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“Please and thanks. There’s no saving them now.”

I turn to walk away when he calls, “Hang on. Let me walk you home.” He rushes back and takes my elbow before I can reply. “Are you truly okay?”

“I’m a little bruised, but I’ll be fine.” Pulling in a deep breath, I tuck in beside him and find that my head comes to the perfect height, to that space right above his shoulder. “Thank you again, PC Charles.”

“Call me Herbert. Or, better yet, if I whisper in Mrs. Derwet’s ear, will you go back to Charlie again?” He chuckles something smaller and quieter this time. “It felt good. Life was light all of a sudden, like it used to be, like I want to believe it can be again. Someday.”

The note of wistfulness in his voice brings me back to the German girl in my boardinghouse, my chat with Peggy about the Beurtons, the end of the war, the beginning of the Red Scourge, Communists, Agatha Christie, and the want—the need—for laughter and light, and the menacing fear that those times may now be forever gone. I also wonder how many of those “best mates” he lost in the war and how he carries that pain with him every day.

I nod, my mind made up. “Okay, Charlie. And you must call me Gemma.”

“Gemma.” His expression brightens. Even in the dim thread of light from the one lamp across the street, it’s easy to see.

I smile back, feel my grin stretch from ear to ear, and I can’t turn away. The pain in my knees and palms has vanished.

Chapter 5

Monday, 9 January 1950

“Good morning, Peggy,” I call through the church’s office door as, with my hands full, I’m stuck and don’t have the leverage to fully open it.

I hear her rushing towards me. Her heels make soft strikes on the carpet right before the door pulls open. I barely shift the cake from my hip into both hands before I stumble forward into the gap.

“Phew.” I whistle. “Too close.”

I straighten the cake and hold it out to her. It took all my rations in sugar and flour this past month, and a bit of my savings too—coconut doesn’t come cheap. And because one really can’t bake a cake on a hot plate, it took some of my pride as well. I had to ask Mrs. Hastings if I could use her oven yesterday afternoon and suffered her watching on as I fumbled all about her kitchen. That was, until she finally sighed and told me to step aside and finished icing it herself. All that and I almost drop the cake upon delivery!

Peggy steps back. “What’s this scrumptious thing for?”

“Your birthday,” I say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Yet a flicker of confusion rather than clarity passes through Peggy’s eyes. I falter. “You said it was today, right?”

“I didn’t think you’d remember, and I certainly didn’t expect this.” Her face scrunches up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get soppy about it,” I quip, but I’m a touch alarmed. “Are you not happy about your birthday?”

She dabs a perfectly manicured nail to the corner of her eye. “I am. It’s just a reminder is all. One year older. Still alone.” She lifts a shoulder and lets it drop in defeat. “Life isn’t what I thought it’d be at this ripe old age.”

“Twenty-six is hardly old.” I smirk.

“Old enough. Quite ahead of your twenty-two.” She smirks back.

“Well, this isn’t much of a gift anyway, if that makes you feel better. It’s my first cake, and Mrs. Hastings pushed me aside because she said I was making a hash of it.”

My comment shifts the tone of Peggy’s eyes from one of disappointment and vulnerability to one brimming with mischievous delight. “It can’t be worse than your shortbread.”

My huff is filled with self-derision. Four ingredients and I got distracted and confused the butter and flour measurements, the salt and sugar, too, and that was before I tried to bake it on the hot plate. There’s no denying the slimy results resembled nothing close to shortbread.

“We’ll see. Happy birthday. And here.” I set the cake upon her desk and reach into my bag to pull out the Good Housekeeping issue from which the recipe came. “The page is a little sticky and crumpled, but the picture confirms that my cake appears almost identical to this stupendous thing. It’s Princess Elizabeth’s absolute favorite.” I shove the magazine towards her. “This is part of your gift too.”

“You’re giving me one of your precious magazines? A sticky one?”

“It is your birthday. I only give the best,” I toss back in an equally saucy tone. “There’s a great tip in there about using citric acid to clean and whiten your porcelain too. I tried it. Works perfectly.”

She smiles with a touch of patronizing indulgence. It’s an expression I get occasionally and really can’t get too cheesed over. She is four years older, vastly savvier, and, frankly, my fascination with cheap cleaning tips can get a bit tedious. I mean, most of the women at the store love them, but a few have asked, “Can’t I simply buy what I came in to purchase?”

Quite right.

Peggy swipes at the icing with a finger and, thank goodness, sighs with delight. “Delicious.” Her gaze shifts from me to the wall clock behind me. “Is that the time? Gosh! I’m late. Please. Come. Come.” She flaps her hand at me, then regards the cake again. “I’m so sorry to do this to your gift, but will you get me out of a fix?”