by Bella Andre
They were halfway out the door when Nils rushed over. “You forgot your book.”
She slid it into her bag. Now, more than ever, she would need to know the history of Elderflower Island.
CHAPTER TWO
Somehow, Mari made it through the budget meeting. Her cheeks hurt from fake-smiling, and her stomach ached from being twisted in knots all afternoon.
Mari never left work early, but as soon as the meeting concluded, she grabbed her things and slipped out. She needed to be at her best—or as close to it as she could manage—for the upcoming discussion with her parents. That meant heading home to shower off the cold sweat that had covered her upon hearing that Charlie had passed away, putting on a little makeup to give her cheeks some color, then forcing down some food for much-needed energy.
At seven that night, she drove out of the city and into the leafy suburbs off Montana Avenue where her parents lived. The Spanish-style, white stucco house with its half acre of blooming, well-tended garden was the home Mari had lived in nearly all her life. Until she was three, she’d lived with her mother and Charlie in a condominium above a brewpub on Santa Monica’s Third Street, in the heart of downtown. But she’d been too young at the time to remember much about her time there.
From the driveway, she could see her mother and stepfather standing together in the kitchen. They looked up through the window, and when they saw her car, they both smiled.
Mari hated knowing that what she was about to tell them would wipe their smiles right off.
Her mother was waiting at the open front door by the time Mari walked up the stone path. “Your timing is perfect if you’d like to join us for dinner, honey. We have more than enough for three.”
“I already ate, thanks.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “There’s actually something I need to talk about with both you and Dad.”
She almost flinched as the word Dad left her mouth.
All day, she’d been mourning the loss of the father she’d never really known—and regardless of what Carson had said, she couldn’t help feeling that it was a betrayal of the man who had cared for her for the past twenty-nine years with love and care.
Her mother looked at her more closely. “That sounds serious. Is everything okay? Are you feeling sick? Gary didn’t mention anything about you not feeling well at the office.”
“No, I’m not sick.” But things were most definitely not okay. “We should sit down, and then I’ll explain everything.”
It was at moments like this when Mari wished she could suggest that her mother and stepfather pour them all a drink. But not only did Donna refuse to drink alcohol, she wouldn’t let Gary have one single sip of spirits either. What’s more, for as long as Mari could remember, her mother had drummed into her head that her genetics made her a prime candidate for developing a drinking problem.
In the hours that had passed since the solicitor’s call, she had gone around and around inside her head to try to find a palatable way to explain her plans to travel to England to see Charlie’s flat and bookstore. Unfortunately, she had yet to land on one.
“My birth father—” The immediate look of horror—and fury—on her mother’s face made her break off in midsentence.
Mari belatedly realized her first error had been in using the word father in reference to him.
Clearing her throat, she began again. “I got a phone call this afternoon. Charlie—”
Her mother cut her off. “Has he contacted you?” Donna turned to Gary. “What did I tell you? I knew there would come a day when he wouldn’t leave well enough alone.” Donna scowled as she asked Mari, “What did he say?”
For a long moment, all Mari could do was shake her head as she worked to swallow her grief. “Nothing. He’s dead.”
Her mother gasped, her face going pale as she gripped her husband’s hand for support. “How did you find out?”
“A phone call from a solicitor.”
She could see both the concern in her stepfather’s eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, Mari.”
“Well, I’m not.” Donna stood, clearly agitated. “That man was a useless, drunk danger to you. I say good riddance.”
Though Mari had only vague memories of her father, they were surprisingly good ones. They had played games together—Chutes and Ladders, which he had called Snakes and Ladders; tic-tac-toe, which he had called noughts-and-crosses; and her favorite, conkers.
She had loved exploring the local public garden to look for chestnut trees, then collecting the glossy nuts to find the best conkers for their competition. He would make holes in the conkers so that they could thread a string through each of them. Charlie would then hold his conker steady, dangling it from a string, while she tried with all her might to hit it with hers. Every time she knocked one of his conkers off the string, he would hug her and tell her what a clever little girl she was.
