THERE WAS A familiar comfort in the short walk downstairs from their flat to the two-story bookshop below. Emma went about her routine, turning the lights on, and straightening this and that in preparation of opening. A hot cup of tea waited for her on the countertop by the cash register, a ribbon of steam curling from the dark liquid.
A smile touched her face as she wrapped her chilled hands around the hot mug. Charles always brewed her a cup before leaving to fetch the morning paper.
She looked around at the quiet shop, similar to the classic dark wood-and-leather interior of her father’s bookshop, but with more feminine touches, like the stained-glass windows, the carpets on the hardwood floors, and fresh flowers in vases. Attributes that reminded her of the Booklover’s Library.
The renovation of the old building had been intense, and carefully done around the ration on materials, through hard work and cost efficiency.
A rumble of footsteps clattered down the stairs and Olivia strode toward the large front desk, her gait confident. At fourteen, she was nearly as tall as Emma, her wavy hair now tamed into soft curls that framed a face that had lost the plumpness of youth. She was elegantly beautiful, with high cheekbones and a lovely smile that always made the boys at school follow her about like besotted puppies.
“Morning, Mum.” Olivia set her suitcase on the floor—that same battered thing that had once belonged to Arthur—and reached for Emma’s tea, stealing a sip as she’d recently begun to do.
“Do you have everything you need?” Emma asked, mentally going over everything Olivia might require for a trip to visit with her grandparents in Chester.
“Almost.” Olivia slipped down one of the aisles, her gaze skimming the neat row of spines.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable traveling on your own?” Emma tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice.
Olivia had gone to her grandparents every summer since the year she ran away. After all, the intent to run away hadn’t been because she didn’t like them, but how desperately she longed for home. She’d traveled on her own already once before, the previous year—at her insistence—and been perfectly fine. But was there ever a time in a mother’s life when she didn’t worry about her children?
“I’ll be fine.” There was a note of impatience in Olivia’s tone. One that seemed to say I’m an adult now.
But she wasn’t an adult despite how much she tried to be. At fourteen, she still had a few years to go. Not that anyone could tell her as much.
“Promise you’ll ring once you arrive at your grandparents’?” Emma asked.
The Taylors underwent the expense of a phone being installed the first summer Olivia went back to visit, to ensure she could call Emma should she begin to feel homesick. It had helped tremendously and made for an easier time for all involved.
“I’ll call as soon as I arrive.” Olivia set a book on the counter as she fidgeted with the long bag slung over her shoulder.
“Anne of Green Gables?” Emma lifted a brow.
“Nana says she doesn’t like to read. I thought I might try to get her interested the way you did with me.”
Such words were music to Emma’s ears.
All of Olivia’s life, Emma worried if she was doing the right thing with each decision made. In this particular case—regarding books and reading—she was glad to know she had indeed done well by her daughter.
“And what book are you bringing to read?” Emma peered into the large tote Olivia used like a handbag.
Olivia pulled out a copy of Hamlet. She’d been an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast since Emma finally conceded to allow Mr. Sanderson read Macbeth to her several months before. He’d performed it for all of them, down in the tenement house on Mooregate Street, and read so beautifully that there was not a one of them who hadn’t been moved. Even Tubby had remained in silent awe where he’d sat at Mrs. Pickering’s feet.
Although, she wasn’t Mrs. Pickering anymore. Not since 1943, when she’d married Francis and become Mrs. Fletcher. Their wedding was supposed to be a quiet affair, but the full force of the Nottingham WVS and the fire brigade had turned out, making the event the talk of the season. And while there’d been cake, there had also been pie, which Mrs. Pickering had been insistent on making herself, much to Francis’s delight.
“Has Charles come back yet?” Olivia glanced at her watch and bounced on the balls of her feet with the impatience of youth. “I want to say goodbye before I leave.”
“Give him a moment.” Emma unlocked the door and flipped the sign to Open. Several women were already walking toward the shop, holding the hands of their children.
Story time on Saturday mornings was one of the most popular events at the bookshop.
A jaunty whistling tune came from the back of the shop, followed the by hard close of a door that too often stuck on damp mornings.
“Ah, here he is now.” Emma smoothed her hair in anticipation of seeing her husband.
They had been married nearly a full year, though in some ways, Emma couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been in their lives.
Their wedding had been everything she’d wanted, with Olivia and all their dearest friends to witness the joyous occasion and the man she’d fallen in love with waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Margaret had found a lovely blue dress at a WVS clothing exchange with small beads on the skirt that winked and sparkled like gemstones when Emma moved. And though Charles had said he’d marry her in a potato sack, she loved the way his eyes widened when he saw her in that dress.
