It was surreal to think such a bland, colorless life had been lived by either of them.
Grace had reached out to her uncle Horace in the days following the war’s end, to confirm their safety and offer her love. Once upon a time, she might have felt doing so was turning the other cheek. Now she knew it to be compassion.
And he had replied, his manner still gruff, as he assured her that they were well and offering an invitation for her to visit should she fancy a jaunt in the country. In truth, it was more than she’d ever expected from him.
She owed the fragile repair of that relationship to Mr. Evans. Well, that and so, so much more.
Grace and Viv chatted on their way toward Mrs. Weatherford’s townhouse, where Viv was staying in the room she and Grace had once shared. Grace now lived in the flat above Evans and Bennett, which was far too small to accommodate two beds comfortably. As they neared Britton Street, Viv clasped Grace’s hand and her smile resumed its sparkle.
They rounded the corner and both broke into a run, like children, rushing up the steps to the green door with the brass knocker. Viv pushed inside and was met with a cheer of excitement from Mrs. Weatherford and Sarah, who made quite the welcoming committee with streamers of painted newspaper and a cake Mrs. Weatherford had been setting aside sugar and flour to make.
In the weeks that followed, Grace and Viv picked up where their friendship had left off, filling their newfound free time without the ATS and ARP with cinemas and cafés and nights out at the theater and, of course, jazz clubs and dancing.
Through it all, there was the bookshop for Grace. As children returned from the country and soldiers from war, the familiar faces who had become friends now began to show up with their loved ones. She met husbands and wives and children.
Jimmy enjoyed reading aloud as well and took it upon himself to do a children’s book hour every Saturday afternoon. On one particular afternoon, Mrs. Kittering arrived with her daughter, a pretty brown-haired girl with proper manners and wide doe eyes like her mother. Never had Grace seen Mrs. Kittering smile as much as she did with her daughter, doting on her every move and word with the eternal love of a mother. And eagerly awaiting her husband, who would undoubtedly be released from his service soon.
It was on one such afternoon on a sunny Saturday in August that Grace found herself with a moment’s respite. With the customers all occupied, she made her way to the sunlit window with a copy of Forever Amber, leaned against the wall and opened the book.
The familiar scent of paper and ink drew her in as she fell head over heels into a new story. She was so lost in the literary world being spun within her mind, she missed the bell chime at the front door.
“I never thought reading could be more beautiful,” a familiar, rich voice said. “Until this moment.”
Grace’s head snapped up and the book fell from her hands. “George.”
He stood several paces away from her, handsome as ever in his neatly pressed RAF uniform, holding a head of purple cabbage. “It appears cabbages are still all the rage in place of flowers.”
“Only because you’re not the Ritz.” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms as the cabbage head tumbled to the floor with a soft thump.
They’d grown far closer in the years of war, with letters unveiling deep parts of their souls and all the time they could squeeze in together on the rare moments of leave he was afforded.
“Are you home for good now?” she asked, gazing into his eyes, never able to get enough of him. She enfolded a hand into the warmth of his in an attempt to convince herself he was real. Truly standing before her.
“I am.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “For good.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest, breathing in his clean, wonderful smell and savoring the rasp of his wool uniform against her cheek that had grown so familiar.
“Do you really not plan to ask if I brought you anything at all?” His voice rumbled under her cheek.
She looked up in surprise. “I couldn’t possibly think of anything more that I’d want.”
“Couldn’t you?” He grinned and reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Not even a book?” His hand hovered, his brows lifted with expectation.
She straightened and clapped in delight. It had become tradition, after all, for them to exchange books with one another. His often were battered, well-read copies that had been shared between countless soldiers, but the stories within were always captivating.
“I couldn’t possibly return to you empty handed.” He withdrew a rectangular green book.