The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(3)

“Colin?” she said, incredulous. He was almost a foot taller than her, towering over her as she once had over him.

He blushed.

His reaction was endearing, and it warmed her to know he hadn’t lost his sweetness in the years that stretched between them.

Grace gazed up at him. “You’ve certainly grown since I saw you last.”

He shrugged his skinny shoulders, looking perfectly bashful before offering a slight nod to Viv, whom he’d played with as well since the two girls had always been inseparable. “Viv. Welcome to London. Mum and I have been looking forward to your arrival.” He slid a grin at Grace, then bent to grasp the two suitcases the ladies had set aside. He hesitated. “May I take these for you?”

“Please,” Viv said. “Thank you, Colin.”

He nodded and took one suitcase in each of his hands, carrying them easily up the stairs.

“Do you remember visiting with Colin?” Mrs. Weatherford asked.

“We do,” Grace said. “He seems as kind as he’s always been.”

“Only much taller,” Viv added.

Mrs. Weatherford looked up the stairs with adoration shining in her eyes, as if she could still see him. “He’s a good lad. Come, let’s have some tea and I’ll show you around.”

She motioned for them to follow and pushed open the door that led into a kitchen. Light spilled in from the window above the sink and at the back door, filtering in through parted gauzy white curtains. Everything was as pristine in her narrow kitchen as it had been in the entryway. The sun shone off clean white countertops, and a few dishes had been neatly set in a rack to dry. Towels the color of lemons were draped on a rack, and the scent of whatever she was cooking was even more tantalizing.

She indicated the small table with four white chairs to Grace and Viv and lifted the kettle from the stove. “Your uncle picked a fine time to lay claim to your home with a war soon upon us.” She carried it to the sink and turned on the tap. “And so very like Horace,” she said with evident distaste over the rush of water. “Beatrice was worried he might attempt such a thing, but her illness was so sudden—”

Mrs. Weatherford flicked a glance from where she’d been watching the water level in the kettle to Grace. “I shouldn’t be going on like this, what with you just getting in from traveling. I’m so pleased to see you here. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

Grace bit her lower lip, uncertain what to say.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Weatherford,” Viv said quickly.

Grace cast her a grateful look, which she answered with a conspiratorial wink.

“Thank you.” The older woman cut the tap and scanned her sunny kitchen with a smile. “My Thomas’s family owned it for several generations. It’s not as fine as it once was, but one makes do.”

Grace and Viv each slid into a chair. The lemon-printed cushion was thin enough to feel the hard wooden seat beneath. “We appreciate you allowing us to stay with you. It’s very generous.”

“Think nothing of it.” Mrs. Weatherford set the kettle on the stove and spun the knob to turn the burner on. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for the daughter of my dearest friend.”

“Do you think finding employment will be difficult?” Viv asked. Though she kept her tone light, Grace knew how much her friend longed to be a shop assistant.

In truth, the idea was appealing to Grace as well. It seemed so glamorous to work in a department store, something fine and grand like Woolworths with floors of items that extended the length of an entire block.

Mrs. Weatherford gave a secretive smile. “It just so happens I’m well acquainted with quite a few shop owners in London. I’m sure I can do something to help. And Colin works at Harrods. He can put in a good word as well.”

Viv’s eyes lit up as she mouthed the store name to Grace with barely restrained excitement.

Mrs. Weatherford took one of the yellow towels and lifted a plate from the rack, rubbing away the few remaining drops. “I must say, the two of you don’t sound at all like you’re from Drayton.”

Viv tilted her chin a notch higher. “Thank you. We’ve certainly tried. We’re hoping it will help with our employment.”

“How delightful.” Mrs. Weatherford opened a cabinet and replaced the plate within. “I trust you’ve procured letters of recommendation already?”

Viv had spent the day before their departure to London with a borrowed typewriter, carefully typing a letter of recommendation for herself. She’d offered to do one for Grace as well, but Grace had refused.

Mrs. Weatherford turned back to the drying dishes once more. Viv lifted her eyebrows at Grace, indicating she ought to have agreed.

“We do have letters of recommendation.” Viv spoke confidently for both of them, no doubt already scheming how she might produce a second one for Grace.

“Viv does,” Grace amended. “Unfortunately, I do not. My uncle refused to write a letter of recommendation for the time I spent at his shop.”

It had been his final offense, a retaliation for her “abandoning the store” where she’d worked for most of her life. He didn’t seem to care that his wife had insisted Grace find another place to live, only that Grace would no longer be at his beck and call.