Now, Viv looked like she could grace one of those magazine covers with her high cheekbones and long-lashed brown eyes.

They joined the flurry of people rushing to and fro, heaving the bulk of their suitcases from one hand to the other as Grace led the way toward Britton Street. Thankfully, the directions Mrs. Weatherford had sent in their last correspondence had been detailed and easy to follow.

What had been missing from the account, however, were all the signs of war.

More advertisements, some calling for men to do their part, with others prompting people to disregard Hitler and his threats and still book their summer holidays. Just across the street, a wall of sandbags framed a doorway with a black-and-white sign proclaiming it to be a Public Air Raid Shelter.

True to Mrs. Weatherford’s directions, they arrived at Britton Street within two short minutes and found themselves in front of a brick townhouse. It had a green door with a polished brass knocker and a flower box filled with purple and white petunias in the window. Based on what Mrs. Weatherford had written, this was unmistakably her house.

And their new home.

Viv charged up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step, and rapped on the door. Grace joined her at the top, spurred on by the anticipation jolting through her. After all, this was her mum’s dearest friend, the one who visited them in Drayton several times in Grace’s youth.

The friendship between Grace’s mother and Mrs. Weatherford had begun when Mrs. Weatherford had lived in Drayton. Even after she moved, it had continued on through the Great War that took both their husbands’ lives and through the illness that had finally taken Grace’s mother.

The door opened and Mrs. Weatherford, looking older than Grace remembered, appeared in the widening doorway. She’d always been pleasantly plump with flushed apple cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Only now she wore round spectacles and her dark hair was laced through with strands of sparkling silver. Her gaze homed in on Grace first.

She gasped softly and touched her fingers to her mouth. “Grace, you’re the spitting image of your mum. Beatrice always was so pretty with those gray eyes of hers.” The older woman opened the door wider, revealing her white cotton dress with blue sprigged flowers and matching blue buttons. Behind her, the entryway was small but tidy, filled almost entirely with a set of stairs that went up to another floor. “Please, do come in.”

Grace murmured her thanks for the compliment, downplaying exactly how much that praise tugged at the part of her that still mourned her mother.

She heaved her suitcase through the doorway and into the home that held the savory aroma of meat and vegetables in the warm air. Grace’s mouth watered.