Chapter One
Sawyer
I hardly slept on the 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 my stuff was 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 it sounded like 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 became imperative I 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 read All 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 read All 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 of the 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 while he knew 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 name Blackstone carried a little bit of significance; or, at the very least, wealth.
I never considered myself rich . 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, this inheritance 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 identifier thirty-one hung 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.
“Miss Nielsen, lovely to see you. I hope your trip wasn’t too cumbersome.”
“It’s good to see you, too. My trip was fine. Thanks for meeting me.”
“No bother. I wanted to deliver the keys myself. Let me help with your luggage.”
All three of us grabbed a bag, and Mr. Johnson led the way to my new home. The front door opened to reveal a flight of stairs. I was located on the third floor. We were all a little breathless as we entered the flat and discarded my luggage just beyond the door. I was quick to tip my driver, and we exchanged thank yous before he took his leave.
“So, this is it,” I said, taking a quick look around.
Even at a glance, I could tell the space was sophisticated and refurbished. It was also quite a bit bigger than my previous apartment.
“Yes. This is it. And these are yours,” Mr. Johnson replied, handing over the keys. “Sorry to be in a bit of a rush, but I want to give you the chance to settle in. That’s the complete set for all the locks. You should be able to access the bookstore, as well. As previously discussed, Victoria Smith is also in possession of keys to the store.”
I nodded, appreciative of the reminder of the woman’s name. She’d been working at the bookstore for more than a decade. I knew there was no way I’d be able to manage the store without her, and I made a mental note to not forget her name again.
“Here’s my card. It has the address of my office, so you have it on hand. I trust you can find your way over tomorrow for our meeting at nine A.M.?”
My stomach twisted nervously thinking about our appointment. There was still a little paperwork to sort out, but that wasn’t what made me anxious. It was the prospect of finally meeting my family face to face.
“Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
“Cheers. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
I agreed, thanking him once more for everything he’d done to help me. When he left, he closed the door behind him, and I took a deep breath as I turned to face the flat.
Mr. Johnson had informed me it had been years since anyone had occupied the space full time. As I understood it, Sawyer used it more like an office than an apartment. That said, it had been left as he’d had it. Curious as to what I might learn about the man upon looking around, I slowly made my way further into the unit.
The first room beyond the door was the kitchen. It was small but practical, the cabinets painted white with a pretty marble-looking backsplash to match. The appliances looked new and hardly used, and there was a tea kettle abandoned on the stovetop.
Across from the kitchen was a small dining area. A bench seat was built into the wall, with pale brown, suede covered cushions. In front of it was a table complete with four extra chairs for a generous amount of seating. In the corner, built into the wall, was an open-faced cubby full of booze. I made a mental note to check out his liquor of choice later.
High above the bench seat was a mounted bookshelf that extended across the length of the flat. As it reached the living room, it connected to a bigger custom, shelving unit, which housed more books and a television along with three large drawers for extra storage along the bottom. The shelves were painted a dark gray-blue color, and it stood out against the contrast of the beige walls.
Opposite the entertainment center was a comfy, mid-century style, forest green velvet covered sofa with a chase seat on one end. The glass coffee table had a dead plant in the middle of it. There was a huge, textured, beige area rug in the room, covering the old hardwood floors, making the space warmer. All the light pouring into the area came from the windows on the far side of the room.
Finally, in the corner, beside the faux-wall separating the kitchen from the living room, was a wooden desk. On it was a picture frame. My feet carried me in its direction before my brain could convince me otherwise. In the frame I found a photo of a family of four. I picked it up, wishing to admire it closer.
The boy and girl in the photograph appeared to be teenagers, which meant the captured moment was more than a decade old. The woman who stood behind them was pure class. But it was the man with the gray eyes from whom I couldn’t look away.
My mother’s eyes were brown. So dark, her pupils got lost in her irises all the time.
But mine—mine were pale and gray.
My knees suddenly a little weak, and my chest a bit tight, I pulled out the chair and lowered myself into it. My tears were completely unexpected, and the grief that washed over me was as confusing as it was unavoidable.
I didn’t know the man in the photo. If I passed him on the street, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He was a stranger—but he was also my father.
He’d given me his eyes.
I’d packed up my entire life and moved to London for me .
Sawyer Blackstone had given me the excuse. He’d gifted me a home. He’d offered me a job. He’d left me a family. But he was gone. I knew when I arrived, the father I never knew would remain as such. Except, it wasn’t until I was staring at the image of him that I felt the pain of my loss. Not him so much as the possibility of him. The dream and reality of him. I felt silly crying over the sight of the man, but once I started I couldn’t stop.
I didn’t know why he chose me. I didn’t understand why he chose to leave me an inheritance so significant and personal. I was never going to comprehend his decision, no matter how many times I read his letter. However, I knew one thing for sure.
He was certain I was his daughter. So much so, he changed his will for me. It didn’t matter that I was a stranger—and I now understood what the conviction of his sentiment felt like.
I set aside the photo and looked around at his flat as I tried to gain control of my emotions.
There was no turning back. I’d made up my mind weeks ago. Except, now, more than ever, I wanted what he’d given me with all my heart.
It took me a few minutes to calm myself. After I dried my face, I continued my exploration of the flat. On the fourth floor, accessible by a set of stairs across the short entryway beyond the front door, were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry closet. Unlike the third floor, the upper-most level wasn’t furnished. It was obvious upgrades had been made in the bathrooms, but the bedrooms looked to hold a bit of their original charm. The walls were brick, and the hardwood floors—while polished and in good condition—were old, but I liked it.
I was definitely in need of a bed, a dresser, and a cozy area rug, but I’d worry about that later. I could crash on the couch for a couple of nights. A more imminent need was food. It was already early afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten since the breakfast they’d served on the plane. It was a bit chilly out, but it wasn’t raining, so I decided to go for a walk to see what I could find.
I headed up the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s Cathedral while I was out, and stumbled upon a few food options. I wasn’t completely sold on the idea of my first meal in London consisting of hamburgers or pizza, so after admiring the outside of the gorgeous, seventeenth century iconic church, I wandered in search of something decidedly less American.
I settled for French cuisine, dining in at the restaurant before I continued my exploration of the city. I made it all the way to Piccadilly Circus, the brisk air and the excitement of being someplace new enough to combat my jet lag. When my fingers got too cold to ignore, I popped into the first store I could find that sold gloves and bought myself a pair, purchasing a knit hat to match. It wasn’t until the sun was starting to set that I decided it was probably best for me to head back toward home.
I stopped at Sainsbury's, the local grocery store I’d mapped close to the flat, and stocked up on a few essentials. It was when I turned down St. Andrew’s Hill, with the intent to peek into the store front of Tattered Edges, that I noticed the building on the corner—the one attached to mine. It was a pub.
The King’s Steed.
I smiled at the sight of it, remembering my conversation with Diane about finding a favorite pub to frequent. This one looked promising. I could hear the crowd of people inside over the sound of music as a couple hurried into the establishment and out of the cold.
As my first day in London drew to a close, a gin martini felt like a great idea.