His heavy brows crawled together as he bent to study the title on the spine. “Are you reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”
She nodded. “Yes, I…” It was on the edge of her tongue to offer a justification, but she stopped herself. Nothing could excuse what she’d done. “I’m sorry.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I see you took Mr. Anderson’s recommendation.” He nodded to the book. “Carry on, Miss Bennett. I expect if it has captivated you so thoroughly, we can anticipate selling quite a few copies based on your recommendation.”
Relief eased the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll order more from Simpkin Marshalls.”
“See that you do.” He picked a bit of yellow lint from his tweed jacket. “And you may want to consider Jane Austen for your next book. Women seem to enjoy her protagonists.”
Curiosity piqued, she made a mental note to purchase one of Miss Austen’s books. Maybe Emma. Mrs. Weatherford appeared to have found it enjoyable.
“I’m pleased to see you’ve become a reader in your time here.” Mr. Evans drew his spectacles off to examine them. Without the magnifying effect of the glass, his eyes appeared rather small. “Even if you do have only one more month remaining in our agreement.”
Was there truly only one more month to go? How was it even a dismal Christmas season had passed with such swiftness?
Grace nodded, unsure of what to say, and realized belatedly he most likely couldn’t see her.
He drew out a handkerchief, wiped at a spot on the lens, then replaced the glasses on his face and blinked owlishly at her. “You haven’t become attached to Primrose Hill Books now, have you?”
The question took her aback, but not nearly as much as her immediate awareness that indeed, she had become attached.
She liked how customers could easily find their books in the newly organized store, she enjoyed the book jackets and how creative some publishers were with their designs. She even relished the dusty scent that lingered in the shop no matter how often she cleaned, and had come to appreciate Mr. Evans, dry humor and all.
Before she could formulate a reply, the bell dinged, announcing an incoming customer.
“Evans?” Mr. Pritchard’s voice chirped from the front of the shop. “Are you here?”
Mr. Evans rolled his eyes heavenward and shuffled out to greet the man who Grace could never tell was a friend or foe. “Good afternoon, Pritchard.”
“Have you tried the fish and chips at Warrington’s recently?” Mr. Pritchard asked. “I just had some and they’re bloody awful. It’s a shame what’s become of London when you cannot even find a decent meal of fish and chips. I know they don’t have the same fat to fry them in, but after the queue I stood in and the price I paid…”
The men continued on discussing how the ration had affected their enjoyment of food and how margarine could never fully replace butter. While they did so, Grace grappled with the dismal realization that soon she would no longer be employed at the bookshop.
After all the times she’d dreamed of being alongside Viv at Harrods, amid the colorful, stylish clothes and the air scented with costly perfume, never once had she considered how much she genuinely enjoyed her current position.
Her stomach clenched and she clutched George’s book more tightly in her hands, as though it could somehow help ground her spiraling emotions.
In only one month, she would have her letter of recommendation, and her employment at Primrose Hill Books would be done.
Mr. Evans had told her from the start not to get attached. Though she hadn’t meant to, somehow she had.
And now she didn’t want it to end.
NINE
Grace had not been able to dislodge her melancholy at the idea of no longer working for Primrose Hill Books. Yet in the three weeks that followed, she couldn’t summon the temerity to speak to Mr. Evans about the possibility of staying on. Not when he’d been so insistent that she not become attached.
She did, however, finish The Count of Monte Cristo and so thoroughly enjoyed it, she couldn’t stop recommending it to customers. So much that she’d had to order more than the five they had stocked, something Mr. Evans had commented on with enthusiasm.
She couldn’t wait to get to the last page to find out if Edmond had his revenge and if his life finally settled into happiness. But as much as she loved reading the story, no one had prepared her for the end being so bittersweet. No one told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she’d said goodbye for the last time to a close friend. When she mentioned it to Mr. Evans, he simply smiled and recommended she try another book. And so, she consoled herself with Emma, which was a most marvelous distraction.