Excerpt from The War Librarian by Addison Armstrong, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The enemy. I'd read about them in the newspapers and prayed for the men abroad, but I'd never expected to enter a world in which I'd be their target. A world in which I was on a Navy transport ship so vulnerable to German U-boats that we were surrounded by a convoy of ships meant to protect us.

I continued past the mess hall, its polished wood floor suggesting a past as a ballroom or first-class dining room, and into the belly of the ship. Here, finally, was something familiar: the ship library. There wasn't much to it beyond a few crates of books and a plank of wood that had been fashioned into a sign: transport from american library association for all men on board. The room had low metal ceilings, and my pumps echoed ominously on metal floors crisscrossed with hatches and handles and levers. But I knew already that I would be more comfortable here than anywhere else on the ship. I set to work immediately sorting the books by genre and author, my hands moving almost of their own accord as I went through everything from textbooks on engineering and mechanical handbooks to collections of poetry and authors like Twain and McCutcheon. In this comfortable, familiar space, it was easier to remember why I'd chosen to join the war effort overseas. The decision went back further than the conversation at Camp Meade when they'd asked if I'd be interested in serving in France; further even than the day a month ago when I'd donated a pile of books to the Library War Service and mentioned to the girl at the desk that I wanted to be a war librarian. It went back to the day Nicholas's letter had landed on my desk at the Dead Letter Office.

The letter meant for another woman.

The letter I'd opened, read, and responded to.

The letter I'd stolen.

Chapter 2
Kathleen Carre
April 1976

I tried to put the letter out of my mind and tell myself it was a normal day. There was no use focusing on maybes or what-ifs; they wouldn't get me anywhere. So I started the day the same way I'd started every day for the past two years. My alarm went off at five o'clock in the morning, and I was in shorts, my jogbra, and an old tee by 5:10 a.m. I devoured a Space Food Stick, brushed my teeth, slicked my straight hair back into a ponytail, laced up my tennis shoes, and checked in on my nana Nellie sleeping peacefully before jogging downstairs.

I took deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth as I ran, imagining that each breath was clearing my head of all its thoughts and worries. Running was the only time I didn't go endlessly through my to-do list-though, strictly speaking, running was part of that list, too.

I knew my route well. Past the strip malls, past the apartment buildings and fire escapes. I kept my Mace tucked into the palm of my hand, though I'd never had to use it before. Better to be too prepared than caught defenseless.

When I returned to the apartment building where I'd lived with Nana for the past fourteen years, I did a series of sit-ups and push-ups, the same sequence I'd been required to do for my Naval Academy admissions test. Then I showered, trying and failing to keep my mind off the letter I was expecting that afternoon. If I got the news I wanted, I wouldn't be able to take long, thoughtful showers for much longer.

I toweled off, brushed out my hair, and dressed for work. The whole process was another thing I hoped would change soon. If all went according to plan, these would be my last few months dressing for work in sheath dresses and pleated skirts with pantyhose.

Nana was in the kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal by the time I passed through on my way out, and I blew her a kiss. "See you this afternoon, Nana."

She looked up from her bowl and raised her eyebrows. "Slow down, you. What makes any granddaughter of mine think she can leave without a goodbye?"

I hid a smile as I backed away from the door and gave Nana a quick hug. "Sorry."

Excerpted from The War Librarian by Addison Armstrong. Copyright © 2022 by Addison Armstrong. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.