“You’re always whistling,” Olivia teased as Charles approached the front desk.
“I’m always happy when I see you two.” He set the newspaper on the countertop and gave Emma a kiss on the cheek, his face still cool from the morning air. “Is it time already?” He glanced at his watch.
“Now that I can say goodbye properly it is.” Olivia embraced Charles and released him with a smile before going to Emma for one last hug and kiss.
“I’ll walk you to the station,” Charles said.
Olivia folded her arms over her chest. “I can do it on my own.”
There was that whine to her voice again, the desire to be an adult even as she was acting like a child.
But Charles wasn’t put off by her attitude. He never was. “I only meant so I could carry your suitcase. It looks heavy...” He reached for it and gave an exaggerated grunt.
Olivia laughed. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Isn’t it?” He staggered, putting a hand to his lower back as if in pain before meeting Emma’s gaze with a playful grin.
“Maybe it’s a little heavy,” Olivia conceded.
Charles straightened, still holding the suitcase.
And just like that, he’d done it again. He’d managed to watch over Olivia in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was a child who had to be looked after.
They shared a bond between them, as sure and fast as if Olivia had truly been Charles’s daughter by birth. And while he had no intention of ever erasing the memory of her father, he’d taken on his role as a paternal figure in her life with an earnestness that warmed Emma’s heart.
She waved as the two set out for the train station, knowing Charles wouldn’t return until he’d seen the train safely off. But then he’d always protected them. Especially so after his youngest brother’s death in ’44. The devastating news had left him with a streak of white in his hair and a determination to protect everyone else in his life.
Several women entered the shop with their children, waving good morning as they passed. In a single-file line, they took their seats at a cleared area near the back of the shop where large stained-glass windows cast shades of pink and yellow and green over a thick pile rug.
Seeing all the children back in Nottingham again was such a lovely thing. Some had found reuniting hard, the stretch of nearly six years yawning between them as children returned entirely different than who they’d been when they left. Emma was grateful she’d allowed Olivia to remain home after that fateful day when she’d almost lost her.
But as joyously as they’d celebrated the end of the war, there had been such great sadness as well. The devastation to the families of the many men who did not come home. The horrors of the camps revealed, as well as the atrocious persecution and murder of so many innocent souls. The destruction of what was left behind, where once great cities had been reduced to rubble and dwindling populations.
The war was over, and Hitler was dead. The time had come to rebuild in any way they could. To recover amid so much pain.
That rehabilitation of their lives was what Charles and Emma kept in mind when they finally opened their bookshop several months back. A way to heal, to bring joy to a world that felt too dark and bleak.
Mrs. Chatsworth entered with a bright yellow hat and an equally cheerful singsong of a good-morning to match. She glanced around a bookshelf, peeking at the cluster of mothers and children sitting on the carpet.
“It’s Mrs. Chatsworth,” a little girl called.
An eruption of cheers rose up from the floor.
“And Pip,” someone added.
Mrs. Chatsworth lifted Pip’s basket a little higher and was rewarded with a chorus of delighted squeals and coos.
“Have fun.” Emma handed her the copy of Peter Pan and Wendy, marked at the location Mrs. Chatsworth had left off the Saturday before.
“Always.” She thanked Emma, not that it was needed. The radiant joy on her face every Saturday as she read to the children was thanks enough.
Emma had gotten the idea to ask Mrs. Chatsworth to be their story time reader from the happiness Mr. Sanderson derived from his friendship with her and Olivia. As though being around the exuberance of children eased the grip of loneliness and loss.
Just as working at the Booklover’s Library had helped heal Emma.
The door chimed again. “Sorry I’m late.” Margaret swept into the shop, glowing with good health.
“You know they’re all here for Mrs. Chatsworth anyway.” Emma scooted out of the way so Margaret could put her things behind the desk.
Handbag and jacket properly stowed, she came back around the desk, and leaned against the edge with a hand on her round stomach. Jeffrey’s grandmother’s diamond ring glittered on her hand, paired with a wedding band.
She’d been lovely in her mother’s wedding dress, and there hadn’t been a dry eye in the church when she and Jeffrey finally wed. He hadn’t returned to the war after he reunited with Margaret that day in the Booklover’s Library. The injuries he’d sustained when he was captured were too great.
Emma wasn’t privy to all the details, but she knew Jeffrey found strength in Margaret and that she had enough love, kindness, and patience for them both.
“This wee one has been active this morning.” Margaret rubbed her stomach with an affectionate smile. “I can’t wait to meet her—or him—to have the kind of relationship I’ve seen you have with Olivia.”
