Free The Liberation of Alice Love by Abby McDonald

considered him more of an enthusiast. From eighteenth-century botanists to alchemy in the ancient Ottoman Empire, he would become gripped with a new passion, immersing himself completely in the subject for months, sometimes years. Once mastered, he would give a series of lectures, or write a book, or even—in one case—oversee the planting of a thirty-acre garden in the style of renegade gardener William Robinson. Then a new topic would catch his eye, and he would be off again.
    She had to be grateful for his commitment to his subjects, Alice supposed; otherwise, she would never have been born. Because her father didn’t simply research the topic, no, he seemed to take on the lifestyle and characteristics of his subjects as well. Hence her mother (a glamorous American breezing through London) was wooed by the dashing man quoting Byron and Keats as if he were one of the Romantic poets himself and not just knee-deep in old texts. By the time he tired of poetry and switched his allegiance to exploring sewage systems of the early industrial age, Natasha Scott already had a ring on her finger, a child on the way, and a ramshackle cottage to call home.
    Faced with such a bait and switch of her dramatic, romance-filled dreams, Alice often wondered how her mother even lasted the eleven fractured years she did before abandoning them both to the leaking pipes, overgrown garden, and distinct lack of local cocktail bars. If she was truly honest about it, her mother’s leaving was something of a relief. By then, Alice had witnessed enough dress rehearsals to know—and fear—that the more permanent version was on its way, so when her mother finally packed up every designer dress and expensive, unworn shoe and disappeared for good, Alice told herself it was better this way. At least there was no more of Natasha dragging her to London for days on end or disappearing for summers at somebody’s house in Cannes, or Morocco, leaving Alice, uncertain, to await her return.
    ***
    Alice bought a loaf of bread, still warm from the bakery, and sat on the war memorial bench, tearing chunks off to share with the sparrows that nested nearby. The village had changed little in the past ten years: home to three pubs, an organic farm collective, and a revolving parade of antiques, children’s clothes, and crystal jewelry boutiques. She must have sat in this exact spot a hundred times as a girl, waiting for her father to finish browsing old curios in the antiques shop, and later, as a bored teenager trapped by the sporadic bus timetable and lack of any actual place to go.
    And here she was again, with all her worldly possessions stored in the back of the garage as if she’d never left. Alice watched the birds fluttering at her feet and thought bleakly of how quickly everything had changed. Homeless, broke—in a single week, her life had been turned upside down, and she was still reeling, trying to understand how it could have happened. Was there something she should have done differently?
    Her phone lit up, and Alice reached for it, glad of the distraction from her own self-doubt.
    “How are you holding up?” The phone suddenly went silent, and there was a muffled rustling noise. “Sorry,” Ella said breathlessly. “I’ve been stuffing these envelopes all day. Two hundred gift packs have to be ready by the launch.”
    “No interns around?” Alice relaxed, just a little.
    “I wish,” Ella laughed. “Apparently you can’t make them work weekends if you’re not even paying them.”
    “Wimps.”
    “So, are you OK?” Ella sounded concerned. “Any news yet from the bank? I can’t believe they’re being so incompetent.”
    Alice sighed. “Nope, nothing yet. The account the money went to is protected with all kinds of anonymity. But they’re pulling CCTV tapes, seeing if they can match anyone to the cash withdrawals. I should know soon.”
    “Aw, sweetie.” Ella was sympathetic. “So what are you going to do? You know I’d have you