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eight
AVIS
APRIL 18
Every time Avis tried to increase her speed, the china on the tray chattered a warning—and with borrowed cups, no less. She’d remembered only a half hour before the book club meeting that her brilliant idea of serving tea would be ruined by the fact that she had only six teacups.
Given that she’d used her own money for an advertisement in the town paper, in addition to putting up flyers at the post office, town hall, all three churches in town, and the Bristol-Banks Foundry, her meager tea set wouldn’t be nearly enough. Avis’s neighbor, Mrs. Humphrey, had been willing to lend her second-best set, though she’d coughed uncomfortably when Avis gathered the courage to say she hoped she’d see her at future meetings.
She was only five minutes late. Likely, everyone was enjoying the extended socializing.
With the tray on one hip, Avis threw the library’s front door open, pausing to tuck wisps of escaping hair behind her ear and fix on her sunniest hostess smile. She could do this. After all, she was wearing new pumps and a sharp blue suit with gold buttons in honor of the occasion.
She rounded the shelves housing the Dewey 100s to the circle of twenty chairs she’d so carefully set up earlier that morning.
Only three were occupied.
Three.
Avis had made twodozencarrot-cake muffins for three people.
Her step faltered, rattling the tray, and Ginny sprang up to steady her. “Finally!” she exclaimed, too loudly for the quiet room. “We can eat the snacks now, can’t we, Avis?”
Ignoring her question, Avis set the tray down and turned to the others.You can do this. Or at least you can pretend.
What would Anthony do?
“Welcome, everyone, to our little Blackout Book Club,” she said, trying to mimic the expression the women’s navy auxiliary officer had donned for the cover of the latest issue ofMy Daymagazine. Poise, warmth, and eloquence, the three marks of the ideal hostess. “I’m delighted you were able to join us.”
No one in the audience seemed to match her delight. Miss Cavendish had, as Avis had predicted, claimed the forest green armchair as her rightful throne, surveying the gathering with marked displeasure. A dark-haired woman Avis had never met looked around nervously, and it was only now that Avis noticed two children on the floor behind her, leaning against the shelves. And Ginny, of course, balanced a plate loaded with muffins, flashing Avis an encouraging grin.
“Why don’t we move the chairs to make this cozier?” Avis asked, snatching up the plain black composition notebook she’d set by the muffins. No tea for her—the clatter of china would make it obvious if her hands gave the slightest tremor.
There was an awful clamor of chair legs scraping as the others tightened the circle, and Avis claimed a chair to Miss Cavendish’s left.
She’d prepared an agenda for the meeting, written in the first page of the notebook, and grasped at it now. “Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves and share what we like to read.”
Though Avis hadn’t asked for volunteers, Ginny saunteredto the middle of the circle like a chorus girl at a casting call. “I’m Ginny Maeve Atkins. Before coming to Bristol-Banks, I was either a barnstormer, a bootlegger, or a Barnum circus acrobat. Your best guess as to which.” She licked her fingers, sticky from the sultanas Avis had folded into the muffin batter.
This caused the frown on Miss Cavendish’s stern face to furrow deeper. “I don’t believe you’re taking this seriously, young lady.”
Ginny popped a finger out of her mouth and sat back down. “I thought this was a book club, not a funeral.”
Avis groaned inside. Why had she thought inviting Ginny was a good idea?
“Anyway, I don’t much like reading,” she went on, “but when I do, it had better start with either a kiss or an explosion, like a good movie.”
That made the shy woman next to her jerk her head up, amusement lighting her dark eyes at the matter-of-fact declaration.
At least she didn’t mention the storage closet. Miss Cavendish hadn’t yet learned that Anthony couldn’t bear to throw away a book, not even one that Miss Cavendish had banned from the library’s register.
With a flourish, Ginny stuffed the remaining half of a muffin into her mouth, as if to forestall further questioning, and nodded to the woman next to her.
“My name is Martina Bianchini.” Her voice had only the softest of Italian-accented vowels, but Avis didn’t miss the way Miss Cavendish’s eyes narrowed in response. “I am also working at the foundry while my husband, Patrick, is in the navy.”
Miss Cavendish nodded approvingly, and Avis felt some of the tension ease out of her shoulders. Well, that was a relief. A shame that it took military service in the family for the poor woman to prove herself, but tensions were high these days. Althoughshe called him Patrick ... an Irish name, but an Italian surname. Unusual.
She shrugged the curiosity away. “And tell us more about your favorite books.”
