The Air Raid Book Club(87)
“Oh,” said Gertie. “No. No, she did not. I was joking but now I see.”
“Yes,” said Miss Snipp, surprising Gertie as a bloom of pink spread across her cheeks. “Mr. Higgins has proposed, you see, and I thought it only appropriate that I give you sufficient notice.”
Gertie stared at her for a moment before darting forward and kissing an astonished Miss Snipp on both cheeks. “Oh, but this is wonderful, wonderful news. I’m delighted for you both.”
Miss Snipp offered a rare smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Bingham. I must confess that I am very happy.”
“I’m not surprised. Mr. Higgins is a fine man.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Snipp with sparkling eyes. “Thank you.” She was about to retreat when she stopped. “May I say something else?”
“Of course.”
Miss Snipp paused before she spoke as if picking over her words like shells on the beach. “I wanted to tell you what a pleasure it has been to work for you and your dear late husband.”
“Oh,” said Gertie. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”
Miss Snipp nodded. “And you know it’s never too late, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Too late?”
“To find happiness.” She held Gertie’s gaze for a second before plucking a copy of The Pursuit of Love from the bookshelf to send to a customer. “You just have to know where to look,” she said over her shoulder.
The weeds had spiraled into a chaotic tangle around Harry’s grave since Gertie’s last visit. She pulled out the sticky goosegrass and cleared as many of the oxalis and dandelions as she could before replacing the previous week’s flowers with sweet-smelling peach roses. “Cut for you this morning, my darling,” said Gertie as Hemingway lay panting in the sunshine. She had noticed him slowing down of late and felt herself slow with him.
He didn’t come to the bookshop much now, preferring to stay at home, sitting beside Hedy while she wrote. She had completed her first book and given a copy to Elizabeth, who was working on the illustrations. She had kept another copy and passed it to Gertie to read. Gertie had been captivated by the story. It was an exquisite mixture of adventure and magic, which she knew children would love. According to Billy, it was “better even than Winnie-the-Pooh.” Without mentioning it to Hedy, Gertie had sent it on to Uncle Thomas to show to his publishing associates.
“No obligation, you understand,” she said. “It is her first book, after all.”
“Understood, dear heart,” said Thomas. “Publishers are as fickle as the wind, so don’t pin any hopes.”
He telephoned a day later. “They want to know if she can write another this year and possibly two more next. Think it would make a first-rate series for youngsters. Tell Hedy I’m happy to represent her. My rates are twenty percent.” Gertie gave a loud cough. “Oh, very well. Ten, but only as you’re my favorite niece.”
“You’ll waive all fees and be grateful to act as conduit for a talented young woman,” said Gertie.
“Saints preserve me from difficult women,” said Thomas. “So be it. I’ll be in touch.”
Gertie wiped the dirt from Harry’s headstone with her handkerchief and ran her fingers over the lettering. “So you see, there’s been much excitement in the household over the last few weeks, my love, what with Hedy’s book and Sam’s new job and their cottage by the sea . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And of course with Miss Snipp getting married and leaving us, it’s all change again.” She sighed. “Oh, Harry, I’m not sure what I’m going to do to be honest.” Gertie thumbed away a stray tear. “What a silly old fool. I just feel as if I’m getting left behind. I even had Miss Snipp telling me it’s never too late. That’s all very well, but it’s not as if these things pop up in front of you like a jack-in-the-box.”
She cast ’round, remembering the fluttering newspaper article that had brought Hedy into her life many years before. All was quiet today. There was hardly a breeze, just a peaceful azure sky with bees and butterflies flitting above her head.
“No divine intervention today then, my love,” she said, patting the headstone one last time before hauling herself to a standing position, wincing against her aching joints. “Well, I shall love you and leave you. Come on, boy,” she said to Hemingway, who staggered to his feet with similar effort. They walked companionably together in the late-summer sunshine.
As Gertie let herself in through the front door, the telephone began to ring.
“Beechwood 8153?”
“Mrs. Bingham?”
“Speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bingham. This is Alfreda Crisp. We haven’t spoken for a good while. I’m getting in touch to ask if you’re still interested in selling your bookshop.”
Gertie was momentarily caught off guard. “Oh gosh, I’m not sure . . .”
“It’s quite all right. You don’t need to decide now. It’s merely that I have a young couple who are looking for a bookshop to run, and naturally I thought of you. Would you like to meet them? No obligation of course.”
Gertie glanced toward the living room at Harry’s photograph, smiling his encouragement. “Do you know, Miss Crisp, I would very much like to meet them.”