The word took Grace aback. She wasn’t brave. She was simply doing what any ARP warden would, what she’d been trained to do. Of all the words Grace might describe herself with, the last would be brave.
When Viv straightened, she wiped the underside of her eyes and looked up, fluttering her lashes with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ll ruin my makeup going on like this. Come, let’s get home so you can have a proper rest before this afternoon.”
Warmth flushed over Grace’s cheeks at the reminder. George would be by to pick her up later that afternoon for a date. It had been over a year since she’d seen him last.
Several men she’d danced with the night before had asked her to dinner or for her to write. A few had even boldly asked her to kiss them, declaring hers might be the last lips they’d ever taste. She’d turned every one of them down, though as gently as possible, and took care not to dance with anyone more than once, lest they mistake her interest in them.
That afternoon, after a bit of a nap and a lot of fuss from Viv over exactly what dress to wear, they’d agreed on a cherry-red shirred dress in a silk Grace thought far too fancy and Viv insisted was exactly perfect. This was paired with matching pumps and a black purse with red piping. Her hair was styled in the latest fashion, courtesy of Viv, with reverse rolls curled back from her face.
Viv even managed to talk Grace into a bit of red lipstick, which admittedly did look becoming with the dress. It was the boldest outfit Grace had ever worn, and it made her feel as smooth as the silk of her last pair of new stockings.
“I think he may fall over when he sees you,” Viv said with a rise of her perfectly plucked brows.
Grace’s cheeks flushed at her reflection.
“Especially if you blush like that.” Viv clapped her hands with delight and they made their way downstairs.
Mrs. Weatherford, who was waiting in the entryway for them, put a palm to her chest. “Oh, Grace.”
Grace went hot all over, nervous that Mrs. Weatherford might declare it all too much. Certainly it was far more than Grace had ever done with so much red and in silk, no less.
“You’re so very beautiful, my dear.” Mrs. Weatherford shook her head and breathed out a long exhale. “If only your mum could see you now.”
Before Grace could reply, the doorbell chimed and she nearly stumbled off the last step.
She and George had agreed on an early dinner to ensure they couldn’t be interrupted by air raids and so she could still resume her shift that night as warden. A glance at her watch confirmed he was a minute early.
Mrs. Weatherford’s mouth formed an O of anticipation, and she scooted back from the door so Grace could draw it open. It was all Grace could do not to yank the handle, and instead pulled it far slower than she truly wanted.
On the other side was George. The man to whom she’d written letters for months detailing every bit of her life, with whom she had shared her innermost thoughts. The man who had introduced her to the world of reading.
And now, for the first time in over a year, she was finally seeing him again.
SEVENTEEN
Grace’s pulse tripped over itself as her gaze found the striking green eyes of George Anderson.
After so many months, there he was—in person, with his dark hair neatly combed to the side and wearing a crisp blue RAF uniform, his arms tucked patiently behind his back like a soldier at ease. His mouth opened as he took her in, but he didn’t utter a single word.
He swallowed and cleared his throat then said, “Miss Bennett—Grace—you look…” He shook his head as though trying to find the right word.
Never had she seen him at a loss for what to say. In their previous interactions, he’d always been so smooth and confident. That she had rattled him gave her an undeniable thrill.
“Stunning,” he said finally with a lopsided grin. “You look stunning.”
He brought his arms from around his back and extended a book toward her. The royal purple cover was embossed with a gold image of a man standing on a barrel amid a group of people with the looping title in gilt at its top. Vanity Fair.
“I would have arrived with flowers, but it appears they’ve all been replaced with cabbages.” He tilted the book as though reconsidering it. “So I brought the next best thing. I thought you might enjoy it, and you hadn’t mentioned reading this one yet in your letters.”
“I haven’t.” Grace took the book, feeling suddenly shy in front of this man whom she’d shared so much of herself with. “And this is far better than flowers.”