All day, Owen had been tethered to his telephone. The conference calls with the producers in France that he’d put off earlier in the week could no longer be ignored. But as they hammered out details and timelines, he’d been thinking of Mari.
His grandmother had left fifteen minutes ago for the bookshop. He’d wanted to accompany her, but that was right when the president of the French network joined the call. Planning to follow as soon as he could, he had gestured for her to go without him.
His grandmother’s text made his chest tighten with concern: Bringing Mari home for tea after a huge shock. Please put the kettle on.
Though the network president didn’t seem ready to wrap up the call just yet, Owen made his excuses, then left his desk without giving work another thought. For the past year, he’d lived and breathed business. At last, he could see how far overboard he’d gone. Yes, his work on behalf of his grandmother’s books was important, but it should never have become the be-all and end-all of his life. There was no question that last night’s talk with Mathilda had helped absolve him of a great deal of the guilt he’d been carrying around for the past year. But what felt just as momentous was that he hadn’t been able to shake Mari from his thoughts since the moment they’d met.
He didn’t want to shake her away. Just the opposite, in fact.
He wanted nothing more than the chance to know Mari better. And not only because of their spectacular kisses…although he wouldn’t deny just how many times he’d replayed them in his head.
As he made tea, he tried to figure out what the latest shock could be after yesterday’s nasty pile-of-bills surprise. Owen loved Charlie—they all had. And he dearly wished Mari’s father had still been here today. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the man’s faults, especially where his daughter was concerned.
On top of being absent for nearly Mari’s entire life, Charlie had left her with a filthy flat, a run-down bookshop, and a stack of unpaid bills. Owen knew his perspective on families was different from many others’. His parents had been happily married for more than three decades, and he was close to his four siblings. But was it too much to ask for parents to openly love their children without making them feel as though they’d done something wrong at some point along the way?
The kettle was whistling by the time he heard the front door open. He poured water into the pot and brought it over to the table just as Mari and Mathilda came into the kitchen.
Mari’s face was pale, and she was clutching a stack of black art journals.
“Thank you for making tea, darling.” His grandmother led Mari over to a chair and sat her down, then moved to the cupboard to get out her stash of chocolate Hobnobs, her special biscuits that Owen knew not to eat, or suffer the consequences. “A biscuit and a sip of sweet tea will do wonders.”
Just as his grandmother predicted, a few minutes later, the color had returned to Mari’s cheeks. When she looked up, it was as though she had only just realized Owen was in the room.
“Hi.”
He smiled at her, his heart feeling like it had a soft center. “Hi.”
“I found these today. Right before your grandmother came to say hello.” She held out one of the notebooks. “Please, open it.”
Owen had thought he knew Charlie quite well after haunting his bookshop for a good twenty-five years. But not only had he never guessed that the other man had a daughter nearly Owen’s age, he’d certainly never sussed out that the man was a brilliant illustrator and storyteller. The style of the illustrations was vaguely reminiscent of the Winnie-the-Pooh books, but not at all a copycat.
“This is you and Charlie. Playing conkers.”
She nodded. “I had no idea he could draw. Or write. Or…that he loved me so much.”
“He really did,” Mathilda said.
Mari swallowed hard. “Did you know?”
“About you, yes. About these books, no.” Mathilda gestured to one of the notebooks. “May I look at it again?” When Mari nodded, his grandmother picked it up and turned the pages carefully as she read. “Honestly, I’m not surprised to learn that he’d been writing children’s books, nor that he was writing about you. Your father had a brilliant mind. One so full of books and other people’s stories that it could sometimes be difficult to have a straightforward conversation. But no matter how far away he often seemed, I knew he was always thinking about you. Always loving you with everything he was.”
Mari stared at the notebook open before her without seeming to see it. “If only I’d been able to talk with him before he passed away. I can’t stop wishing for it, even though I know it can never come true.”
Mathilda put her hand over Mari’s. “I wish you had been able to spend time with him too. Charlie and I rarely argued. But we argued about this. About you. About his stubborn insistence that he must stay out of your life forever.”
“All this time,” Mari said in a low voice, “I thought he didn’t love me anymore. Or that, maybe, he never loved me in the first place.” She ran her fingertips lightly over a drawing of her and her father skipping down a lane that looked just like the one the cottage and the bookstore were on. “Now that I know he did love me, while it feels like the hugest relief ever, at the same time it makes me more confused. Why did he never come back into my life?”
“I’ve lived more than seventy years,” Mathilda said, “and I still find that, more often than not, people’s choices are a mystery. I can’t claim to know the full ins and outs of Charlie’s mind, but he and I had enough conversations about you that I feel comfortable telling you what he told me, at the very least.”
