He’d been pleased to find the signed copy of John Steinbeck’s latest novel at Brussel’s, since he remembered her brother, Saul, telling him how much she wanted to read it. Theo had met Saul at Columbia, where he’d studied English and philosophy, although his real education had been on Book Row. He’d moved on to business affairs, but his love of bookselling—the grime on your palms, the special requests, the change ricocheting in the register—had never left him.

The drinks arrived, and Theo took a sip as he readied himself for her news. “I thought you could hide Hadley Chase inside,” he said with a wry smile.

Chase’s book had been taking the world by storm: No Orchids for Miss Blandish was a tale of sex, crime and kidnapping that couldn’t be read in polite society, but could be concealed behind the cover of another book.

“Good thinking,” she said, and gave him an exaggerated wink.

“So, I’m all ears. What’s the news?”

“Daddy wants you to go to England. He’s going to ask you tomorrow.”

“Really? Why?” It was the last thing Theo had expected. He wasn’t sure how he was going to decline, but there was certainly no chance he could think about leaving now—even if he could get on a flight, which was highly unlikely.

“Uncle George is having a time of it over there, and with Rupert gone, well . . . he could use an Ivy League brain to help them through a rough patch.”

“How rough?”

“Something about being understaffed, paper rations and government restrictions causing all sorts of grief,” she said with a forced smile. “Just your thing.”

“That’s a bit drastic. Surely there’s someone local who knows the business better than me.”

“That’s exactly what I said. And it’s an appalling time to be traveling. I told Daddy it’s too dangerous, but for some reason he seems to think it will be all right.” Her voice cracked. “You’ll have to talk to him, darling. See if you can change his mind.”

Theo frowned thoughtfully into his glass before taking another swig. He’d worked with Partridge for the past four years, but his other work with the Council on Books in Wartime was reaching a critical stage. In six months they’d be publishing their first book for the troops: the Armed Services Editions would be accompanying men into battle, a paperback in their pockets to comfort, distract or entertain. This wasn’t the time to be abandoning his work for the council, but he knew his loyalty also lay with Partridge, particularly since his boss was also his future father-in-law.

“And what if I can’t?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but you need to try,” she said, eyes growing watery. “I don’t want us to be apart. And I’m scared for you.”