She also remembered his English accent. It didn’t much matter what he said—just listening to him speak, or read aloud from one of the dozens of children’s books he’d bought her, had been so nice and soothing.
Thinking back to those lovely memories made Mari want to defend Charlie to her mother, however unwise that course of action might be.
Before she could, however, her stepfather asked, “Did the solicitor say anything more?”
“Yes. As I’m his next of kin, his bookstore, flat and savings have now passed to me.”
“No!” Donna spun around. “Under no circumstances should you take ownership of anything that was his. There must be a way for you to refuse his estate.”
Mari understood why her mother wanted her to do that. But she couldn’t bring herself to just up and disavow her father’s legacy.
Donna’s expression grew even more aghast when Mari’s silence indicated that she didn’t agree. “You aren’t thinking of keeping his store, are you? Do I need to remind you what kind of man he was—and what he did?”
Of course Mari didn’t need a reminder, not when she knew the story by heart. Charlie Forsythe had come to California from London, charmed Donna into marrying him, then gotten her pregnant before she realized just how out of control his drinking really was. He was bohemian—he sketched and wrote—but brought in little to no money from a part-time job at a bookstore. They survived because of Donna’s job as a secretary at an accounting firm. And then, one day when Mari was three, her father had blacked out when he was supposed to be watching her. Mari had left the apartment and was toddling down busy Third Street when the owner of the downstairs brewpub saw her from the window. Just in time, the man darted out to stop her from crossing the road in front of a delivery truck.
Mari’s mother had kicked Charlie out that night, telling him never to come back.
And he never had.
“I know he made mistakes,” Mari said, “but I can’t make any decisions without going to England.”
“I’ll save you the trip,” her mother said. “Both his store and flat will be a mess, just like he was. In any case, why would you want to own a bookstore—in England, of all places—when you have a wonderful job right here at home, with a family who loves you?”
If Mari hadn’t already felt guilty, she certainly would have now. The easiest thing would be to bend to her mother’s will, to agree that England and everything in it, especially her birth father, were horrible, and turn her back on Charlie’s unexpected legacy. But Mari had always been secretly fascinated by all things British. Especially the southwest corner of London, where her father lived. She’d gone so far as to Google-walk the streets on her computer, trying to imagine what his life was like five thousand miles away—and inevitably wondering what it would have been like to grow up on Elderflower Island instead of in Santa Monica.
“I need to see it for myself.” Mari’s words were firm, despite the fact that her mother’s reaction was even worse than she’d thought it might be. She would never want to hurt Donna, but she couldn’t bury her own needs for another moment longer.
Her mother sat, looking shakier than ever. “How long are you planning to be away?”
“I have quite a bit of accrued vacation on the books.” Turning to Gary, Mari said, “I’ll take the next few weeks to finish my current projects, or pass them into capable hands, before I go.” According to the solicitor, she had six weeks until probate was done. Six weeks to prepare herself to finally enter her father’s world.
“You have my blessing to do whatever you need to do, Mari.”
Donna scowled at her husband, clearly displeased that he would encourage their daughter to pursue anything involving Charlie Forsythe. She turned her attention back to Mari. “You still haven’t said how long you’ll be gone.”
“I don’t know yet.” Understanding that nothing she said tonight was going to soothe her mother, Mari stood. “Sorry for interrupting your dinner. I’ll leave now and let you get to it.”
Her mother glowered. “I’ve completely lost my appetite.”
Though Mari wished there was something she could do to bring back her mom’s smile, she simply kissed her cheek, gave her stepfather a hug, then saw herself out.
Surprisingly, as she headed to her car, she realized that she felt better than she had all day. One of her biggest dreams was on the verge of coming true. She was finally going to visit her father’s home. Though Charlie wouldn’t be there to greet her, hopefully she would still find enough clues in his home and business to discover who he had been.
And while she was there, she couldn’t help but wonder if she might also discover new things about herself too.
CHAPTER THREE
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 ske
leton 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.
