She shook her head vehemently. “I’d like to work. Please.” Even she could hear the desperate tremble in her voice.
He studied her a long time and finally nodded. “But if you want to go, you need only ask.”
She nodded, grateful for a chance for a reprieve from her grief.
As it turned out, such melancholy could not be outrun. It followed her like a shadow, slinking at her back and creeping through her thoughts every moment her mind was not occupied. It reminded her of Colin cradling a wounded creature in his big, tender hands and how the shattering of the Italian café’s window had crashed through the damp night air. It had reminded her again and again how she could stop none of it, that she was utterly and helplessly ineffectual.
She was in the small back room for a spell, giving in to a cry when Mr. Evans came in. He stopped abruptly and stared at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. Grace turned her face from him, wishing he would slip away as he had done the other day with the sobbing mother.
Instead, his footsteps shuffled closer and a handkerchief appeared in front of her. She accepted it, having already soaked through her own, and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize for feeling.” He leaned against a stack of books nearest her. “Never apologize for feeling. Do you want to”—he opened his hands in an uncertain gesture—“talk about it?”
She studied him to gauge his sincerity. He regarded her, unblinking, his expression earnest. He was serious.
She nearly declined. For no amount of talking could possibly bring back Colin. Indeed, she didn’t even know if the grip around her throat could relax enough to put voice to such agony.
But then, she recalled the Italian café, her silence, and the guilt lashed like fire at her insides. “Have you ever done something you’re ashamed of?”
His furry brows lifted, suggesting of all the things she might say, he had not been anticipating that. “Yes,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “I think most people have.” He crossed his arms. “If this pertains to Colin, I know he would have forgiven you. He was that kind of man.”
There was that ache at the back of her throat again. She swallowed and shook her head. Before she could stop herself, she told him about the night at the Italian café, the details tearing at her conscience and leaving her raw.
He remained propped against the wall as she spoke, his arms folded in a relaxed state against his chest. When she was done, he slowly pushed to standing, scooted a large box of books toward the table and sat on it so he was nearly level with her.
His eyes were clear and sharp, more fixed with intent than she’d ever seen them. “There’s a war going on, Miss Bennett. You are but one person, so sometimes that means a café is looted, yes, but that it didn’t burn. You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.”
His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. “Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive.” He set his age-spotted hand on hers, its warmth comforting. “Or finding a story to help a young mother forget her pain.” He removed his hand and straightened. “It doesn’t matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop.”
Grace nodded. “I won’t.” The determination inside her sent chills coursing over her skin. “I’ll never stop.”
“That’s the young woman I know.” He rose from the box. “Speaking of which, I’ve been winning my own battle with a strategy I borrowed from you. Would you like to see?”
Curious, Grace wiped self-consciously at her eyes to clear away any makeup that might have been smeared and followed Mr. Evans out to the store.
“You may have seen it already.” He indicated the small table with Pigeon Pie set in the back corner.
In truth, she’d avoided the table of her failure until that moment. What she beheld left her stunned.
What had once contained a neat stack of one hundred books had only a handful remaining. The pasteboard propped in the center of the table proclaimed: “Written while Chamberlain was still prime minister.”
Mr. Evans grinned at her. “They’ve been selling like butter ever since.”
Grace laughed in spite of herself. “That was quite genius of you.”
Mr. Evans’s old cheeks went red beneath his glasses as he tilted his head humbly. “I was rather proud of it. Nonetheless, it’s your idea. I only added my own stodgy twist.”