Hedy was at the pictures with Betty and Gertie was upstairs reading a Dorothy L. Sayers novel when there was a loud knock at the door. Gertie sighed and put down her book with reluctance. She checked her appearance in the mirror and wondered when her face had become so round. It might have something to do with Hedy’s exceptional baking. She tidied her hair and went downstairs, meeting Hemingway in the hall. Gertie opened the door, half expecting it to be Hedy having forgotten her key. She was therefore rather surprised to be staring into the glowering face of Miss Crow.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bingham. Is this a convenient time?” she asked, casting a critical eye toward the biscuit crumbs on Gertie’s blouse.
As Gertie surreptitiously brushed them to the floor, Hemingway fell upon the precious morsels with delight. “Of course,” she said. “Would you care for some tea?”
Miss Crow looked momentarily unsure, as if no one had ever offered her tea before. “Yes. All right. Thank you.”
“Go through to the living room. I won’t be a moment.”
When Gertie returned, Miss Crow was standing by the mantelpiece looking awkward. “Please. Do take a seat.”
She did as she was told, perching on the edge of an armchair as Gertie handed her the tea. “Thank you.”
“So,” said Gertie, taking her place on the sofa. “What can I do for you?”
Miss Crow fixed her with a beady-eyed gaze. “You must open up the bookshop again.”
Of all the sentences Gertie expected to come out of Miss Crow’s mouth, this was one of the unlikeliest, along with You’re looking lovely today, Mrs. Bingham, and Let me share my rations with you. “Beg pardon?” she said.
Miss Crow frowned as if addressing a half-wit. “Your bookshop,” she said slowly. “You need to reopen it.”
Gertie blinked at her. “But it’s been destroyed.”
“Well,” said Miss Crow, fiddling with the handle of her cup. “The thing is, I’ve been talking to Eleanora.”
“Miss Snipp?”
“Yes. We fell out, you see, after school. It was over a silly thing. A young man, actually.”
Gertie’s eyes widened at the idea of Miss Snipp and Miss Crow competing for the same beau.
“He ended up marrying someone else in the end, so it was all for nothing.”
“I see,” said Gertie, bewildered but relishing the story nonetheless.
“Anyway,” continued Miss Crow. “After what happened to my nephew and that night when your shop was destroyed, I started to realize how foolish I’d been. So I went to see Eleanora and we’ve made amends.”
“I’m delighted for you, but I’m still not sure what this has to do with the bookshop.”
“It’s fate,” she said with a note of exasperation. “It’s because of the bookshop that we rekindled out friendship. I came in to get that book for my nephew’s boy. Treasure Island. He loved it by the way.” She avoided Gertie’s eye as she continued. “The thing is, I’ve never been very good at reading. Eleanora has been helping me so that I can read to young Fred.”
“That’s wonderful, Miss Crow.”
“Yes, yes, but don’t you see?” said the woman, flapping her hands with impatience.
“Not really.”
“You have to reopen the bookshop.”
Gertie shifted in her seat. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“If it’s the damage you’re worried about, you needn’t be. I’ve spoken to Mr. Travers. He says it’s structurally sound. Everything can be repaired.”
Except hearts, thought Gertie. “I’m grateful to you for taking the time to tell me all this, Miss Crow, but the answer is still no.”
Miss Crow frowned. “May I ask why?”
Gertie sighed. “I built that business over twenty-five years with my husband. I can’t start again from scratch.”
“Well,” said Miss Crow, putting down her teacup and standing up. “I suppose there’s no more to be said.”
“I suppose there isn’t. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.”
Miss Crow made for the door but paused as she caught sight of a photograph of Harry on the mantelpiece. It had been taken shortly after he qualified as a librarian and was one of Gertie’s favorites. “It was a great loss to Beechwood when Mr. Bingham died,” she said.
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“He was a nice man,” said Miss Crow. “Kind.”
“Yes. He was.”
“I couldn’t imagine him giving up on his community.”
And there it was. Fate. Not stroking her cheek with a velvet glove but striking her in the face with an iron fist. Gertie boiled with indignant rage. She wasn’t about to let Philomena Crow get the upper hand. This woman had no idea of the pain she’d endured. “How dare you?” she stammered. “I have lost everything.”
“Have you?” said Miss Crow, her eyes flashing. “You still have this house. You still have that young woman who cares about you.”
Gertie flushed with shame.
“She called on Eleanora, by the way, because she was concerned and wanted to know if anything could be done. She’s the reason I’m here in the first place. But no, don’t you worry. You’ve lost everything. Stay here feeling sorry for yourself.” She straightened her shoulders and fixed Gertie with a cold stare. “Everyone has lost something. You’re no different from the rest of us. And you’re a coward if you give up now.”
Gertie opened her mouth to protest, but much as it pained her, she knew Miss Crow was right. She was giving up. She was hiding. Avoiding the world. Feeling sorry for herself. It had to stop. She owed it to Hedy, to her parents, to Jack, to dear Harry. Most of all, she owed it to herself. She turned to Miss Crow. “You mentioned that Mr. Travers said everything can be repaired?”
The woman gave a brief nod. “Come to the shop at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Gertie couldn’t have been more surprised if Clark Gable himself had offered his hand in marriage. As she and Hedy stepped through the doorway of the bookshop the next day, it felt as if every person who’d ever been welcomed across the threshold of Bingham Books was there. Miss Snipp’s soot-blotched face was frowning at the wall she was scrubbing as if daring it to remain grubby. Elizabeth Chambers and Mrs. Wise were heaving sacks of rubbish out through the back door. Even Mrs. Constantine was there, adding a touch of glamour to the proceedings, her hair tied in a magenta silk headscarf, sweeping the floor with elegant care. “Good morning, my dears,” she said, glancing up from her industry.
“Good morning,” said Gertie, her voice cracking a little.
“Let me help you with that, Mrs. Constantine,” said Hedy.
“Thank you, my dear. Mr. Reynolds and I were supposed to be taking turns, but he seems rather occupied at present,” she said, nodding toward the old man, who was propped up in the corner on a chair, head nodding against his chest, a copy of Churchill’s Amid These Storms dropped at his feet.
“Ah, Mrs. Bingham. Just the woman,” said Gerald Travers, appearing from the back of the shop. “Now I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve had a mate of mine who knows about these things check everything over to be sure. Belt and braces, if you like. Structurally, it’s tickety-boo. And as luck would have it, the door to the shelter was closed and thick as a cement block, so . . .”