With love from London

Jio (All the Flowers in Paris) unfurls an extraordinary and heartfelt tale that will stay with readers long after the final page is turned. When divorced librarian Valentina "Val" Baker inherits a London bookstore from her late estranged mother, Eloise, she leaves Seattle for a fresh start in England. Val has always been told that Eloise abandoned her when she was 12, but as the story--which toggles between Val's present and Eloise's past--evolves, both Val and the reader learn the story she grew up believing was a lie. As a young woman, Eloise was caught in a love triangle and only accepted a proposal from Frank, Val's father, whom she did not love, because she was pregnant. After a miscarriage, the pair had Val, but Frank's jealousy destroyed any chance Val and Eloise had of a relationship. Val discovers this history via a scavenger hunt her mother has set up for her through clues left in all her favorite books--and along the way she finds a love of her own. Jio's expert characterization makes Eloise's heartbreak, sacrifice, and love for her daughter palpable, and her masterful plotting will keep readers guessing until the end. This is sure to tug on readers' heartstrings. Agent: Elisabeth Weed, Book Group. (Feb.)

As a teenager, Seattle-based librarian Valentina Baker was abandoned by her mother, who returned to her native London. Now she has inherited her mother's Primrose Hill apartment and the deed to the Book Garden bookshop, and Valentina starts over with a fight to save the bookstore. Originally scheduled for August 2021.

