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When I finally join her in the kitchen, she’s placed half the shortbread onto a dish and the other pieces into a tin. She hands me one. “Don’t burn yourself. But try it.”

I crack into the flaky rectangle. “It’s fantastic. We did it.”

She beams at me. “You did it, Gemma, and I have a feeling there’s much more you can do too. Once you put your mind to it.”

As she ushers me out, she crosses the room to the chess game. I am almost about to apologize for getting a piece or two out of place when her thoughtful expression stops me.

“Don’t dismiss your talents, Gemma.”

I nod.

As I reach her walk’s gate, she calls after me, “Let’s meet next Wednesday and Friday. You can come before your work begins. Does that suit?”

I beam. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be here.”

I practically skip away as she retreats into her house and shuts the door. A block away, I turn back, not quite ready to leave my perfect morning. And, for the first time, I notice that the radio antenna from atop her back shed sticks up far above the houses’ rooflines.

How have I never noticed it before?

Chapter 10

Saturday, 14 January 1950

Charlie . . . tonight!

It’s the first thought upon waking and the one that scurries about every moment after. Butterflies start fluttering in my gut during my morning tea and toast, ramp up to a thrum at lunchtime, and swarm so raucously around closing time, I feel a bit ill.

Yesterday Ursula mused that she thought I could do anything once I set my mind to it, but today I’m so scattered and unfocused, I mess up practically every order and request: I sell Mrs. Heywood sugar when she asked for salt, I ring up cans of green beans for the price of white, and worst of all, I almost send poor Mrs. Brady home with spicy cinnamon poppers for her children when she asked for cherry drops.

Mr. Hastings almost wilts with relief when we finally bolt the door. “Where were you today, Gemma?”

My neck tenses in surprise. “Here. All day, sir.”

He widens his eyes in the knowing, indulgent way I’ve seen many times. I sense he’d like to be cross with me, yet he conveys concern instead. “In body perhaps, but wherever the rest of you was, be sure to bring it back by Monday morning.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” I bite my lip. “I promise I will.”

He chuckles. “You needn’t be sorry, Gemma. You tend to dwell on what you do wrong, but you do much right. A distracted you is still far better than any help I’ve had in years. You organized the storage room so well and you keep the floor sorted and stocked. The customers adore you. And . . .” He gestures to the corner in which I’ve established the store’s “bookshop.” “Have you noticed how briskly your inventory is moving? I think you’ll need to place another order soon.”

I’m astonished to discover he’s right. Even while recording the purchases and ringing up several sales today, I didn’t realize how many books we sold. There are empty gaps throughout the shelves. “I’ll write up an order tomorrow.”

“Monday,” he intones. “It can wait until Monday. Have a nice evening with PC Charles, Gemma.”

My lips part as Mr. Hastings turns away and walks back to the storage room, humming a little ditty. Of course he knows. I sigh. Everyone knows everything in this village.

I straighten up the customer service counter—I must at least get one of my duties right today—before I race up the stairs to my bedsit above. All day I’ve been trying to figure out what to wear, and I still have no answers. The burgundy dress I wore when we sat on the bench last Monday? The green skirt that hits my knees just right? The blue . . .

After trying on five outfits, the right one continues to elude me. I want it to be lovely and light, feminine and fitted, but it’s also cold outside and I don’t want to shiver. So it needs to be warm, but that means bulky and—

Ugh!

It’s almost six o’clock when I throw on the first outfit again—a fitted black turtleneck sweater I bought off Oxford Street on sale last February and the full dark-green skirt that almost billows like a tulip down to my knees and hits them just right. It’s not a skirt I wear often, as it feels impractical working on the store floor, but it is one that is both warm and makes me feel pretty, especially when I spin—which I absolutely will not do in front of Charlie.

I race down the stairs precisely at six o’clock, not sure if a knock at the outer door can be heard up in my rooms. I yank open the door and there he is, out of uniform and looking very smart in grey trousers, a white dress shirt, sport coat, and overcoat, leaning against a Morris Minor.

“I didn’t know you owned a car.”

“Good evening, Miss Brown. I am a man of surprises.” He dashes flowers from behind his back and holds them out to me.