“Please.” Though it was clear that she wanted answers, Mari looked as though she was bracing for impact. Owen understood—it was exactly the way he was feeling himself, though this was her story, not his. It mattered to him a great deal because Mari mattered to him.
“No one and nothing on this earth meant more to your father than you, Mari.” Mathilda’s expression was earnest, empathy written across her face as she spoke. “All he wanted was the very best for you. The biggest happiness. The most extraordinary life, both present and future.” She paused a beat before saying, “Which was why he could never forgive himself for what happened the day you were found on a busy street while he lay passed out at home. Yes, your mother kicked him out, but the truth is that he was already planning to leave.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“For the same reason he never got in touch with you—because he believed your life would be immeasurably better without him in it.”
“Because he was an alcoholic?” A hint of anger underscored Mari’s question. “He could have gotten help for his addiction and still been my dad.”
“I agree, but I’m afraid he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Not then. And not thirty years later. As I said, he and I argued about it—pretty much constantly once he was diagnosed with cancer. But he could never forgive himself for what almost befell you that day so long ago. I promise you, I tried every argument under the sun to sway him, but he was immovable in his belief that he didn’t deserve to be your father.” Though Mathilda looked as though she had more to say, she reached for her teacup instead, picking it up with a trembling hand.
“Whatever else you have to tell me, I want to hear it,” Mari insisted.
“You’re a very strong woman,” Mathilda noted. “I knew you would be.” She took another bracing sip of tea. “Your father was strong too. Strong enough to give up drink. Strong enough to build a new life for himself on the island after losing everything that mattered to him in California. But he wasn’t strong enough to give up the belief that coming back into your life would be akin to a bad-luck omen for you.”
Mari frowned. “Are you saying he thought I would get sick or hurt if I saw him again? That he believed the only reason I’m alive and well is because he was never again a part of my life?”
“Unfortunately, yes. As he grew more and more ill, I held out hope that he would at least write you a letter to explain everything and tell you how he felt about you, or put together a formal will. But in those final weeks when he refused treatment, then locked all of us away, I knew nothing had changed. Worse, I was certain that he believed dying of cancer was his karmic payment for losing you. Still, I hoped that when the solicitors found you, you’d come. And I felt certain that once you were here, you’d see all the clues he surely couldn’t help but subconsciously leave for you. Clues like these notebooks.”
“Every day, I’ve found a new one,” Mari confirmed. “The Winnie-the-Pooh signed first edition. Mars the cat. My baby clothes. And the birthday gifts he bought for me but never sent.”
At last, Mathilda smiled. “Now, here you are. And I couldn’t be happier to finally meet you. You’re as delightful as I knew you would be.”
“I’m so glad to meet you too. For so long, I’ve wondered about my father’s life. About his business and the people he loved.” Mari’s eyes were damp as she said, “I’m glad that he was surrounded by such wonderful friends. Thank you for caring about him. For loving him. I always loved him, even from afar. I’m not going to lie, however, and say I’m not angry with him. He should have given me credit for being strong enough to handle whatever came my way instead of keeping his distance because he was afraid that he might ‘curse’ my life in some way.”
“You have every right to be angry. Just as you should never doubt that he loved you more than anyone or anything in the world,” Mathilda insisted again. “And I know, without a doubt, that everything he did came from a misguided sense of love. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, he would have found so much joy in seeing what a lovely, bright, determined woman you are. I’m sorry that didn’t come to pass. More sorry than I can ever express. But though you’re right that we can’t go back to change the past, I hope that what I’ve told you will help you move forward with a lighter and fuller heart.”
“It will. It is.” Mari gave his grandmother a small smile, but Owen could see her brain was still racing to process all she’d learned. “Ever since the call came from the solicitors, I’ve been grappling with what I should do. At the very least, I knew I should try to get the store up and running, so that when I looked for a buyer, the sales price would be higher for a current business. But after finding these notebooks and hearing everything you’ve just said?”
Mari met Owen’s eyes for a brief moment before turning back to Mathilda.
“I can’t leave. I don’t think I was ever going to be able to leave, if I’m being totally honest. Not when simply coming to Elderflower Island and walking into the bookstore has felt like stumbling into a world of buried treasure.” Her gaze lit as she spoke of the store full of all the books she so loved. “But now I’m not just going to try to get Elderflower Island Books up and running—I’m definitely going to make it work.” Determination lay under every word she spoke. “I’ve never done anything like this before—I’ve worked the same accounting job for the past ten years. But I love books and bookstores, and I know this is where I’m meant to be. I can never make up for missing a lifetime with my father, but I can embrace his legacy. And put everything I am into making sure it continues.”
Just as she’d thought might happen, one of the books in Charlie’s shop had steered her in the right direction. She just hadn’t ever thought it would be a book her father wrote—about her.