A WEEK LATER, Emma moved listlessly among the bookshelves at the Booklover’s Library.
Sending Olivia away a second time hadn’t been any easier. Not when her large blue eyes filled with tears and she’d begged Emma to let her stay, promising to be good. But being good wasn’t the issue. The issue was safety. The issue was the government’s insistance that if Olivia remained in Nottingham, she would be in danger.
If those threats became valid, the risk was not worth the cost. Emma would never forgive herself if something happened to Olivia, especially if she’d selfishly kept her daughter home.
Mrs. Pickering had been at the school with the WVS during the second evacuation, and had held Olivia’s hand, leading her to the waiting bus. She had offered to secure Emma a place among the women helping with the evacuation, but Emma didn’t have the heart to pull children from their mothers. Even if doing so was for the safety of those being evacuated.
Not when she knew firsthand how deeply that separation cut.
A subscriber approached Emma with a book extended, interrupting her thoughts. “I beg your pardon.”
“Would you like to check this out?” Emma reached for the item.
“I already have.” The woman offered a sheepish smile. “I love this so much, I’d hoped to buy it.”
“I’m sorry, but they’re only available for lending.” Emma waved for her to follow. “However, we do have some books for sale, ones that have been retired from circulation. Perhaps we can find a copy.”
The Booklover’s Library offered books to borrow while they were in good condition. When items were returned damaged, they were immediately pulled out of rotation and placed for sale. The selection wasn’t very large, but there were still gems to be found from time to time.
Rather than follow her, the woman held back. “I want this exact copy. Not one of the used ones.”
Emma refrained from mentioning that technically all the books in the lending library were used, including the one in the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry, but that precise book is not available for purchase. You can add your name to a list to be considered once it is no longer pristine enough for the lending shelves.”
“Then it would be exceptionally used.” Color touched the woman’s cheeks. “I’m a Class A subscriber.”
“I can help you select another book that might be similarly appealing.”
“Well, if that’s the way of it.” The subscriber sullenly relinquished her copy of Gone with the Wind.
Emma scanned the popular title with a nod. “Tell me what you liked best about the story and I’ll find something else you will love.”
The task wasn’t easy, but after nearly half an hour of rejecting most of what Emma suggested, the woman left with a new book, somewhat mollified.
How ironic that people in a lending library wanted to buy the books. When Emma worked at her father’s book shop, people had so often come in asking if they might borrow the books.
A memory flashed in Emma’s mind of how Papa’s gaze would flick up at the ceiling in a soul-suffering eye roll, then land back on her with a wink. The ache of his loss squeezed at her chest. But the discomfort was fleeting, replaced by warmth, and a slight note of mirth at the recollection.
In many ways, being at the Booklover’s Library had brought her father back to life in her heart. The reminders hurt, yes, but they were also a comfort as buried memories rose to the surface and embraced her. She’d shoved aside thoughts of him for too long.
In so many ways, he was there with her in the lending library, coaxing her to appreciate how right returning to that community felt. One that centered on books, on being carried away by a story, and staying up far too late into the night on the wings of a tale. These were the people she connected with most in the world. And within that camaraderie was the love she had for her father and the embodiment of his spirit.
She hadn’t realized how much she had missed that company of readers, how much she had needed books in her life, until now.
While Olivia’s initial letter with her billeting location had come quickly the last time she’d been evacuated, any word from her now was slow to arrive. Eventually Emma finally ceded to asking Mrs. Pickering for help over tea one morning before her landlady disappeared to assist the WVS. But even Mrs. Pickering couldn’t glean any information on Olivia’s whereabouts, not when details were kept quiet to protect the evacuated children from attracting any attacks from Germany.
Finally, two weeks after Olivia’s departure, Emma received a postcard with an address in Kent. Yet another distant location that would have been an easy three hours by train before the war. Emma knew all too well how long train travel could run now.
