Grace opened the top of the envelope and reached for the note within. The paper made a gentle shushing noise in the heavy silence of the shop as she removed it. She skimmed to the bottom and saw the letter had been signed by George. Not Mr. Anderson, but George.

Her pulse kicked up at the lack of formality. At least, until she read the letter where he confessed to having volunteered with the RAF. She was surprised to learn he was not just an engineer, but also had considerable flight experience. He hadn’t expected to be called up so quickly, but received the notice two days after signing.

Not only did he regret having to cancel their date, he was apologetic at his inability to assist in improving the shop, though he went on to offer several suggestions for advertising slogans. That, and he left her something that he hoped to discuss next time he saw her, something that had a great impact on his own love of reading.

Grace’s heart clenched with a mix of disappointment and alarm. Planes were often shot at in war. If he was going in as a pilot, his life would be in a constant state of danger.

She closed her eyes. No, she wouldn’t think of that. She would see him again.

But when?

She gently laid the note aside and drew the gift closer to her. The parcel was wrapped in a plain brown paper and quite obviously a book, given its shape and weight. George’s neat printing marked the center of the paper.

A classic, but also a love story.

Smiling to herself, she peeled away the wrap to reveal a leather-bound book. It had been well used, given its scuffed surface and how the once sharp corners were dulled and curled inward. She turned it to its side to reveal the spine.

The title had been nearly buffed away, but it was still there in a whisper of gold lettering. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.

Not only had he gifted her a book he thought she might enjoy, it appeared he’d given her the exact one he had read in his youth. Over and over, as indicated by how well the copy had been loved.

She ran her fingers over the worn cover and imagined George as a boy, letting his mind take him to a new place. Now she would experience the adventure that had led him into a lifetime of reading. She only hoped those pages might offer her a similar passion. And she hoped even more fervently for the possibility of seeing him again to return the volume and discuss its contents.

Still, the shop would not be the same without the possibility of seeing his handsome smile.

“I told you he’d likely volunteer,” Mr. Evans called from behind the bookshelves.