She put her hands to her chest and her face crumpled. “I cannot stand the pain of missing her. I keep expecting to hear her little voice calling for me, or singing those silly songs she makes up. I did laundry today and made the mistake of smelling her pillow.” Tears welled in her eyes. “She always has this scent about her, like powder and honey. It smelled just like that. Like her.” She lowered her face to her hands where she cradled the wadded handkerchief and wept.

Grace’s throat drew tight with the force of her own emotions. She was no mother, but she did know loss, how powerful and visceral it could be. Wordlessly, she embraced the woman.

“I miss her so much,” the woman sobbed.

“I know.” Grace held her gently as the woman gave in to her grief. “This will get better. You’ve done what is best to keep your daughter safe.”

The brunette nodded and straightened as she wiped at her streaked makeup. “I probably shouldn’t have come out in such a state. Do forgive me.” She sniffed and dabbed under her eyes where the skin had gone gray with her running mascara. “A friend recommended I get a book to lose myself in. I thought I could find one, but can scarce concentrate to even decide.”

Grace discreetly exhaled a relieved breath. This was her area of expertise. “Then let me help you.” She led her to a shelf and withdrew Emma, whose humor made it a particular favorite of Grace’s. “This will have you laughing one minute and sighing wistfully the next.”

The woman’s hand closed around the volume. “It’s a classic fiction?”

“And also a romance.” No sooner were the words out of Grace’s mouth than George emerged in her thoughts.

The housewife’s thanks and further apologies were profuse as she purchased the book and quickly departed, clutching it to her like a treasured possession.

Several days later, Grace noted a battered envelope addressed to her atop a pile of mail at the edge of the counter. Her pulse missed a beat.

Surely it couldn’t be George. She shouldn’t dare to hope after all this time. Yet her hand trembled with it as she reached for the piece of mail and read the return address with Flight Lieutenant George Anderson written in neat script.

She sucked in a hard gasp and opened the envelope, trying to keep from tearing it in her haste.

George had written to her.

After all this time, he truly had sent her a letter. Was he in France? Was he safe? When would he be home?

She unfolded the correspondence and stopped. Gaps in the page showed where pieces had been cut out. What remained was a ravaged note with nearly half the text removed. The date at the top indicated the letter had been drafted back in February.