But people had to return to their obligations and so must she.
It was with much regret that she lowered the book to find it had begun to rain outside. Surely it would not take much before water would seep into the walls and the damage became irreparable.
Then Primrose Hill Books would be no more, and everything she’d worked for would truly be gone.
Several men had arrived outside the broken shop windows with Jack in the lead. He entered the store, his cap clutched in his large hands. “I’m sorry I missed your reading.”
The other men came in behind him, shining torches along the walls and ceiling as they spoke together in low murmurs.
They couldn’t be there to—
“I had to get my crew,” Jack said. “So we can fix the shop for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” she whispered, unable to believe her ears. Surely she hadn’t heard him properly. Surely he didn’t mean—
“We’re here to fix up your shop.” He called out several orders to his men.
One of the men layered a sheet of waxed linen on the inside of a blown-out display window and nailed it to the frame. The room darkened somewhat at the blocked light.
“We’ll fix up the shop, then you can keep reading.” He winked. “These blokes haven’t heard your readings yet. Now they’re interested.”
Grace gave a little laugh that was somewhere nearer to a sob than she cared to admit. “I’ll read them any book they’d like.”
“They were hoping you’d say that.” He turned to his men and issued a series of instructions before turning back to her. “Please get some rest, Miss Bennett. Your shop will be in safe hands. We’ve worked out a system to keep watch so looters can’t come in, even through the night.”
“Jack.” Words stuck in her throat then, all the gratitude and genuine awe at such kindness. “Thank you.” It was all she could manage of the welling praise and appreciation she wished to say instead.
Mrs. Weatherford approached and put an arm around Grace’s shoulders, gently guiding her home where she gave Grace a warm meal and saw her safely tucked into bed.
Mind reeling at the twists and turns of that day, Grace gave in fully to the weariness that felt as though it was leaching her bones.
She woke to the gray glow of a rainy day limning the blackout curtains. Her mouth was dry as wartime cake, and her brain was fogged over with blurred memories. The severity of her fatigue had left her more addled than the French 75s she’d had with Viv at Grosvenor House Hotel months ago.
Suddenly she remembered everything. The bombed bookshop, Mr. Stokes helping her clean and salvage, reading amid the ruination. And Jack bringing his crew to help.
She leapt from the bed then, rushing to dress and go see what they’d managed to accomplish in the afternoon. If nothing else, hopefully they would have the tarpaulin on the roof to prevent any more leaking into Mr. Evans’s flat.
She freshened up and went downstairs where Mrs. Weatherford was sitting in the parlor with Tabby nestled comfortably in her lap.
“I wondered when you might finally wake.” She chuckled and scratched the little cat behind his ears. He leaned into her ministrations as his eyes lazily closed. “I’m glad we were able to make it through the night without a single air raid.”
“The night?” Grace asked, startled.
“Yes, dear. You’ve been asleep since we came home yesterday afternoon.” Mrs. Weatherford looked up. “And good thing too; you’ve been in dire need of rest. Jack said it was for the best. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he? He said to assure you that the shop—”
“The bookshop.” Grace hastened to the front door.
“Do eat something before you go,” Mrs. Weatherford called.
But Grace was already rushing out the front door, practically running to Primrose Hill Books. Once more, her feet skidded to a halt before the shop in shock. She’d hoped for a tarp on the roof and saw now there was none.
There was slate.
Mismatched and oddly shaped bits that came together to form a solid roof. The windows were covered in waxed linen, stretched taut in their frames like drum skins.
Even the soot streaking the stucco from the fires had been painted over.
It was all as if it had never happened. Grace strode toward the door—the door!
Its trim suggested it might have been cut down from a larger size, but a fresh coating of black paint gave it a fine look. She put her hand to the dented brass knob and entered the shop.
A familiar ding cheerfully welcomed her.