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Find a building code that would make the nursery school untenable.For this, she’d had to turn to Herb Beale, of all people, an amateur electrician, who looked at the plans and said that, as far as he could tell, everything was on the up-and-up. “If ol’ Cavendish can find someone to get the work done, it’s a solid plan.”
Over the past few weeks, she’d researched loopholes and legalities, talked to almost everyone in town with influence, done everything short of throwing on a bandanna and staging a robbery of Russell’s bank, targeting Louise’s account. Dead ends, all of them.
A knock at the front door caused her to spring up, close the notebook, and straighten the stack of books beside her that threatened to collapse in an avalanche of neglected work.
Probably Louise, coming a few minutes early for the meeting. At least this week’s selection would prove relatively uncontroversial. Even Avis had enjoyedThe Code of the Woostersso much that she’d burned Russell’s breakfast bacon two mornings in a row trying to get in a few additional pages.
But when Avis unlocked the door and blinked into the morning sunlight, there were—why, it looked like over a dozen people waiting to be let in, some chatting quietly, a few standing off to the side as if they weren’t entirely sure why they were there either.
“About time!” Ginny broke away from the group and strode up the steps. She took the door from Avis and threw it open wider, gesturing for the gathered company to enter.
“What are all these people doing here?” Avis managed in a low tone before the first came within earshot—Mrs. Whitson, the preacher’s wife, beaming as usual.
Ginny flashed a brilliant smile Avis’s way. “They’re here for the book club meeting, of course. Your little speech last week at the community meeting must’ve helped. Plus my pitch afterward as they left, of course. The personal touch, you know.”
Avis trailed after the group, still a bit shell-shocked. Oh dear, she hadn’t set up enough chairs. But that could wait until after she’d had a proper explanation. “Are they all ... friends of yours?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Ginny hitched a thumb over at a middle-aged man with a comically long moustache. “Danny Maloney. Pawn shop owner down the street, but the fair sort, don’t worry. His late wife—she died six years ago—loved biographies. Can we work in any of those, do you think?”
“I don’t know if—”
But Ginny had clearly decided any replies could wait, indicating a woman engrossed in conversation with Mrs. Whitson. “Then there’s Carol Ann Hoper. Can’t remember if she’s from the Baptist potluck or the war-bond benefit ice cream social, but she sews quilts and doesn’t like sad endings. Good thing we gotHamletout of our system already.”
“But we can’t just—”
“And that’s Earl Someone-or-other. Likes fishing and books about travel and is thinking of starting up a Victory garden this spring, without any broccoli.”
“Why, he’s Mr. Bell from city hall,” Avis managed to interject. “I invited him last week.”
“Well, I invited him too, so we can split that one.”
Split?
That’s when Avis remembered her dashed-off comment from a previous meeting about paying Ginny a commission for each member she brought into the club. She hadn’t realized Ginny took it seriously.
The tour of introductions continued, with Ginny nodding at a woman wearing a bold polka-dot print dress. “That’s Arley Lokken, one of Martina’s neighbors. Loves Daphne du Maurier, which just goes to show she’s got great taste.”
Avis had given up trying to guess how Ginny could possibly remember all of this without notes and decided to focuson more pressing matters. “Ginny,” she said sternly, “did you lure all of these people here by promising we would read their favorite books?”
Ginny only shrugged. “I hinted, sometimes. But not to everyone. Some of the folks here don’t really read much, especially the ones from the foundry.”
“Then why,” Avis said slowly, trying to contain her rising heat, “are they at a book club?”
“The cookies were a selling point,” she admitted. “Or some of them might’ve gotten the idea this was mandated by their air raid warden. Oh, and Mrs. Norris—Presbyterian Founding Day picnic—thinks you’re going to announce you’re pregnant and quitting your job, and she wanted to be the first to spread the gossip.”
With each new addition, the sinking feeling had intensified, but this last one jolted Avis out of her dread. “Ginny!”
“What? I only said you were making an announcement. Didn’t say what.” She patted Avis’s shoulder, as if that should be a great comfort. “So going Dutch with Mr. Bell, and considering Mrs. Follett brought her two kids, who should each count as halves at least ... that means you owe me $1.05.”
Ginny held out her hand expectantly, as if waiting for Avis to shake pennies from the box of overdue book fines she kept under the counter.
“I wasjoking.”
That didn’t set Ginny back one bit. “Where I come from, a deal’s a deal.”
Avis looked over to the periodical section, where someone had scraped over three extra chairs and two benches. The group had grown, and the children, Martina’s included, sat on the floor. Even from here, she could see her entire plate of gingersnaps was already gone. “What are we going to do?”
Ginny squinted at her skeptically. “I thought you’d be happier about this. Didn’t you say you needed community support?”