That Margaret saw Emma’s relationship with her daughter as something to aspire to was truly one of the best compliments she could ever receive.
“Oh,” Margaret said abruptly, as though having just recalled something important. “You’ll never guess who I saw on my way over here.”
“Mr. Beard?”
Margaret laughed. “No, but we are set to receive a new batch of mysteries next Wednesday. I suspect we’ll see him then.” She opened her mouth to answer when the door chimed open, and Miss Bainbridge entered.
Of all the people who might have entered the shop, Emma had not expected the manageress of the Booklover’s Library. But then, there was really no competition between a bookshop and a lending library.
“Miss Bainbridge, how wonderful to see you.”
The older woman reached for Emma’s hand with an affectionate squeeze. “I meant to come when you opened, but I’ve been so busy. I left Miss Crane in charge of the library this morning, which you know she doesn’t mind.” She glanced between Emma and Margaret. “Oh, it is so good to see you both working together again.”
Then she turned to the bookshop with a soft intake of breath.
“What do you think?” Emma asked, suddenly very eager to please her former manageress, the way she’d been when she worked for her those many years.
Miss Bainbridge sniffed and put her hand to her chest.
“Are you quite all right?” Emma asked.
Miss Bainbridge blinked rapidly in an obvious attempt to compose herself. “Forgive me, Miss Tay—” She stopped and smiled as she continued, “Mrs. Fisk. It’s only...”
Emma regarded the other woman with concern. “What is it?”
Miss Bainbridge gave an embarrassed shake of her head. “You see, your father and I, we dated some time ago.”
Whatever Emma had been expecting, it was not that. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing terribly serious.” Miss Bainbridge waved her hand dismissively. “Several dinners, a few outings at the cinema, an evening at the Goose Fair.” The wistful expression on her face didn’t speak of “nothing terribly serious.” And judging from the rosy hue creeping up the older woman’s cheeks, their relationship had been far more than all that.
Emma thought back to those days before the fire, all her father’s appointments that had taken him away on evenings. She’d relished the freedom of those nights. Not that she hadn’t missed his company, but she’d embraced the responsibility of running the shop on her own, tasting those first few notes of adulthood and savoring the feel of being grown-up.
“You cared for him,” Emma surmised gently.
“Yes.” Miss Bainbridge offered an embarrassed little laugh. “I wanted more from the relationship than he was able to give. He had loved your mother so very much.” There was a note of sadness to her voice. “I don’t think he could ever have felt for me what I felt for him.”
The sorrow to her tone made Emma ache for Miss Bainbridge, who’d had the terrible misfortune of unrequited love. “You never told me you knew him.”
“It was too painful.” Miss Bainbridge clutched her hands together. “After his death...” She gave a resigned sigh. “I thought of going to you many times, but didn’t know if doing so might be overstepping. After all, he had never mentioned introducing me to you. Oh, but he loved you so very much.” Her eyes sparkled. “When we weren’t chatting about books, he was talking about you. How kind a young lady you were, how lovely, how very clever, how the bookshop would flourish under your care one day.”
When he was alive, Papa had told Emma all those things. But to hear the words spoken from someone else, to find that he hadn’t been able to stop talking about her, was truly precious.
“He would have been so proud of you, my dear.” Miss Bainbridge wiped the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “How hard you worked at the Booklover’s Library, how your efforts paved the way for the other widows we’ve hired. And now this...” She gestured to the grand bookshop. “What you’ve done, what you’ve created here...he would have been so proud.” She nodded to herself. “So enormously proud.”
Emma dabbed at her own eyes now, thoroughly moved by Miss Bainbridge’s words.
“And what do you think of the shop’s name?” Margaret asked.
“The Booklover’s Bookshop?” Miss Bainbridge gave a cheeky lift of her brows. “It couldn’t be more perfect.”
And Emma had to agree. After all, the Booklover’s Library had been something of a sanctuary for her and the other readers of Nottingham, providing succor from the war and the painful separation of so many loved ones. For Emma, the lending library had given her a chance to come to terms with her father’s death, to open her heart to reading again, and to bring Olivia into a bookish world that had once been everything to Emma and her father.
During her time at the Booklover’s Library, Emma had found herself without ever realizing she’d been lost in the first place.
She hoped that the Booklover’s Bookshop might offer the same for people, a community built around healing and love, and an appreciation for the power of a good story.
The children on the carpet laughed collectively and Mrs. Chatsworth spoke in a high voice for one of the characters, sending them all into fits of giggles. It was the sound of joy, the sound of a nation healing.
But perhaps most lovely of all, it was the sound of a room full of future book lovers.