A business-class, lie-flat seat, courtesy of Carson’s air miles, was heaven for the eleven-hour flight from Los Angeles to London. Mari had been able to spread out in the spacious cocoon of her seat, had ordered from the gourmet in-flight menu, and was even given pajamas to change into before sliding beneath the covers. Nonetheless, she’d lain awake, staring at the ceiling of the plane for the rest of the flight, her mind going a million miles an hour.
Yes, she was excited and curious and couldn’t wait to see her father’s bookstore and Elderflower Island. But at the same time, she was also nervous.
What if she hated it and wanted to return to California immediately? Or what if she loved it and never wanted to leave? What if she took one look at England, at the island, at her father’s bookstore and flat, and realized she’d finally found her true home? No question, her mother would never forgive her.
The customs official at the airport couldn’t have been more welcoming, all smiles when he asked if she was there for business or a holiday. She didn’t know how to answer. Was her trip both? Neither? Finally, she settled on, “My father passed away, and I’ve come to take care of his affairs.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He stamped her passport. “I hope you don’t have too hard a time of it.”
His kindness brought a lump to her throat, one she was still trying to swallow past as she took her luggage off the carousel and went to join the taxi line outside. The air was slightly damp, as though it might start drizzling at any moment. Just the way she’d always imagined England would be.
The solicitor had offered to escort her to the store and flat, but she wanted to be on her own the first time she saw it. After all, who knew how she’d react? Cry or laugh like a loon—either of those emotions felt possible right now.
After the long, sleepless flight, her eyes felt gritty, her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and her limbs were strangely rubbery. And yet, from the moment the taxi drove out of London Heathrow, she was mesmerized.
In Southern California, the hills were golden brown nearly year-round. But here the landscape, even on the side of the freeway, was lush and green. So many shades of green, from the fields to the forest, contrasting with the puffy clouds and blue sky peeking out from between them.
The traffic was light, and soon they were taking the exit toward Kew and Richmond. Her heart fluttered as she took in the centuries-old stone and brick buildings, the pubs, the bridge over the river. It was exactly as she’d imagined—even better than what Google had shown her.
Her driver smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Just last weekend, my wife and I took our grandchildren to Petersham Nurseries. Couldn’t find a lovelier spot if you tried.”
“I’ve never been there.” But during her research over the years, she’d read plenty about the posh plant store and its onsite restaurant and café.
“American?” When she nodded, he said, “You are in for a treat.” He pointed out landmarks: Kew Gardens, the Borough of Richmond, where he claimed several rock stars and actors lived, and then what he told her was his favorite spot of all, Elderflower Island. “I have whiled away many happy hours in the pub while my wife browsed the shops. Including, of course, the best bookshop in London.”
For the past twenty minutes, she had been swept into a dream by her surroundings. With a harsh thump, the driver’s comment brought her back down to earth.
“That’s where I’d like you to drop me.” She found it suddenly difficult to catch her breath as the reality of where she was going hit her in the solar plexus. “At the bookstore on the island.”
“Are you staying in one of the rooms above the pub?”
“No.” In LA she wouldn’t have risked giving away personal details, but she couldn’t imagine this kindly taxi driver who had just been talking about his grandkids causing her trouble. “I’m staying in the flat above the store.”
“Ah, I thought you had a familiar look about you. The owner, Charlie, is a fine fellow. Are you related to him, by any chance?”
Hearing that she resembled her father knocked even more breath from her lungs. “He was my father.” Before the driver could comment on her use of the word was, she added, “He died last month.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. You have my deepest condolences.”
She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
They drove over the bridge to the island, and she almost gasped out loud. Elderflower Island had taken on almost mythical proportions to her over the years.
Amazingly, it did not disappoint.
A large manor house stood regally, if a bit weathered, in the center of the island, looking like something out of a fairy tale, with wrought-iron gates opening to a long drive with a fountain at the center.
Across from the manor house stood another impressive building—the island’s concert hall. From her research, she knew it had been a well-respected venue for several decades, jump-starting the careers of many top British bands. Unfortunately, it now seemed to be closed for business.
To the right of the concert hall was a row of picturesque storefronts—a corner grocery, a bakery, a tea shop, a Chinese takeaway, and several boutiques. Each doorway was painted a different color and looked immensely more appealing than the cookie-cutter strip malls she was used to seeing in Santa Monica.
A sign for the Fox & Hound pub jutted out over the street. The whitewashed walls of the pub were surrounded by outdoor seating. Plenty of people were sitting outside enjoying a drink.
Beyond the curve of the road, there was a large boathouse belonging to the island’s rowing and sailing club.
And perched directly in front of the river, between the pub and the boathouse, stood her father’s bookstore.
Mari’s heart just about stopped in her chest as she took it in. The painted sign above the door—Elderflower Island Books—was faded. The building, dated 1883, looked plenty faded too.
Belatedly, she realized the driver had already placed her bags on the sidewalk. Alighting from the taxi, she fumbled for money in her purse. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
He drove off, but she didn’t immediately head in. Instead, she stood with her luggage at her feet, staring through the windows of her father’s bookstore.
