Page 4 of Tattered Edges

Sawyer

Ihardlysleptonthe plane, my thoughts doing their best to keep my mind in overdrive.

I’d come to the conclusion there was no amount of preparation that would make my situation less overwhelming. All I could do was face it head on and hope for the best. I’d already done the easy part. Dealing with mystuffwas nothing. Saying goodbye to my friends had been emotional, but not devastating. Boarding the plane had been a breeze.

I was, in fact, looking forward to London.

I was finally going to reside in a city where the Premier League was more popular than the NFL; where gin was more popular than whiskey; where the weather gave me the excuse to indulge in my sweater obsession; and where everyone spoke in charming, British accents.

In some ways, I imagined it would be like life in New York, where I grew up—diverse, bustling, and with no shortage of things to do, see, taste, and explore.

It was everything else that had me slightly on edge.

For that I blamed my mother.

I knew itsoundedlike a cop-out to point fingers at a dead woman, and it might have been cliche to insist my anxiety came as a result of the relationship I had with the woman, but it was true. I didn’t need a therapist to confirm it. Any child who grew up as the only offspring of Maeve Nielsen would have been hoisted into the same fate.

My childhood hadn’t been awful. I wasn’t abused or neglected. The maturest part of me could even admit my mother loved me as much as she could. The trouble was, I grew up constantly competing with her hubris. Her career and her art meant everything to her. Everything. Any fond memories I had of the woman existed in the days following the completion of her latest manuscript, before she lost herself in the editing process or in preparation of her next novel.

These pockets of time were always short lived. A week, maybe two, and then she’d be gone again. If not physically, certainly mentally and emotionally.

When I thought about the first dozen years of my life, more than marking time by my birthdays or special memories, I remember her catalog of work in chronological order—each novel its own chapter of real time spanning about year. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.

I often wondered how things might have been different if it wasn’t just her and I in the brownstone she loved so much. At an early age, I understood there was no room in my mother’s heart for a man. I was small, and I barely fit. Still, I asked about my father and imagined what it might have been like to know him. She might not have needed him, but I did. Maeve usually brushed off my inquiries, insisting who he was was irrelevant.

When she decided to send me to boarding school in New Jersey, at the age of twelve, it becameimperativeI find my father. We fought about it for an entire summer. Then she killed what hope I had when she told me he didn’t even know I existed.

Turned out, she hadn’t lied. He didn’t know. Not until he readAll the Shades of Summer. He’d said as much in his letter.

The letter I kept tucked inside of the book I held in my hands.

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever readAll the Shades of Summer,but it was the one Maeve Nielsen novel I owned. My feelings toward my mother were complicated, to say the least, and I’d grieved the loss of her in the years since her passing. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the copy my mother’s agent had sent me six years prior any more than I could bring myself to read it. I knew if I did, it would make everything so final.

Within the novel’s story were her last words. If I never read them, they would always be there. Tumultuous as our relationship was, I wasn’t sure I could handle the finality ofthe end.

As the plane landed, I slipped the novel and my father’s letter back into my purse.

His words to me might have been his last, but they were also his first. His letter marked the beginning of something. Now that I was in London, I was embarking on a whole new life, full of possibilities.

I wondered who Sawyer Blackstone was. In the months since I’d learned his name, I hadn’t looked him up. Not him or his other children. Not the publishing house, either. I didn’t want to meet my family via the internet. Mr. Johnson, who had been an absolute angel helping to make it possible for my relocation, had informed me that whileheknew of my existence for quite some time, the rest of the family didn’t.

Secrets, lies, and regrets.

I spent most of my life wishing I was part of a normal family. Not a perfect one—just a real one. Now, as a grown woman, I was getting what I asked for, imperfect and messy as they came.

It was late Sunday morning when I disembarked from the plane. Mr. Johnson had arranged for a chauffeur to pick me up and help me with my bags. I was learning the nameBlackstonecarried a little bit of significance; or, at the very least, wealth.

I never considered myselfrich. My mother’s success meant I never wanted for anything. While there was an account with my name on it, holding quite a few zeros and still growing once a quarter, I refused to live in comfort funded by her life’s work. Sure, it was there if I needed it, but mostly it just sat there. Once or twice a year I’d give a bit of it to a charity I liked, but she raised me to be independent, and so I strove to make my own way.

Inheriting a bookstore wasn’t exactly forging my own path—but unlike the inheritance of my mother’s royalties,thisinheritance came with a responsibility I was keen to accept. Furthermore, I hoped managing Tattered Edges would somehow help me to connect with the man I’d never truly know. Perhaps it would even be my ticket into the family to which I truly belonged.

I knew I was putting a lot of pressure on the whole situation, but I couldn’t help it.

The drive from the airport to St. Andrew’s Hill took a little more than an hour. I found myself gazing out the window the entire time. My chauffeur, a kind boisterous fellow with a heavy accent, pointed out iconic landmarks and historic sites as we passed. I couldn’t wait to explore the city on foot. As soon as we hit London, the crowds of tourists we passed reminded me of home, and my jet lag was momentarily forgotten.

When we arrived in the alleyway behind my building, I saw what Google Maps couldn’t show me—the back entrance to the bookstore, and the front entrance to my new flat. The four-story structure was made of brick, with tall, dark green painted doors complete with gold knobs, the identifierthirty-onehung in golden numbers in the center. As promised, Mr. Johnson was there waiting for me.

David Johnson was likely no younger than sixty years old with a head full of pure, white hair. He was heavy set and tall, and no doubt handsome in his day. Even though he was bundled up to protect himself from the January chill, I could see he wore a suit underneath his jacket and scarf. He didn’t wait for my driver to open my car door but offered me a wave and a smile before reaching for the handle to let me out.

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