But he wouldn’t be. She knew that and had no idea what to do to make it better.
He stiffened suddenly and his eyes went wide, practically bulging from his face as though he’d been given a great surprise.
“Someone will be here to help soon.” Grace’s voice broke on the words. “Someone will be here soon.”
There was a light in everyone, one that dimmed when death took them, like a torch whose battery ran down. Grace had seen it once before in an old woman crushed by a collapsed building as she’d tried to cling to life.
That light in Mr. Evans’s eyes, the one that shone with intelligence, kindness and dry humor—that light that had been so bright and so alive—went out.
“No.” Grace shook her head as a knot lodged in her chest and ached in the back of her throat. She put her fingers to his wrist, but felt no pulse. “No.”
Gingerly, she turned him onto his stomach and bent his arms so the backs of his hands braced his forehead on the carpet. She couldn’t fix what was broken inside him, but she had been well trained on the procedure to restore someone when they were no longer breathing. She put her palms between his shoulder blades and slowly pushed her weight onto him for the length of an exhale. Next, she pulled his arms back by the elbows as she inhaled, willing him to do so as well. Over and over she did this in an effort to force him into breathing once more.
The doorbell chimed, a sharp, ugly sound in light of such unspeakable pain. “Is someone in need of help?” a man’s voice called.
“Here,” Grace cried out.
The man wore a suit and carried a black leather bag at his side. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled and exhaustion bruised the undersides of his dark eyes.
Grace explained what had happened with the efficiency of an ARP warden relaying her efforts to medical staff. Only now, she knew the person. She loved him like the father she’d never had. And this time, that person was dead.
The physician put a hand to her shoulder. “You did everything you could. There’s nothing more that can be done.” His brows pinched with genuine sincerity despite the many times he’d no doubt said those words. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry.
It was such a paltry word for the enormity of such an event. A life snuffed out, one that had been so integral in Grace’s world. He had been a mentor, a friend, a father figure.
And now he was gone. Forever.
Sorry.
Mr. Evans was taken away, leaving the shop unnaturally silent. For the first time since the start of the war, Grace closed Primrose Hill Books early and wandered home, her feet carrying her without thought.
She opened the door to the townhouse to Mrs. Weatherford’s exclamation. “Dear me, where is your coat?” Mrs. Weatherford drew up short. “What is it, Grace? Is it Viv? Dear God, please tell me it isn’t Viv.”
Grace shook her head, though she scarce felt the action of doing so. “Mr. Evans.”
Mrs. Weatherford’s face crumpled, and the two women clung to each other through yet another devastating loss.
Yet even so, Grace opened the store the next day, and the day after that, and the one following as well. Customers asked after Mr. Evans and while their concern showed their love for the man who had meant so much to Grace, each question dug into the open wound of her sorrow.
Her mind felt rubbery and unwieldy in its grief. Every time she unlocked the door to the shop, she expected to see Mr. Evans there, marking meticulous notes in the ledger while offering a distracted greeting. And every time the emptiness of that space behind the counter hit her like a fresh knock to the heart.
No matter how much she failed to grasp the reality, no matter how much she didn’t want to believe it, Mr. Evans was gone.
It took attending his funeral for her to finally accept his loss. That moment where his casket was lowered into the ground. It had rained that day and was as if the world was mourning the enormous loss of such a man as Percival Evans.
She still did the readings every afternoon. Getting through them might not have been possible if he wasn’t in her head, encouraging her with that proud smile. Each night she closed, she put the money in a lockbox in the backroom the way she always did, not sure what would happen to it. She wasn’t even sure what would happen to the shop. Perhaps a cousin in the country he had never mentioned?
It wasn’t until nearly a week later that she had her answer. After her reading one bleak afternoon, an older gentleman approached her.
It wasn’t uncommon. Many new listeners liked to speak with her about the book, or see what others she might suggest. Usually she would welcome such discussions. But not today. Not when her chest threatened to cave in.