunch of guys with sensible jobs who like to play rock and roll on the weekends.”
I watch him wrap his arm around Liza’s waist as she looks up at him adoringly. It appears she’s found the man she’d been looking for all these years, and so far, he seems to rival any of the best men in literature—at least, in the Book of Liza.
The two couples mingle, keeping a respectable distance from the mistletoe—for now—as Eric arrives next, with an evergreen garland and a bottle of wine.
“Just the essentials,” he says, kissing my cheek. He slips out of his coat and I brush away a few snowflakes that still cling to his sweater. “Shall I go uncork this thing?”
“Please,” I say, grinning as Millie approaches and links her arm into mine.
“Merry Christmas, honey,” she says.
“Merry Christmas.”
She catches Fernando’s eye across the room, then turns back to me. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” I say. “So happy.” My eyes are suddenly misty as I look around the little flat that has become my home. Everything is in place, but one thing is missing. “Millie,” I whisper. “I wish she were here.”
“Oh, sweet girl, but you’re mistaken,” she replies, her eyes big. “She is here.”
I let Millie’s words sink in until they become truth. And they are—I just didn’t know it yet. I’ll never again have to look for Mummy. She’s been here the whole time—in the Book Garden and on the streets of Primrose Hill; in Millie’s smile and Liza’s laughter; in Eric’s eyes and between the lines of an old favorite book. But above all, she’s been in my heart this whole time, the one place where we’ll never be separated.
I smile to myself, composing the letter I would send to her right now, with love—with so much love—from London.
For my beautiful nieces
（and flower girls），
Selah and Johannah,
with love from Auntie Sarah
My husband, Brandon, proposed to me in London on a chilly late-December night in 2017. I had no idea that he was going to pop the question, or in such a beautiful way. In fact, I was so stunned, I actually dropped the ring on the cobblestone streets of Notting Hill （thank God, I found it and said yes a few moments later）。 On that night, I knew two things: I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this wonderful man, and I also decided I’d set my next book in London. So, thank you, dearest Brandon, for the inspiration and, above all, for loving me.
The process of writing a book is a roller-coaster ride that’s filled with bursts of creativity and zeal, but also heaps of self-doubt and exhaustion. It can be as fun and fulfilling as it is lonely and grueling. I am eternally grateful to the incredibly competent and understanding team of people I work with, who not only understand this but also know exactly how to help an author take a fledgling idea and turn it into the book you’re holding in your hands right now. At the top of my list, my two super agents, Elisabeth Weed and Jenny Meyer, who have been with me from the beginning and are the two greatest business partners and friends a writer could ask for.
To my dear editor, Shauna Summers at Random House, thank you for believing in this book and in me, and for all your wise editorial feedback and encouragement along the way. You could see the heart of this story when my vision was blurred, and it’s a thousand times better because you pushed me to go deeper.
I have so many people to thank—for their reading time, feedback, advice, moral support, brainstorming sessions, hugs, wine, and a million more things. This list （in random order） includes colleagues, friends, and family members: Denise Roy, Claire Bidwell Smith, D. J. Kim, Heidi Gall, the wonderful team at Random House/Ballantine, Lauren Vogt, Camille Noe Pagan, my publishers and readers around the world, my wonderful sons—Carson, Russell, and Colby—and my “bonus” kids—Josiah, Evie, and Petra—as well as my sister and brothers. And thanks, Mom and Dad, for being my number-one fans. I love you.