They left together, hand in hand, and Mrs. Smithwick stepped forward. “My Tommy was killed in the war and so was my Donald.” She looked down and discreetly glanced over her shoulder. “You don’t know it, but you saved my life as well,” she said so softly Grace nearly didn’t hear. “By my own hands. You showed me that when all seems lost to the enemy, one can always find a friend.”

On and on they all came forward. A man whose leg Grace had bound after a blast with whom she’d shared by memory the details from The Count of Monte Cristo, distracting him from the pain. A professor who had been seeking a welcome place to find fellow readers, having discovered them at Primrose Hill Books. A shop owner who had lost everything with the Paternoster Row bombing. And even Mrs. Nesbitt, who apologized for her past transgressions and offered her thanks for everything Grace had done.

Last came Mrs. Weatherford who stepped forward with a watery smile. “You saved me, Grace Bennett. When I lost Colin and thought I had nothing left, you reminded me there was a purpose to my life. What’s more, you pointed me in the direction I should go.” She glanced at Jimmy and Sarah, the latter of whom waved with vigorous affection. “I knew your mother better than anyone on this green Earth and I tell you right now—she would have been so proud. Of your sacrifice and your courage and your strength.”

She caught Grace in an embrace. “And I’m proud of you too, my dear,” she whispered.

When they broke apart, Jack was standing at Grace’s side with his hands jammed in the pockets of his overalls. “Begging your pardon, but we need your approval on something.”

Grace shook her head, overcome with affection and appreciation for the effort so many had gone through, not only with her shop, but for making her feel so valued. She followed him outside where two men in working overalls waited, weary and paint-smeared. They held a large beam of wood lengthwise between them.

“We know the bookshop is Primrose Hill Books,” Jack said. “But we all thought this seemed more appropriate for the time being, given the circumstances.”

He nodded and the men flipped over the board, revealing a painted sign, reading The Last Bookshop in London.

Grace laughed, giddy with love and friendship and joy. It was indeed a perfect name, and she knew Mr. Evans would agree if he was still alive.

“It’s brilliant,” she said. “With one small modification. If I may?”

Jack lifted his brows in amusement, and Mrs. Kittering brought over a pot of paint and a brush. Grace wrote in a small, cursive script beneath the beautiful title, “All welcome.”

“Well done, Grace.” Mrs. Weatherford clapped her hands.