A breeze whipped down the narrow lane, loosening tendrils of her hair. He loved the way she tucked them behind her ear. The simple gesture seemed so timeless and feminine.

“There’s a baseball game coming up,” he finally said. “Boston will be in town, and last month they trounced our guys pretty bad, so New York will want revenge.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Baseball,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong with baseball?”

“President Matthews wants Blackstone College to form a team, and it sends chills down my spine.”

“And why is that, Mrs. K?” He loved the way she became so animated speaking about the college.

It was a breezy evening, and a gust of wind sent a handkerchief from Mrs. O’Shea’s laundry line flying toward them. Gwen snatched it out of the air before it could sail down the street.

“Lookie there,” he teased. “You’ve got the makings of a fine outfielder.”

He impulsively clasped her around the waist and lifted her into the air. She was so tiny compared to him that it was easy to hoist her up. She laughingly clung to his shoulders, and he demanded a kiss before setting her down.

A metallic pop sounded from the fire escape next to them, and Mrs. O’Shea’s laundry line tore loose, dropping away from the building and dangling in the air as sheets, trousers, and blouses slipped off and flapped in the wind. A few kids cheered as they scrambled after the clothes tumbling through the lane.

“Those scamps are going to steal Mrs. O’Shea’s laundry,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Gwen asked. “Maybe they’re collecting it for her.”

There wasn’t time to respond to her naivete. Mrs. O’Shea couldn’t afford to lose those clothes, and more than half her laundry was now blowing down the street.

“Come on, let’s go round that stuff up.” He vaulted down the fire escape steps, loud metallic clangs sounding with each footstep. She was right behind him. They reached the street only moments later.

“Give me back those bloomers, kid,” he roared at a youngster who couldn’t be older than eight or ten.

The brat stuck his tongue out at him. “Make me!”

Patrick scooped him up and tossed him over his shoulder in one swift move. The kid howled in outrage, but other street urchins chased after the rest of Mrs. O’Shea’s laundry, and an example needed to be set.

“Grab the bloomers from him, Gwen.”

She must have done so, because the kid thrashed and cursed like a sailor, demanding them back.

He dumped the kid back on his feet. “Be glad I don’t send you to the reformatory,” he shouted, then went running after a girl who dragged a bedsheet behind her. He snatched the sheet before she could disappear down an alley. Patrick balled it up and threw it at Gwen. “Hold these, I’m going after more.”