Grandpa George had died ten years ago and, as the parcels had been his idea in the beginning and something he had always done with his wife, Grandma Dot hadn’t sent one since. Until now.
Bea held the parcel as if it were made of solid gold, suddenly overcome with the heartfelt sentiment from her grandma. She almost didn’t want to open it, but curiosity got the better of her. Carefully, she peeled back the sticky tape and unwrapped it. Inside was a small blue leather hardback book, wrapped in a handwritten letter and tied with a white satin ribbon. When she took the ribbon away, she could see that the book was an edition of poems by John Keats. A bright yellow bookmark from the Severnside Book Emporium – Grandma Dot’s bookshop – marked a place near the centre of the book’s pages; and when Bea opened the book she found Keats’ poem ‘To Hope’. Her grandmother had underlined two lines of the poem in soft grey pencil, with one of her signature mice pointing to the excerpt with a quill pen:
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
Bea remembered Grandpa George reading poetry by Keats, Byron, Shakespeare and Rossetti on Christmas Eve when she and Stewart were children. Her parents would light a fire and turn off the television so that Grandpa could treat everyone to his recital. Bea could almost smell the satsumas she and her brother munched on as the strange James family tradition played out, not really understanding the words then but loving the togetherness of the event. Grandma Dot had always professed herself to be an admirer of novels over poems, but her husband was a firm fan of poetry, so the festive reading was something she supported.
Unfolding the letter that had been wrapped around the book, Bea blinked back tears as she read her grandmother’s message:
Dearest Bea,
I know it has been some time since the Book Mice visited you, but I felt this occasion was apt for them to make a comeback.
I thought a great deal about our email conversation last week, especially regarding your conundrum with the young man you wanted to find again. I decided that I couldn’t really reply with any great gravitas using email. So I have devised another method …
I am going to send you letters on the subject because, forgive an old woman her foibles, but I firmly believe matters of the heart – be they platonic or not – should never be discussed using email. Love, in all its forms, is timeless: therefore old-fashioned post is the only way.
And so, my plan begins.
For my first letter, I have enlisted the help of one of Grandpa George’s ‘chums’. Do you remember he used to refer to famous poets like that? He considered them his friends, ‘as all writers of words that touch our hearts should be considered’. I often wonder now if he is passing his eternal days in the company of Lord Byron, Betjeman, Owen, et al. I like to think he might be.
I chose this poem because it seemed appropriate. When there is so much to doubt in this world, hope can be our saving grace. I certainly believe it is yours, Bea. Whatever you have decided to do regarding this young man, I know your aptitude for hope will strengthen your resolve and guide you onwards.
You have had your heart broken badly. You need time, space and care to recover from the experience. But this shouldn’t deter you from finding new friends and believing in great things to come in your future. I am not just referring to relationships, but to life in general.
I won’t go into detail yet, with this being my first letter, but there is a very important reason why I know you mustn’t ever let go of hope. It has been a secret in my life for as long as you have known me, but I sense a great parallel between our lives now. I will reveal it to you in my letters.
Until the Book Mice bring your next delivery, keep hope as an ‘ethereal balm’ upon you and let me know how you are getting on.
Fondest love,
Grandma Dot xx
At that moment, Bea loved her grandmother more than she had ever done before. It didn’t all make sense, but the intention was such a lovely one that she was determined to take it as it was meant.
Hearing the whirr of the espresso machine in the store, Bea quickly gathered up the book, letter and ribbon and put them safely in her bag. She would consider Grandma Dot’s advice later: for now Hudson River Books required her undivided attention.
‘Good parcel?’ Russ asked, handing an enormous cappuccino to their first customer of the day.
Bea smiled, her heart light and happy. ‘The best.’
At the end of the day, Russ turned the OPEN sign around to the CLOSED side and stretched his arms over his head.
‘Just how long was today?’ he yawned, stretching his arms above his head. ‘It’s always worse when we’re quiet in the afternoon.’