But the distance wasn’t what caught at Emma’s concern the most. The lack of personalization was unnerving. The last time Olivia sent a postcard with her billeting address, it had been accompanied by a long letter. This postcard had not even been written by Olivia, as evidenced by the foreign hand in a swift, efficient scrawl rather than her blocky print of varying sizes that slid up and down the page.
Regardless, Emma immediately wrote Olivia a letter, asking after her new home and new life, and hoping for an expedient reply to set her troubled thoughts at ease.
Emma’s fingernail worried at the cuticle on her thumb, a nervous habit she’d never been able to fully free herself of. A pearl of blood beaded where she’d been picking. Quickly, she grabbed her handkerchief before accidentally staining any of the books she’d been sorting through.
In the month that had passed, she still had not heard from Olivia despite having written several letters. Was her daughter even receiving them?
Emma had been so desperate for some kind of news, she had reached out to the people billeting Olivia, people whose names she did not even know.
Margaret came into the back room and frowned as soon as she saw Emma. “Still no word from Olivia?”
Emma shook her head. “Last time she was having such a grand time with Aunt Bess, she forgot to write. I can only hope this delay is of a similar nature.”
Except that there was that worrying unease shifting and tightening low in her gut. A mother’s intuition.
A feeling she couldn’t ignore.
“Why don’t you put these books back on the shelf.” Margaret handed her a bin. “Mr. Fisk is out there. He might be a good distraction.” She winked.
Emma accepted the books with a flat expression. “I’m going out there for the books, not Mr. Fisk.”
Margaret gave a disbelieving hum of mild agreement and resumed Emma’s task of sorting through requested books.
The handkerchief had done the trick and Emma’s cuticle was no longer bleeding. She tucked it into the pocket of her green overalls and headed out to the main room of the library.
Mr. Fisk’s gaze immediately went to her, holding her for a moment of suspension in the heat of those warm brown eyes. They hadn’t seen one another since the fire in Emma’s flat.
What if he mentioned Olivia?
A nervous flutter that had nothing to do with Mr. Fisk’s appearance sent eddies cartwheeling in her stomach.
Rather than approach him, she swept in the opposite direction with the box of books. She would see to the children’s section first, knowing he would likely not come to that area.
When she completed that genre, she went to the romance section.
“Good afternoon, Miss Taylor.” The timbre of his deep voice was enough to make any woman stop in her tracks. “I have a book to return.”
Miss Taylor.
Thank goodness.
He held out none other than the red label book with Lady Chatterley’s Lover scrolled on the spine. A flush crept up his cheeks. “It was...” He cleared his throat. “Enlightening.”
Emma had read the book just after having received it from Margaret as a Christmas gift and her cheeks blazed in shared mortification knowing exactly what he had read. All the while, she scrambled for something—anything—to say.
“How did painting go?” he asked first.
Painting? Emma frowned.
He smiled in apology. “Your kitchen.”
“Oh, yes.” Emma almost sighed in relief to have something else to talk about. “It’s a grand streaky yellow brown.” She laughed lightly. “I think a few more coats.”
“Let me know if I can be of any help.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “My brothers are all off fighting, so my dad and I have learned to take on all the handiwork at home.”
How strange that his brothers had signed up, but he hadn’t. However, that was not the subject she asked after. “Brothers? How many do you have?”
“Three.” He grinned. “My poor mum has always had to deal with a household of boys.”
What must growing up in such a full house be like? Emma smiled at the image that sprang to her mind—one filled with boisterous conversation and laughter.
“I can’t imagine so many siblings. You must all be very close.”
“We are. I’m the oldest, so I’ve always looked after them. Especially the youngest. He just turned eighteen and immediately signed up with the RAF. Mum was overwrought when she learned he’d be in a plane with Nazis shooting at him.”
Emma briefly wondered again why Mr. Fisk hadn’t signed up as well, or why he hadn’t been conscripted at this point.
“I’m sure she was,” Emma replied, fully understanding a mother’s fears for her children. “So, what would you like for your next book?”
“I think I would like a mystery this time.” He grinned and a small dimple appeared at his right cheek.
Of course a man as dashing as Mr. Fisk had a dimple.