A 35-year-old Seattle woman whose British mother took off for London when she was a child learns that her mother has died and left everything to her. A few minutes after she finds out that her husband, Nick, a lawyer, is leaving her--to be with a 23-year-old paralegal at his firm--Valentina Baker discovers that her mother, Eloise, has died. Unsure of how to move forward, Valentina puts one foot in front of the other and simply…does. She moves to London and finds out that her mother adored books as much as she does and that--after a happy career as a librarian and book Instagrammer--she is now the owner of a beloved neighborhood bookstore in Primrose Hill. This is a charming tale: Valentina discovers who her mother was--and rediscovers herself after the end of her marriage--as she works to raise enough money to pay the inheritance taxes on the bookstore. Author Jio has taken a well-worn trope--American woman inherits property and a life in London--and made it her own, full of warmth, love, happiness, and books. Two storylines unwind as readers follow Valentina's efforts to save the bookstore and explore dating and Eloise's life as a young woman who falls in love, becomes a mother, returns to London despite her unwavering love for her daughter, and opens the bookstore she's been dreaming of her entire life. A cozy bit of escapism that will leave many readers dreaming of true love and the bookstores they might one day open. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter 1 Valentina London, England November 3, 2013 "There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind," says the stranger sitting next to me on the airplane--a sixtysomething woman with feathered bangs and a hair tie clinging so tightly to her left wrist that I've spent most of the flight worried it might turn into a medical emergency. In my years of assorted travel, I've had a long history of questionable airplane seatmates: the ninety-year-old man who touched my leg 3,781 times, then lapsed into a flatulence-fueled nap; the crying baby of all crying babies; the woman who drank too many mini bottles of rum and passed out on my shoulder, drooling. However, on this particular flight, it seems I've been graced by the "Sentimental Orator." We'd barely cleared the runway, and Chatty in seat 26B had already quoted Shakespeare, Marilyn Monroe, and, if I remember correctly, Muhammad Ali. My tired, blank stare obviously troubles her, because the corners of her mouth plummet into a disappointed frown. "You poor child," she says, shaking her head. "You don't know C. S. Lewis? A shame." "Yes," I say, closing my eyes as I press my head against the seat back, attempting sleep--or, at least, pretending to. "It's . . . ​very sad." And it is. I've just been accused of not knowing a quote by one of my favorite authors, though I'm presently too exhausted to defend myself. But what's sadder? The very quote itself. "There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." My eyes shoot open as the plane begins to descend over London and a burst of turbulence jostles me against the Sentimental Orator who, I predict, will soon start reciting Gandhi, or maybe Mother Teresa. My mind churns. What if C. S. Lewis was wrong? What if there aren't better things to come? What if . . . ? The plane rattles again as it slips beneath a cloud, landing gear deployed. A moment later, we're touching down at Heathrow with a thud. I peer out the window. So, this is London. The Sentimental Orator gasps and fumbles for her inhaler as I take in my first view of England and its seemingly endless gray. A thick layer of fog and dark clouds blend like a muddled watercolor painting--and my own gray mood. Gray on gray on gray. I sigh as I collect my bag from the overhead compartment and walk numbly ahead. I'm thirty-five years old. This should be chapter thirteen of my life--maybe even chapter sixteen. But somehow, I feel as if I've been catapulted back to the very beginning, or worst, thrust into a laborious rewrite. "Chapter 1: An American Divorcee in London." "Miss," the Sentimental Orator says, tapping my shoulder. "I think you forgot . . . ​your book." She hands it to me and I eye the cover with equal parts humiliation and denial. How to Get Divorced and Not Lose Your Mind. I'd only read two chapters, as covertly as possible, but quickly lost interest and tucked it into the seat pocket for the next passenger's guaranteed delight. I mean, what therapist in their right mind would title a chapter: "The Best Way to Get Over Someone Is to Get Under Someone"? "You poor thing," the Sentimental Orator says, smiling to herself. Give this model citizen a gold star! "Are you going through a divorce?" Is it just me, or did she say the word "divorce" several decibels louder? The pair of women to our left look over, their faces beaming pity--for me. I nod. "Yeah--recently." More nearby eyes descend on me. I might as well have a sticker on my back that reads: recently divorced. "Remember, dear," my transatlantic seatmate says, "that it takes six months for every year you were together to get over someone." I'd heard this before--from other well-meaning people--but it always left me feeling confused and, well, a bit terrified. Nick and I were married for twelve years, so by those calculations, will I wallow in sadness and self-loathing for . . . ​six more? Who made up this ridiculous statistic, and can we all agree that it's completely bogus? It has to be, right? I sidestep a couple in front of me to avoid the Sentimental Orator's inevitable, forthcoming question: "Do you mind my asking . . . ​what happened?" And then I'd be backed into that awful corner, where I'm required to explain that my husband, an attorney, left me for the twenty-three-year-old paralegal he'd been secretly seeing for months. And yes, I actually believed he was working late all those nights. Her name? Oh, it's Missy, who shows off her endless legs and fake eyelashes on Instagram. My own account is booksbyval. When I should have been posting inspiration from the novels on my nightstand, I stalked Missy. Guilty as charged. You're wondering: Is she . . . ​attractive? Smart? Yes, on both counts, though don't you think it should be illegal for someone with perennially pink, pouty lips to also graduate summa cum laude? They're a couple now. Missy and Nicky. MadeForEachOther, or so read one of her recent posts, where she casually hinted at the new love in her life: my husband, or rather, soon-to-be ex-husband. I feel like a zombie as I walk to the passport control area, grateful to have parted ways with the Orator. I scan my passport into a machine, and it begins flashing red and beeping. A moment later, a customs officer appears to tell me I've been randomly selected for further screening. Of course I have. "Miss, I'll need you to come with me," he says, leading me to a nearby room, where I hand him my passport. "Here for a holiday?" "Uh--" I stammer as he fumbles through my bag, my underwear right on top of my jeans, and the old ratty AC/DC sweatshirt I can't seem to part with, even if Nick did give it to me the year we first started dating. "A holiday?" I shake my head. "No." "Business then?" he continues, as he searches through my carry-on bag with gloved hands. "No," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Not business." "Well, then, what is it, miss?" I swallow hard, deflecting his intense gaze, which feels as if it's piercing into me. "My mother died," I finally blurt. A tinge of humanity appears in his eyes--only a glimmer, but it's there. Perhaps that's the only good thing about death--that it softens the hardest edges. "I'm very sorry," he says, returning my passport, then pausing briefly. "You're all clear. Welcome to England." I nod as he leads me out a separate entrance, then follow the signs to baggage claim, where I collect my two large suitcases on carousel 11 and make my way outside to find a cab. I wave at a waiting driver, who's leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. "Where to?" he asks, loading my luggage. "Primrose Hill," I say. He nods. "Coming home?" Now that the divorce is nearly final and the Seattle house sold, Primrose Hill will be my landing place. Still, it's foreign to me. I shrug. "Sort of." Excerpted from With Love from London: A Novel by Sarah Jio All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.