The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(19)
His fingertips steepled together and tapped against one another as he thought. “That’s quite the question, like asking me to describe all the colors in a spinning kaleidoscope.”
“Is it truly that complicated?” She laughed.
“I’ll try.” He tilted his head and his gaze focused in the distance as he considered his response with apparent care. “Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.”
Grace’s heart went soft at the poetic affection with which he spoke, finding herself both envious of the books as well as the fulfillment he found in them. Nothing in all of her years had ever inspired such passion.
“I see what you mean by trying to describe all the colors in a spinning kaleidoscope,” she said. “That was beautiful.”
He met her eyes once more and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, I don’t know that it will help you with advertising.” He cleared his throat.
“It absolutely does.” Grace paused as she assembled the racing thoughts in her head. “Perhaps something about lighting a blackout with the enjoyment of reading or using it as a means of taking oneself away from the war with a new adventure.”
He opened his hands as if presenting her as a masterpiece. “Those are perfect. You’ll do a stellar job of this.”
“Thank you.” Heat flushed through Grace’s cheeks and chest.
He glanced at his watch. “Forgive me, but I have an appointment I must run to. I should like to continue our discussion on how I might assist you in your efforts. Would you perhaps like to meet for tea some time?”
Her cheeks were so hot now that she was sorely tempted to press her cold hands to them for a bit of relief. She nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
“Perhaps next Wednesday at noon?” he asked.
Grace was working that day, but Mr. Evans would give her the time off for tea if she asked. Or, at least, she hoped. “That would be lovely.”
“Would the café around the corner suit you, P&V’s?”
She nodded. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”
He grinned. “I look forward to it.” He gave her a little bow. “Good day, Miss Bennett.”
Giddy excitement tickled up through her, but she tamped it down long enough to see him out of the shop properly. Only when he was gone did she allow herself to press her hands first to her chest to calm her frantic heartbeat, then to her cheeks to cool their blaze.
“You can go on Wednesday,” Mr. Evans called from somewhere in the bookshop.
Grace froze, hands splayed on her cheeks, eyes wide. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“I wasn’t intending to listen, but the two of you were rather loud.” Mr. Evans emerged from the other side of the shop, his arms folded over the chest of his dun-colored pullover.
She straightened quickly, dropping her hands.
Mr. Evans glanced at the pile of books they’d managed to accumulate. “You could do worse than the likes of George Anderson. He’s an engineer and most likely won’t be called up to war. But then again, he’s also just the sort of bloke who will volunteer regardless.”
The reminder of war was jarring. For that one brief moment, she had forgotten about it. As though the world had, for the span of a blink, been once more blissfully normal.
Except that it wasn’t. There were barrage balloons in the air outside to ward off bombers and children who had been carted to the country to live with strangers. Men were leaving and may never return, and at any moment, Hitler could drop his bombs.
It was like waking from a dream and realizing you were in the onset of a nightmare.
Somewhere outside, a cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow of gray over the shop.
“I only hope you won’t be foolish about this nonsense with Mr. Anderson.” Mr. Evans gave her a stern look, the way one’s father might. “Every girl is rushing to marry before the men can be sent off to war.” His mouth flattened in a chastising gesture. “Keep your head about you.”
Grace suppressed the urge to squirm where she stood. Was he truly giving her relationship advice? “I don’t plan to wed anytime soon,” she replied slowly.
He grunted, though she couldn’t tell if that meant he believed her or not, and disappeared down the aisle. As the afternoon went on, Grace found only two more books from the list he’d given her, a search that was decidedly less enjoyable without Mr. Anderson.
When it was finally time for her to leave for the day, it wasn’t Britton Street she headed for. No, this time she was determined to find her way to Paternoster Row to see how the rest of London touted her bookshops.
SIX
All throughout Paternoster Row, wide windows peeked out from multiple shops, showcasing the books being sold within. Gilt letters adorned the glass with store names while painted posters advertised sale prices meant to lure in customers with a bargain. The front displays varied from those that were artfully arranged to piles of books stacked in no particular order, all but blocking the interior. If nothing else, perhaps the latter didn’t require blackout curtains. After all, who needed three layers of fabric when one had stacks of books five deep?