Usually, Bea would have agreed. The day had indeed dragged, but the arrival of Grandma Dot’s package had given her such a boost that she’d barely noticed it. Russ, on the other hand, had been only too aware, taking every opportunity to moan about how quiet the store had become.
‘At least it’s over now,’ she replied.
‘What was in that package?’ Russ asked. ‘Whatever it was I could use some of it. You’ve been like a spring lamb all day.’
‘It was a surprise. From my grandma. She used to send us letters wrapped around books when we were kids, always with her cute little mice drawings on them. She calls them her Book Mice. I haven’t had one for years but she decided to revive the tradition.’
‘That’s cool. The only thing my grandma ever sent me were gift tokens for JC Penney,’ Russ grinned. ‘I used to trade them with Mom for cash.’
‘Trust you to do that.’
‘What can I say? There wasn’t much the teenage me wanted from a department store where my mother bought our underwear. You want a coffee before we leave?’
Bea shook her head. ‘No thanks. It’s still a nice day outside: I think I’ll go for a walk before I head home.’
It was only a short walk from the bookstore to Bea’s apartment, but today she turned in the opposite direction and walked a few blocks down until she reached Prospect Park. Birds were singing as she walked away from the traffic and past the 3rd Street Playground, where parents watched their children playing in the still, warm May sunshine. Bea had always loved it here, the park reminding her of the Coronation Gardens in her home town of Northbridge. She loved watching people from all walks of life coming together in one of Brooklyn’s green spaces, to run, to walk, to sit on benches and read. On Sunday mornings a Tai Chi class performed their graceful routines metres away from the frantic cries of an extreme fitness boot camp. On fine weekends, art students from the local night school would meet for a communal picnic to paint, and every day without fail, regardless of the weather, the faithful, neighbourhood dog-walking community would pound the pavements and green spaces with their excitable canine companions. It was a magnet for everyone in this area, from those fortunate (and affluent) enough to live overlooking it, to those who enjoyed a break from their everyday city lives in its leafy surroundings.
Bea found an empty bench and sat; content to watch the world and their dogs pass by. Knowing that Grandma Dot was thinking of her gave her a surprising strength. Even thousands of miles away, the bond between Bea and her grandmother was as sure as it ever had been and the reappearance of the Book Mice parcels would only make it stronger. She thought about everything that had happened since the night Otis had stood her entire family up: the protracted end of their relationship, the party, Jake and the new friend she had found in Rosie as a result. In its own way, each one was important for her to have experienced.
That was what Bea loved about living here: that even the worst experience could be turned into a positive. It was something about New York she had learned as soon as she arrived. You could knock a New Yorker down, but they always came back stronger. It was true of 9/11, when the very resolve of the city had been tested to breaking point. As a student in the city, Bea witnessed first-hand the defiant resilience of its people; and in the years following she saw
New York pick itself up and run again. If the city she loved could do it, so could she.
A buzzing from her handbag broke Bea’s train of thought. Reaching in, she retrieved her mobile phone and answered the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi Bea, it’s Rosie. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thanks. How are the wedding plans?’
Rosie groaned. ‘A lot more complicated than they have any right to be. I’m desperately in need of a night off. Which is why I’m calling, actually. What would you say to joining Ed and I for dinner this Friday?’
The invitation was a surprise, but Bea didn’t hesitate to accept. The prospect of a night out with her new friends was just what she needed. ‘I’d love that.’
‘Excellent! Come to the store about seven thirty and we’ll go from there.’
As Bea walked back to Boerum Hill, she smiled to herself. Maybe Grandma Dot was onto something with her belief in hope. Rosie and Ed were proof that unexpectedly good things could come from bad experiences and, if more positives like this were in her future, Bea was ready to move towards them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn
On Thursday evening, after what felt like the longest day at the bookstore, Bea turned to Russ as he collected his coat from the office.
‘Got anything planned for tonight?’ she asked him.
