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After all of her work sorting out her mother’s office, Sylvia was facing yet another mess. It felt never-ending.

“I know you said the last deposit was in 1938. Have there been any withdrawals against the account since then?” she asked, holding on to one last shred of hope that her mother might have been sensible and done some basic things like pay her taxes.

Mr. Manon shook his head. “There have been no deposits or withdrawals from that date. Would you like to close the account? I could have the funds withdrawn for you today.”

She huffed a laugh. “It’s a wonder there is anything still in there to withdraw.”

“A little,” he said, that same small smile playing on his lips. “I know what a great help you were to her when you were younger, Mrs. Pearsall.”

She could sense the bank manager’s sympathy, but she didn’t want it. What she actually wanted was to set things to rights, to fix all of the straining seams at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, because she was not going to be the sister who let it fall to pieces.

She rolled back her shoulders. “Please keep the account open, Mr. Manon. I can promise you that you will begin seeing deposits once again.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Mrs. Pearsall,” he said. “Is there anything else I can help you with this morning?”

There were so many things she needed help with, from attracting new customers to finding out why Hugo had strayed, but this man couldn’t help her with any of that. Instead, she would have to rely on the one person she’d always been able to turn to. Herself.

“No, thank you,” she said, rising to her feet, “but I expect we shall be seeing a great deal more of one another in the near future.”

After leaving the bank, Sylvia made her way to Glengall Road via a stop at Mrs. Reynolds, Glengall Road’s finest—and only—grocer, which was located two doors down from Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. Miss Reid had told her that Mrs. Reynolds had started selling sandwiches five years ago, becoming something of a lunchtime staple in the neighborhood. Sylvia had intended to go in earlier, but between the shop and her committee work, she’d been too busy.

However, going to the bank had been a difficult thing, and Sylvia had always thought difficult things deserved to be rewarded.

She waited patiently until the woman ahead of her in the queue collected her sandwiches and stepped aside. Then she fixed a smile on her face and said, “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

The grocer peered at her over the edge of her glasses and then said, “Mrs. Pearsall.”

The woman’s tone wasn’t exactly warm, but Sylvia soldiered on. “You do remember.”

“How could I forget? You were always stealing oranges off of my stand,” said Mrs. Reynolds.

Sylvia shifted from foot to foot. This was not the reception she’d expected. There had been a time just after the Shelton women had moved into the flat above the shop when the widowed grocer had doted on Sylvia and Izzie. She could remember Mrs. Reynolds giving them bits of fruit in the summer and occasionally stopping them on a cold winter’s day for a cup of cocoa brewed on the old gas ring in her storeroom.

“I do apologize for the oranges,” she said, realizing too late that she was fiddling with the leather strap of her handbag. She forced her fingers to still. “It has been a very long time.”

Mrs. Reynolds huffed. “When Miss Shelton said you’d be minding the shop, I couldn’t believe it. We all thought you believed you were a bit too good for Glengall Road now.”

“ ‘We’?” Sylvia asked.

Mrs. Reynolds crossed her arms over her aproned chest. “Everyone on the road.”

“Well, I’m back, so clearly everyone was misinformed,” she said.

“What do you want then?” asked the grocer.

“Two sandwiches, please.”

“What kind?” asked Mrs. Reynolds pointing to a chalkboard. “Everything’s written there, except chicken and cress is off.”

“Whatever you think looks best.” Mrs. Reynolds looked about to protest, so Sylvia added, “I thought I would bring Miss Reid lunch, as she’s been working so hard.”

The grocer’s eyes narrowed, no doubt annoyed at being robbed of the prospect of fobbing off her least appealing sandwiches on Sylvia if one might be for Miss Reid. “That woman must be a saint. She’s doing all of the sewing and carrying on the business for your sister as well. I would say that’s going above and beyond, wouldn’t you?” asked Mrs. Reynolds as she put the paper-wrapped sandwiches on the counter.

“You’re right, Mrs. Reynolds. Miss Reid is a saint for everything she does for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. However, make no mistake that I am the one running the business,” she said firmly as she put down her shillings.

“You?” asked Mrs. Reynolds.

“You said so yourself that I’m back to mind the business, and that’s precisely what I am doing.”