She closed her eyes. No, she wouldn’t think of that. She would see him again.
But when?
She gently laid the note aside and drew the gift closer to her. The parcel was wrapped in a plain brown paper and quite obviously a book, given its shape and weight. George’s neat printing marked the center of the paper.
A classic, but also a love story.
Smiling to herself, she peeled away the wrap to reveal a leather-bound book. It had been well used, given its scuffed surface and how the once sharp corners were dulled and curled inward. She turned it to its side to reveal the spine.
The title had been nearly buffed away, but it was still there in a whisper of gold lettering. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.
Not only had he gifted her a book he thought she might enjoy, it appeared he’d given her the exact one he had read in his youth. Over and over, as indicated by how well the copy had been loved.
She ran her fingers over the worn cover and imagined George as a boy, letting his mind take him to a new place. Now she would experience the adventure that had led him into a lifetime of reading. She only hoped those pages might offer her a similar passion. And she hoped even more fervently for the possibility of seeing him again to return the volume and discuss its contents.
Still, the shop would not be the same without the possibility of seeing his handsome smile.
“I told you he’d likely volunteer,” Mr. Evans called from behind the bookshelves.
Grace closed her eyes, fighting off a swell of worry. Staying busy would help get her through this. After all, she’d worked through concern and hurt before, when her mother was ill. Even after she’d died. Grace’s tasks would keep her mind occupied. She blinked her eyes open and put on a bright smile for no one in particular.
“I knew I ought to have married him first,” Grace said loudly and with a heavy flair of drama. Then waited.
Mr. Evans poked his head out from between the shelves and regarded her with waggling brows. “I do hope that was a joke.”
“I had to do something to lure you from your work.” Grace lifted the list she’d assembled. “I have some changes for the shop I’d like to discuss with you.”
“No.” He tucked himself away once more, like a turtle disinclined to face the world.
She carefully folded George’s note back into its envelope, slipped it into her purse and settled the book on the counter. “We’ll start small,” she coaxed.
“You’ve already cleaned the place and upset my piles.”
“Just have a look.” She peeked around a shelf and found him scowling at her the way a sullen child might.
Regardless, she thrust the list at him and left him with it while she put her things in the back room. When she returned, he slid her a wary look.
He set the list on top of a row of books. “You can move things about to help properly organize. But mind you’re not too heavy on your advertising. And I’ll not be buying back books or hawking used wares like Foyle’s.”
“Of course not,” Grace promised.
He issued a low mutter that might have been a yes.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked innocently. “Was that permission to make changes to Primrose Hill Books?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
She snapped up her list, already knowing where to start. “You shan’t regret this.”
“I hope you’re right,” he grumbled and pulled a book from the shelf into his waiting palms.
Regardless of his trepidation, she was certain he would be happy with the results. Eventually. For it would all take a considerable amount of work to implement in the coming months. She only hoped it wouldn’t take more than her allotted time at the bookshop, however, as she certainly had no plans to stay.
SEVEN
The next two months dragged on for London with unrealized anticipation of the war. All the preparation, all the expectation and fraying nerves had been for naught. There were no more air raid warnings, no rations put into place, no gas attacks and the news on the wireless seemed to report the same updates on a tiresome loop.
Grace had not heard from George. While she didn’t have an address to reach out to him, she’d hoped he might send her a letter to the shop.
Nonetheless, for Grace that time had passed in a frenzy of organizing books, shifting shelves and more cleaning than she ever thought possible. The work had kept her so busy for so long, one day she realized somehow it had become November.
Primrose Hill Books was far from perfect, but Grace still straightened with pride every time she walked into the store. Her accomplishment showed itself in the open, welcome space she’d created. New tables were set in the middle of the shop with the books facing the entrance to greet patrons, their genres clearly marked in black print on white pasteboard.