Page 41 of The Undercover Bookshop

Peggy and I sink into chairs and, by unspoken agreement, devour the last of the cake.

She waves her fork, laden with a bite, towards the door. “She didn’t show.”

I follow her gaze, knowing exactly to whom she refers. “I kept an eye on the door the whole time, but after all that, maybe it was for the best.”

The curl to Peggy’s lips tells me she is trying so hard not to say, “I told you so.” I roll my eyes. “Just get it out.”

“It’s not just a little tittle-tattle, is it? Did you hear those hens pecking away? They really don’t like her, and they certainly don’t trust her.” Peggy sets her plate on her lap. “Sure, she shuns any community involvement, then wins the baking contest. They can’t help but respect that last bit, but her attitude chafes. But, oh my, even I didn’t realize the vitriol they feel.”

I blow out a long puff of relief—the first book club meeting is over, and it went well. “You’re right. It wouldn’t have been nearly as good if she had come. And it was good, wasn’t it? I think they all really enjoyed it and will buy the book. I mean, there was no chance Ursula would have joined the club, but I did believe her when she said she’d come to this first meeting. But then if she had shown up today, some of those ladies might have thought she would join, and then none of them would have joined. And—”

I pause, both to draw breath and to slow my racing thoughts. I also pause because I was on the brink of babbling something I think perhaps I shouldn’t reveal—not yet. I alone need to figure out what the two-way radio means before I start blithering on about it.

The silence drags on, and to Peggy’s credit, she says nothing. She simply waits.

I get as close to the point as I dare. “I’m beginning to wonder if Ursula is not who she presents herself to be.”

“What do you mean?” Peggy’s voice is low and solemn. It carries none of the light flippancy I usually hear.

“She has a personality or image she wants me to see, and it may be close to her own, but it’s not truly her own. I can sometimes see it in her eyes. She has a secret—many secrets, maybe—and I get the feeling she’s peeling back the veil on them just a little bit here and there, wondering what I’ll do with them. I got the sense this morning I was being tested.”

“Tested for what?”

“I have no idea.” I think back to my cracked-door analogy. “It’s like she opens a door, just a little, enough to make me curious, then waits to see if I’ll walk through. Like there’s a game going on, but I can’t see it because I’m the pawn rather than the player.”

“Then give up the game. Quit taking lessons. You know enough. This cake was perfection.”

I consider that one. I could stop taking lessons. But a tiny voice whispers deep inside me, It isn’t always a game. And oftentimes—most of the time—I like who I am and who I am becoming in Ursula’s presence. What if I haven’t learned enough yet? What if, as she says, there’s “more” I can be, and I can best learn that from her?

“I never did like her Mona Lisa smile.” Peggy’s words cut into my musings. Her lips compress, small and tight. I don’t understand until one corner of her mouth lifts.

“That’s it. Just like that. But how—”

“Wait here.” Peggy dashes towards the parish office, then returns moments later with a large book. She spreads it open in my lap. “That’s the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci.”

“That’s exactly right! Not the hair or—” I tap the page. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Peggy picks up the book and closes it. “It’s the most famous smile in history, I’d say, and everyone always wonders if Mona Lisa is laughing at them or has a secret she’ll never tell.”

“With Ursula I expect it’s a little of both.”

Peggy plops in the chair across from me again. “I believe Mrs. Barker.”

“That she saw Ursula with her lover in Glympton?”

“Maybe.” Peggy shrugs. “A few weeks ago, before you told me about the antenna, I took the bus to Kidlington and saw her shopping on High Street. I mentioned it to her when she came to services that Sunday, in a friendly way, and she instantly stiffened before she relaxed again, like I’d shocked her. It was subtle, but it was real too. She asked me where exactly I’d seen her, and when I told her she went into this long, overblown story. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now. She was lying.”

We talk on as we straighten up, coming to no conclusions, just recycling old gossip and adding to our own questions. I still can’t bring myself to tell her of the two-way radio, and it’s undoing me. Because as much as I try to talk myself out of it, I can’t deny the oddity of it. Owning one is not normal and it carries implications—none of them good, at least in my mind. Two-way radios are for military or military-adjacent purposes, even now.

Eventually I walk out of the parish offices a little dazed and sorely confused. And as I’m loading my books and the now-washed cake tin into my basket, Ursula rides towards me on her bicycle.

I feel myself lift. Everything everyone said disappears, as do all my own ugly thoughts. She kept her word. She’s here. It’s too late and the meeting is over, but she’s still here, and I’m swamped with gratitude that my mentor, my friend, is exactly who she says she is and who I want to believe her to be.

I raise my hand to wave and call hello. But no words emerge and I drop my hand as she comes fully into view. Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth set in a grim line. She rides up the street in front of the church, not looking left or right, and is so fixated on the road before her, tearing it up at an astounding pace, that she passes only twenty feet from me without any recognition that I am standing near her at all.

I climb on my bike. Two directions lie before me. Down Hook Norton Road towards the village and the general store, the proper way to go as Mr. Hastings is expecting me back to work within the half hour. Or up Hook Norton Road after Ursula.

Concerned, curious, and set on my own mystery, I follow Ursula.