George grimaced at the flowers. “And all I could find were cabbages.”

Grace laughed, giving way to the giddy rush racing through her. “You’re not the Ritz.”

The waiter arrived and presented them with the menu. At the top, in a fine looping script was Le Woolton Pie. Grace smiled, imaging Mrs. Weatherford’s face when she found out the Ritz was serving Woolton pie with a fancy name.

Grace opted to forego Le Woolton Pie and chose a perfectly cooked roast beef instead, which emerged succulent and tender, a refreshing change from what they managed to purchase from the butcher, which often seemed more fat than meat.

George ordered the same with a carrot salad to start.

“Carrot salad?” Grace made a show of raising her brows. “Is it true that they help you see in the dark?”

“The government says they do.” He winked.

Various posters had appeared recently encouraging carrot consumption and touting their ability to help people see in the dark. Especially pilots.

“And what do you say?” Though Grace asked the question playfully, she was indeed curious. After all, she’d been eating more carrots than usual and had noticed little different when on patrol in the blackout.

He grinned. “It works well enough for the Germans to start feeding them to the pilots too.”

“Truly?”

He laughed and she realized he was intentionally edging around her question. It was something he did when it came to his efforts in the war. When she’d asked if he’d been in France, he’d replied with one word: Dunkirk. The guarded look on his face and the understanding of what he must have seen kept her from asking any more.

He was stationed at Acklington in Scotland with 13 Group as a fighter pilot who flew a Hawker Hurricane. And he’d been at Dunkirk. Outside of those few bits of information, she knew little else. With the sensitivity of sharing details about the war, especially regarding the RAF, Grace was well aware there was a lot that couldn’t be said.

After all, loose lips sink ships. Be like dad and keep mum. And all those other slogans about staying silent.

“Now tell me, how did you know I would love The Count of Monte Cristo?” she asked.

This was a topic he could speak on freely, as was evidenced by the way his handsome green eyes lit up. “Everyone loves The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“It seems you did especially.” She trailed off her words and took a sip of wine, hoping he would fill her in on the story behind the old book.