Her bookstore now.
At last, she reached into her purse again and drew out the key the solicitor had mailed to her—an antique skeleton key, forged from heavy metal. The front door was made of wood, and at the center was a hand carving of an open book, a page moving in midair. It was utterly captivating, even under a layer of dust.
This was it. The moment of truth.
On a deep breath, she turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
Oh. My. God.
It was absolutely filthy.
Books lay everywhere. Not only on the shelves, but also on the floor, on the various chairs and couches, on the windowsills, even on the stairs that she assumed led to the second-floor flat.
Though her father had died only six weeks ago, it didn’t look like anyone had been here in months. Certainly not a cleaner, or anything resembling a customer. From her online research, she had assumed the store was thriving. How long had her father been sick? And had there been no one to help him?
Mari had never thought about her father in connection with anyone but her mother and herself, but now that she was finally on the island, she saw how close the cottages, the other businesses, and the manor house were. How could the decline of her father’s store possibly have gone unnoticed?
Hopefully, the flat wasn’t in as bad a shape as the store. But if it was, she reminded herself that she was more than capable of buying cleaning supplies and giving every inch of the store and flat a good scouring—even if it took several days.
At last, she picked up her bags and carried them inside. Her mother had been horrified when she’d seen how much Mari was taking to England. “It looks as though you’re planning to move there for good!”
Mari had explained that, regardless of how long she stayed, she needed to be prepared for the unpredictable London weather, which meant jeans and a waterproof jacket and boots, along with lighter clothes and tennis shoes. Her explanation hadn’t mollified her mother, however. Now, Mari wished she had packed less so she wouldn’t have had so much to lug up the narrow, steep stairs.
As if Donna knew Mari was thinking of her, a text buzzed through to her phone.
Are you there? How was your flight? Is everything okay?
It was four in the morning in California. Mari doubted her mother had gone to sleep, instead waiting up until she heard from her. I’m here. The flight was good. Don’t worry, everything is fine.
Her mother instantly responded. Your father and I both want you to know how much we love you. If you need anything, we can get on the next plane…or buy you a return ticket home.
Mari knew her mom meant well, but she still felt the heavy weight of the emotion in her mother’s texts. Especially Donna’s use of the word father, as though to remind Mari of who her real dad was. I promise I’m fine. Please get some sleep, and I’ll call you once I’m settled in.
Without waiting for another response, she turned the ringer off and slid her phone back into her purse.
As she rolled her bags toward the stairs, she knocked over several stacks of books on the floor. At the moment, however, she was too sleep-deprived to care. After much huffing and puffing and a stubbed toe, she finally brought all of her bags up the stairs to the landing outside the door to the flat.
Having faced her first big moment of truth in the store, she didn’t make any ceremony of pausing in anticipation before unlocking the flat’s door with yet another heavy key.
Yup, no surprises were forthcoming. The flat was as filthy as the store.
Instead of gaping, she simply brought her things inside. The combined kitchen and living room was a decent size, certainly big enough to hold her suitcases until she could find a clean spot to unpack them. She walked down a small hallway that led toward two bedrooms and a bathroom. Every room was a mess.
Clearly, her definition of perfectly livable and the solicitor’s were very different.
Of course she was thrilled to have an entire bookstore at her disposal. Who wouldn’t be? But before she could dive into the treasure trove of books, she’d need to clean the flat so that she would be able to cook and eat and bathe and sleep.
Still, the exhilaration of actually being here, after so long spent dreaming about it, was fluttering inside her. It would take much more than some dust and disorganization to squash her excitement.
First things first. She needed to put some clean sheets on the mattress in the second bedroom. She’d barely poked her head into her father’s bedroom—it was too much to deal with all at once—so she certainly couldn’t sleep there.
Fifteen minutes later, she had found a stack of crumpled paperwork, old checkbooks, more books, and ceramic bowls in a multitude of shapes and sizes. No sheets or clean towels, however.
Maybe the smart thing to do would be to see if the pub had a room for the night, so she could return to the store and flat well rested and ready to begin cleanup. But she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t falter at the first hurdle—and no matter which way she turned it over inside her head, leaving Charlie’s flat within minutes of arriving didn’t feel right. It felt like hiding. Like folding under pressure. Like giving in and giving up before she’d even tried to see beyond the dust and disarray.
She would simply have to find a nearby store, buy some clean sheets and towels, take a quick nap, and then get to work.
“Hello? Marina, is that you?”
The sound of the deep male voice—and a positively swoon-worthy British accent—coming from the store downstairs startled her.
Giving her head a shake to try to clear the sleepy cobwebs from her brain, she realized it must be the solicitor coming to greet her, despite her request to remain alone during her first day here. Although she didn’t remember his voice having this effect on her when they’d spoken on the phone.
“Coming,” she called back.
But before she could get past her suitcases, the best-looking man she’d ever seen appeared in the open doorway.