‘Other than trying not to stress out about the new stand-up routine I’m meant to be writing, no. Why?’
Bea had been thinking about it all day: part of her new single life should include hanging out with her best friend more often. The process of getting over Otis had made her wary of spending time with Russ, fretful that he would bring up her former flame whenever they spent any time together. It was time to lay that particular ghost to rest. Her friendship with Russ meant more than that. Added to this, she wanted to tell him about the dinner invitation for tomorrow night with Rosie and Ed. If her life was changing, she wanted Russ to witness it.
‘I think we both deserve a treat. So I’m calling it: Mister Wong’s!’
Chinese food from Mister Wong’s – the tiny front-room-sized takeaway kiosk below Russ’ apartment – had long been a tradition for Bea and Russ. It was the best for miles, cheap and plentiful. And even if Bea had to endure Russ’ ‘if Mister Wong’s is wrong, I don’t want to be right’ quip every time they visited, it was worth it for the fantastic collection of dishes in white takeout boxes Russ spread out across the coffee table in his apartment.
‘Egg rolls to die for …’ Bea grinned as she piled her bowl high with spicy, fragrant goodies. ‘I think he gave us extra again.’
‘He likes it when I bring you,’ Russ replied, holding up a box. ‘We have double duck chow mein again and a whole portion of pineapple fritters we didn’t order. I call it the Bea James Effect.’
Bea giggled. ‘Maybe that’s my problem: all this time I’ve been searching for Mr Right when I should have just dated Mister Wong.’
‘No way! Trust me, Bea, the key to our bountiful Chinese feast is his unrequited love for you. If you ever got together with him it could seriously hamper that. I’m not having him take out his relationship frustrations on our food order.’
‘Not to mention the small detail that Mister Wong is at least seventy years old.’
‘Well, yes. And that.’
They munched their Thursday evening meal in amiable silence, the soft sounds of jazz floating from the small stereo on the breakfast bar. After the busy week at the bookstore, hanging out with Russ was the perfect tonic. The ‘Mister Wong’s Night’ rule was that no business talk was allowed to pass across Chinese food: a very early caveat put in place to protect areas of their friendship when they first went into business together. It was important to both Bea and Russ that they never lost sight of their friendship. At times, this proved difficult, but both were committed to protecting their relationship outside of Hudson River Books.
One thing was certain, Bea thought as she reached for her third egg roll: she and Russ were finding it increasingly easier to be friends outside of work with Otis not around. He had always been the elephant in the room whenever Bea had the opportunity to spend time alone with Russ and would also frequently arrange something at the last minute to scupper her plans, especially on nights when she’d agreed to hang out with her best friend. Russ had never openly resented this when it happened, but now Otis was no longer between them, Bea could tell he had relaxed.
‘This is nice,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve missed this.’
His eyes were very still in the darkened apartment. ‘Me too. I’m sorry for pushing the Otis thing, Bea. You have every right to live however you want. Honestly, I’m glad to have you to myself at last.’ As if sensing a change in the air between them, he quickly added, ‘You know, for the extra service from Mister Wong’s and all.’
It was a ham-fisted attempt at a compliment, but Bea appreciated the gesture.
‘Love you, too,’ she grinned.
Russ turned his attention to his plate of food to shield his embarrassment. ‘So, got any plans for tomorrow night? I have a terrible stand-up script you could browse if you wanted.’
‘Ooh, tempting, but no thanks. Actually, I’ve been invited to dinner.’
Russ took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his T-shirt. ‘Oh?’
‘With Rosie Duncan – you met her at Celia’s book launch.’
‘I did?’ The penny dropped and Russ pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Oh, I did! So you’re playing gooseberry to the loved-up couple from the engagement party, huh? What a night that’s going to be …’
Bea helped herself to a sticky pineapple fritter. ‘Actually, it’s going to be lovely. I like Rosie and we have a lot in common.’
‘Ah, the Brit thing.’