She led him over to the mystery section and reached for a book she had recently read—The Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers. “This one had me guessing to the very end.”
“Those are the best kind of books. I’ll take it based on your glowing recommendation.” He held out his large hand and she gave him the book.
Miss Crane appeared suddenly beside them, fidgeting with the shelf of travel books one row over. A floral scent filled the air from an application so heavy-handed, the sharp fragrance stung Emma’s eyes.
Mr. Fisk did not appear to notice Miss Crane. Or her perfume. He regarded Emma with a hesitant expression.
“Are you sure that’s to your liking?” Emma asked. “I can always find another.”
“This is perfect.” He glanced down at the book, as if surprised to find it still in his hands. “I actually wanted to see if you might be interested in meeting with me sometime for a pint.” He tilted his head in consideration. “Or tea.” The skin around his dark eyes tightened, assessing her. “Probably tea.”
Emma froze. Was he asking her on a date? “I’m more of a tea drinker, but...”
Miss Crane glared at Emma from behind Mr. Fisk’s shoulder before stomping away.
“...but I’m afraid I’m rather busy, unfortunately,” Emma finished. “It’s difficult to make time...I’m terribly sorry.”
She’d intended to decline the offer even before Miss Crane’s obvious jealousy spiked. Mr. Fisk was a handsome man to be sure, but Emma had enough to fill her time between work and the WVS. And worrying after Olivia.
Mr. Fisk nodded. “Of course, I understand.” And the poignancy in his gaze said he absolutely did.
But Emma hated the sympathy in his eyes. No one regarded her with a normal expression when they found out she was a single mother. There was often judgment, an assessing gaze resting on her ring to gauge its authenticity. With men, there was even an apparent suspicion that she had an itch in need of scratching.
She did not.
And when there was not scorn or blatant interest, there was pity. A woman on her own with a child and no husband to look after them both—however did she do it?
Not easily.
The world was not a welcoming place for a single mother. Emma had learned as much the hard way.
Her own situation was a far cry from how she’d grown up, with a single father who was praised for his efforts in continuing on without a wife to make him dinner and raise his child.
In everyone’s eyes, he was a hero.
But as a single mother, she was either something to be pitied or a pariah.
“If that’s all?” Emma prompted. The hurt of all those years of pity and scorn added a brittleness to her words she had not intended.
“I apologize.” Mr. Fisk shook his head at himself and guilt immediately nagged at Emma for the edge to her tone.
She smiled, hoping to appear softer, warmer. “No need to apologize. I’m flattered, truly. My life is just...complicated.”
He nodded, the tension easing from his face with what she hoped was understanding. “Thank you for the book.” Then he turned and approached the counter where Miss Crane waited to check out his book amid a storm cloud of perfume.
“You have to wonder why a man as strapping as him hasn’t signed up,” a woman in the nearby fiction section said bitterly, with enough vehemence for Emma to hear. Likely loud enough for Mr. Fisk to hear as well.
“Not all our boys are brave like your George and my William, who signed up before war was even declared,” another woman added.
Mr. Fisk’s shoulders squared.
He had indeed heard.
After war was declared, men began to be conscripted. While it was unusual that Mr. Fisk had not signed up, Emma recalled how he handled finding out about Olivia. Everyone has their reasons for what they do.
Mr. Fisk had a reason, and whatever it was, that knowledge was nobody’s business but his own.
“May I help you find something?” Emma asked the women, desperate to break up the discussion, and cut short the venom of their waspish attack.
They allowed her to offer Class A service despite their Class B subscription, something Emma was only too happy to provide as Mr. Fisk left in peace.
In the time Emma helped the women, Miss Crane had disappeared from the library floor and didn’t reappear until after Emma finished being subjected to Mrs. Chatsworth’s latest one-sided conversation. Miss Crane strode past Emma, her Cupid’s bow mouth drawn tight enough to launch an arrow.
Seconds later, Miss Bainbridge entered the library, her expression serious, as she approached Emma. “Miss Taylor, I’d like a word with you.”