Page 35 of Tattered Edges

When we were alone once more, I told her, “I haven’t. Read the book, that is.”

Eloise knit her eyebrows together in an obvious show of surprise. “Are you serious?”

I merely nodded in response.

“It’s about you. I mean, it’s a work of fiction, but it’s obviously a mother sharing the secrets she never told her daughter in a literary piece of genius that makes it hard not to enjoy. How could you not have read it?”

Now, I wasn’t suresurprisewas the right word to assign to her expression. I was feeling judged more than anything else.

“My mother and I weren’t close. I’ve never read any of her novels.”

She shook her head, as if in disbelief, and muttered, “He found out about you because he read that book. Put aside the fact that he’d been following the woman’s work for years—thisone changed everything.Everything. I can’t believe you haven’t read it.”

“If you spent most of your life feeling like your mother’s fiction was more important than you, maybe you’d harbor a bit of resentment and avoid her work, too.”

She considered this a moment then murmured, “I suppose that's understandable,” before lifting her cup of tea to her lips.

I did the same, appreciative of the silence that passed between us.

Conversing with the Blackstones was like walking through a minefield. There was no telling which conversation topic was safe. Silence was the only way to get by unscathed. Except, silence couldn’t last forever.

Our short reprieve was extended when the food was delivered, each order on its own three-tiered plated display. I learned very quickly the English didn’t mess around at teatime. There was no way I was going to be able to eat everything in front of me.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try. It looked delicious.

I plucked an olive from one of my plates and attempted to steer the conversation in a direction that seemed safe-ish. If nothing else, it was a topic I didn’t think I’d get to discuss with either of my siblings. Now that the opportunity was right in front of me, I felt compelled to take my chance.

“Will you tell me about him? About Sawyer?” I asked.

Eloise hesitated. For a moment, I was afraid she wouldn’t—as if to do so would have been like sharing him with me, something she didn’t seem keen on doing. But after a long pause, she directed her focus onto a scone she was smearing with jelly and said, “I told you the other day he was as close to perfect as I wanted him to be. It’s likely that’s not true. In grief, loads is forgotten in favor of making space to hold tight to all the good things you want so desperately to remember. Nevertheless, for all his faults, he was a good man. A loving father. Looking back, it’s clear as day his family mattered more to him than anything else. He put more stock in relationships than business.

“If it weren’t for my mum, the publishing house would have gone under years ago. Dad was an outstanding editor, but he didn’t much care to take on the responsibilities of CEO. He was happiest locked away above the bookstore with a stack of manuscripts and a takeaway curry.”

It was likely insignificant, but I loved learning he had a fondness for Indian food.

“Was he a private person? Did he spend a lot of time alone?” I wondered aloud.

“No, not particularly. He liked the quiet when he was working, but he could just as easily enjoy the bustle of a crowd. He loved a good party. He was great at networking. Growing up, I always thought he was friends with everyone.”

Once I got her started, it wasn’t hard to keep her talking. For nearly an hour, I collected the bits and pieces of our father she shared with me. A lot of what she said about him reinforced the way Victoria described him. He wasn’t perfect, but he was kind, generous, and well-loved by many—especially Eloise. Watching her as she spoke about the man was all the proof I needed that he had been a real and present dad; one who supported her and encouraged her; one who taught her and guided her. I was certain she had no idea how lucky she was.

When we were finished with our meal, Eloise flagged down our server in order to pay the check. I reached for my purse, ready to cover my share of the bill, but she insisted my first afternoon tea was to be her treat. I expressed my gratitude, and was on the verge of suggesting maybe we could go out again sometime when she steered us toward a landmine.

“I’m afraid before we go I have to bring up Tattered Edges.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “What about it?” I asked.

“Archie really does have his heart set on the place. I’ve got to ask—are you truly planning on sticking around? And if you are, is it with the expectation that we’ll one day be a big happy family? Because if that’s what you’re waiting for, let me spare you the trouble.

“Our dad never saw fit to invite you into the fold. We’ve all gone most of our lives without knowing each other, and with him gone, there’s not a whole lot of reason to change the status quo. If, in the end, you’re just going to sell the bookstore and go back to America, why not spare us all the inconvenience and do it now?”

I coughed out a quiet laugh, void of any humor and laden with astonishment.

It wasn’t so much that I was surprised by her coldness after what I thought was her attempt at kindness. What made me laugh was how obvious it was that neither of the Blackstone children seemed to have inherited an ounce of the generosity for which their father was known. Even after describing the man and the importance he ascribed to his relationships, she refused to see the significance of his choice to leave the bookstore to me.

As I slipped my arms into my coat, suddenly eager to take my leave, I replied, “I didn’t come here looking to be adopted. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman. Orphaned though I may be, I’ve been standing on my own two feet for a long time. As far as you and Archie are concerned, we can be friends, we can be siblings, or we can be strangers—that’s up to you. Whatever you decide, I’ll live. And where I live is in the flat abovemybookstore.”

I stood, pulling my hair out from underneath the collar of my coat before reaching for my purse. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again—I’m not going anywhere. You might not give a damn, butour fatherdidn’t leave me Tattered Edges on accident. While I didn’t get the chance to know him, I know one thing for sure—he wanted me to have a piece of him.Thispiece of him. It’s all I’ll ever get. I’m not going to be so quick to let it go. Especially not so Archie can sell it and have it turned into a restaurant.

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