‘Yes, the Brit thing – and also we see the world in a similar fashion. Rosie’s made her mark in this city, has a fantastic business and is blissfully happy with Ed. I like that she’s accomplished so much and loves the city like I do. So, I’m looking forward to seeing her and getting to know Ed better, too.’
Russ raised his chopsticks. ‘You go, girl. It’s good to see you getting out and meeting people.’ He pulled a face. ‘Man, it’s finally happened: I’ve turned into my mother. But you know what I mean.’
Bea did: and as they laid waste to the feast from Mister Wong’s, her anticipation began to build for tomorrow night’s dinner.
Friday at the bookstore passed in a blur and soon Bea was back at her apartment, dressing for her dinner date with Rosie and Ed. She felt content and happy, the warm evening mirroring her sunny mood as she dressed in a dark blue sleeveless dress and matching flats, teaming it with a short-sleeved pale blue cardigan. Grandma Dot’s letter and book lay on her coffee table and she smiled at it as she collected her bag to leave her apartment. She would write back tonight when she returned, she decided. It had been years since she had last handwritten a letter, but if it was good enough for her grandmother, it was good enough for her. Besides, there was a definite romanticism to the exchange of real letters and Bea loved the idea of communicating with her grandma this way.
The window was open in the back of the yellow cab as it passed across the Brooklyn Bridge and Bea took a deep breath as the familiar skyscrapers of New York rose above her. She loved New York at all times of the year, but in summer the city seemed to come alive. The streets and parks were filled with people during the day, markets appeared at weekends and tables from bars and restaurants spilled customers out onto the streets in the evenings. Driving up through the city, Bea could see people beginning their Friday evenings out and felt happy to be joining them.
Tonight was going to be a fun, relaxed time with people who expected nothing more from her than the pleasure of her company, which was such a pleasant change for Bea. When she had been with Otis there had always been another, unspoken agenda playing out; with Russ the conversation invariably returned t
o his life, his hang-ups and his semi-successful relationships; Imelda was good company providing her on-off boyfriend Janek wasn’t on the scene; and even with Stewart and Celia, Bea often felt like an invited audience to the two-person performance of their life.
West 68th Street was quieter than the last time she had visited, but Kowalski’s looked as inviting as before. Bea was surprised at how familiar the florist shop was, even though she had only visited once. She knocked on the door, smiling when Ed unlocked it and invited her inside.
‘Hey, you must be Bea. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘All good, I hope?’ Bea asked as Ed kissed her cheek.
‘Naturally. Come in, Rosie’s looking forward to seeing you.’
Bea followed Ed inside, the beautiful scent of fresh flowers assaulting her as she entered the store. Even without customers and with most of the lights extinguished, Kowalski’s felt like a special place.
‘She’s in the back,’ Ed grinned. ‘Take a seat and I’ll go fetch her.’
Bea settled on the leather sofa and waited. The sound of traffic outside was muffled and late evening sunlight streamed into the shop, illuminating the lines of galvanised steel buckets against the opposite wall. The exposed brickwork glowed red, contrasting with the dark green foliage in a steel trough on the floor. Everything about Kowalski’s exuded peace this evening and Bea felt happy and calm. It was going to be a great night …
A knock at the front door caught Bea’s attention and she leaned forward to see if Rosie and Ed had heard it.
‘Um, Rosie? Ed? There’s someone at the door,’ she called out, but there was no answer. The knock came again. Bea stared at the door, wondering what to do. She could just ignore it: after all, this wasn’t her store and opening hours were over. But the person on the other side seemed very intent to come in. She stood and wandered over to the workroom entrance but, finding the door shut, didn’t want to venture further inside.
The knocking intensified and, not wanting to ignore it, Bea decided to answer the door. If it was somebody wanting flowers she could advise them that the shop was closed; if it was someone else she would figure out what to do. Having run her own business for three years she was well versed in dealing with bolshie members of the public. She hurried across to the door, turned the lock, opened it – and lost her breath.
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