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Ursula smiles. “Books. It’s your language, Gemma, your forte. Whichever they choose you’ll lead them through.”

She picks up the cake to hand it to me, but she stalls. I glance over, wondering what’s caught her attention, and I see it too. I left the gramophone arm lifted with the fresh needle still attached.

I open my mouth to explain or apologize when she spins on me and holds the cake out.

“Don’t worry about bringing the plate back before you come next week.” She strides to the door, and I get the sense I’m being ushered out rather abruptly instead of being shown out.

On the stoop I collect her paper, which has arrived while we worked. Her gaze drops to an article and her face loses all color.

“Ursula?”

She snatches the paper from me. “Noon. I’ll see you at noon.”

And she slams the door.

The nerves of the morning give way to a churning stomach and a headache, probably because I can’t direct my thoughts away from the Beurtons’ two-way radio, Ursula noting the gramophone needle and choosing not to say anything, her behavior over the morning paper, and the memory of Mrs. Sharpe choking on the last cake I served.

I load my bicycle basket with several books I’ve selected as suggestions for our first book to read and balance the lemon cake atop them. I ride slowly, as any bump might send the cake flying out of the basket, and I need it more than the books. After all, this meeting is as much about presenting these ladies with a revised image of me and a scrumptious cake I made than it is my starting a book club for the general store.

Books I understand, and that makes them, as Ursula discerned, the perfect medium. I can chat about them endlessly and recommend exactly what one should read after asking only a few questions. But baking? That’s the valuable commodity amongst these ladies. I’d like them to remember this lemon cake fondly and, by extension, regard me fondly. I’m not sure books can do that.

Peggy stands at the ready as I arrive, and I know she understands. Her soft and serious, “Are you ready?” does not refer to the book club.

I lift the cake out of my basket and hand it to her. “It’s in there. Moment of truth and all that.”

“It’s not that bad.” She takes the cake tin and holds it close, staring at me. “How’s Ursula this morning? Is she still coming?”

I catch the anger and wariness in her voice. On one hand I suspect part of it comes from me spending so much time with Ursula and talking about her too much—that and I’ve missed two of our standing Thursday pub dinners. But the other part is about the antenna on Ursula’s shed and the sense of mystery I can’t deny she herself cultivates. Peggy is fixated upon it, seeing bad omens left and right, signs of nefarious deeds, and I can’t say she’s wrong. Especially as she’s the one who had experience with communiqués and radios during the war. She’s the one who would properly know their purpose. I simply existed on a farm and manned a produce stand at the market each weekend.

“She says she is.” I forbear mentioning the two-way radio in the gramophone case. That’s a discussion for another time and requiring more privacy than our few minutes alone can afford.

I follow Peggy into the parish hall to find a selection of the church’s teapots sitting ready to fill, and almost two dozen cups and saucers laid out, along with cutlery, napkins, and an equal number of chairs unfolded and positioned into a perfect circle.

“You have greater expectations than I do.” I laugh.

“I’m sure it’s going to be a hit.”

“Thank you.” I set the plate down and pull her into a hug.

She made today happen. She posted the book club notice in the bulletin and pinned up a sheet on the Social Events board, too, complete with hand-drawn pictures of books and teacups. She also mentioned it to every parishioner and committee member who has crossed her path this past week. She did such a good job drumming up excitement that ladies came up to me after the service Sunday asking if they needed to bring anything to our first meeting.

And customers have been peppering me with questions all week about how we will choose our books. To Mr. Hastings’s delight, they’ve been purchasing books too. It’s almost as if the excitement of a book club has generated enthusiasm for books in general. I placed an order for new stock Monday, then had to place yet another order for twenty books yesterday morning. And now the room is set up just as if I’d set it up myself. Yes, if today is a success, it’ll be Peggy’s victory as much as it is mine—and the lemon cake’s, of course.

She laughs into my shoulder. “I figured you wouldn’t take Mrs. Sharpe’s example on how to lead a meeting.”

“Never.”

While we work together to sort the last details, she tells me what I missed during last night’s dinner at the Unicorn. Freddie finally asked Sallie for a dinner out, and Billy Jenson was charged with taking money from the pub’s till.

“Sergeant Boyle caught him. I guess he’s done it a couple times now, and rumors were milling about that it was him.”

“Acting on rumors. Sergeant Boyle’s forte.”

“Yes, well. If you’d been there, you’d have noticed it right away, and then the rest of us wouldn’t have had to fawn all over the sergeant, extolling his brilliance all night.”

That makes me laugh. I pop the lid off the cake tin.

Peggy gasps. “You made that? It’s divine looking.”