Finally—bookstores have had a tough couple of years and yet they are irreplaceable supporters of authors. I hope to give back just a little here by encouraging readers to shop brick and mortar and I want to give a shout-out to a few of my favorites: Owl and Turtle (Camden, Maine), Sundog Books (Seaside, Florida), Fountain Bookstore (Richmond, Virginia), Tattered Cover (Denver, Colorado), The Last Bookstore (Los Angeles, California), Bookish (Malakoff, Texas), The Twig (San Antonio, Texas), Shakespeare and Company (New York City), Book People (Austin, Texas), Parnassus (Nashville, Tennessee), Page 158 Books (Wake Forest, North Carolina), Politics and Prose (Washington, DC), Blue Willow Bookshop (Houston, Texas), and Battery Park Books (Asheville, North Carolina).

Chapter One

Chapter One

September 1943

Margaret Beck closed the door of her family’s narrow Brooklyn row house and rested her head against the wood. The black paint had peeled enough to reveal the whorl-like curves of its grain, and its faded color matched her mood. She slipped her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out the key, inserting it into the lock and turning it until it made the robust thunk that assured her that the safety lock had engaged. The sun had not yet appeared over the chimneyed rooftops, and her parents would not wake for another half hour.

She was on the early shift at the Navy Yard today and she hadn’t gotten any sleep since last night. Worry was a poor bed companion.

What had begun as a normal evening had taken a turn that left a pit in her stomach.

Margaret had just sprinkled the dregs of their last box of Dreft powder into the water, watching as it fizzed into foam when she swished her hand around in it. There were no more to buy on scant grocers’ shelves, purchases limited to two boxes per household since the company’s equipment had been recommissioned for Uncle Sam’s use and others were following suit. From now on, her mother would be making a paste of lye flakes and vinegar, and Margaret could already imagine the havoc it would wreak on their hands.

Dottie had come in from the back entrance and Margaret knew from the slam of the screened door and frenetic pace of her movements that something was wrong. Her friend picked up a towel and started drying the dishes with such force that the enamel was in danger of rubbing off.

Margaret knew better than to ask what was wrong. Dottie would say so as soon as she was ready.

The sound of the radio blared from the overhead bedroom and the girls could hear Margaret’s parents laughing to The Great Gildersleeve.

It was good to hear them laugh. There had been too little of it lately. But the merriment it gave her wasn’t reflected in Dottie’s face, as it normally would be.