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“Let’s just hope it tastes as good.”

“It will.”

Peggy and I chat about Charlie, life, the latest gossip she heard at this week’s parish meetings—yes, Mr. Hartnell is having an affair with Mrs. Edwards and they’ve been caught out—and happenings at the store. The Hartnell Affair aside, my stories are the most interesting, as a surprising amount of village life happens within our very store.

“Little Molly Hubert lost a tooth in the taffy this week.”

“Poor kid.” Peggy sighs.

We also talk about my new suit. “I bought it to wear to dinner with Charlie’s family. Sunday two weeks from now. He’s on duty this Sunday and next.” I smooth down the wool blazer. “Is it okay?”

“More than okay. The creamy color sets off your skin perfectly.”

“And the lipstick? I thought I’d wear this shade that night too.”

Peggy puts her hands on her hips. “Is this a dry run for family dinner?”

“For the outfit? Of course.”

She twirls her finger, asking me to spin. I do. “It’s smashing, and your Charlie adores you no matter what you wear.”

I say nothing more as a single additional word would come between me and that sentence. “Your Charlie adores you no matter what you wear.” That I want to hang on to. But not for long as we hear the heavy parish door open. Heels click along the wood flooring. Voices become louder as steps bring them closer.

Peggy raises a brow in my direction. “Let the show begin.”

Chapter 16

“Welcome,” I call out. “Welcome to the first meeting of the Great Rollright Book Club.”

They arrive in small groupings, and a few amongst the numbers surprise me. Mrs. Southerland walks in with Mrs. Taylor, soon followed by Mrs. Barker and Mrs. Rogers. Mrs. Sharpe and Miss Williams come in next, and my heart quickens in a mix of excitement, anticipation, and a wee bit of dread. Lady Marchmont and a few others I have not yet met saunter in last.

I offer tea and slice the cake. I try to keep up light chatter, all while watching for first bites, second bites, grimaces, and choking. Nothing untoward happens, and I begin to relax. And soon, as several more ladies arrive, I’m forced to stop my hawkish ways altogether. I forget myself and start to have fun—as everyone else seems to be having.

I’m only brought back to my precarious position—as a “disastrous baker”—when Mrs. Barker taps me on the shoulder. “I heard Mrs. Beurton is teaching you to bake.” She lifts her fork and points to the lemony yellow cake on her plate. “And, from this, I’d say the rumors are true.”

“Yes, she—”

“You aren’t planning on entering the baking contest, are you? I think two entries for her must violate the rules.”

“No, I—”

I stop because Mrs. Barker has already turned away to join a few other ladies with the little jabs of reassurance gossip gives. “Mrs. Beurton has a very high opinion of herself.” “I’ve heard . . .” “I saw . . .” “Didn’t you say you saw her last week in Glympton, Jenny?”

My head turns to and fro, as if I’m at a tennis match watching the ball of my friend’s reputation get batted about—without one word of defense from me. Part of me chides myself for that, yet still I don’t speak, now caught up in my own growing questions. Is Ursula my friend?

“Yes,” Mrs. Barker continues to the group. “I was driving through on my way home, and there she was pushing her bicycle along and walking with a man. Glympton is a full ten miles from here. I waved, thinking she should know she’s not being very discreet even at that distance, but she didn’t see me and kept walking. Bold as brass.”

“She’s an odd fish, that one,” someone else added.

“To say the least. I heard—”

And the tattle goes on until I finally recognize the antidote is at hand. I grab a book from the table and wave it high. “Ladies, as soon as you’ve finished your cake, please bring your tea over and find a chair and let’s discuss what we might like to read first.”

In the end the group doesn’t select anything from the Queens of Crime, but Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, which I’d grabbed off the shelf at the last moment. And the runner-up, which we will save for next month, is Mrs. Miniver by Jan Struther. Another novel about World War II and our lives right afterwards.

While I hoped for a mystery novel, I am not disappointed. In one sense I’m pleased. Everyone is interested and engaged—opinionated too. I tuck away all the conversations, the back-and-forth debate, and our selections to share with Charlie later, as it is just as we discussed. We are still figuring out how to define ourselves and what, who, and where we are today by skipping past our last five years and returning to the war. Perhaps such a focus upon that time, in conversations and now in literature, will help us learn and grow from all the upheaval, turmoil, and even death. And, like he said, we aren’t quite ready to leave that space yet.

We set our next meeting date in March, and after I assure them that the store will have ample copies of Brideshead Revisited in stock by the end of next week, the ladies depart in much the same pairings in which they arrived.