Gloria gave up all pretense of being calm and collected. She flopped down on the pink satin bedspread, nearly sliding back off. “What makes you think Aldo would even be interested?” she asked. He’d shown some very definite interest before he left, but what if he came home different? What if everything was different?

“That weird, perky, sunshine and puppy dogs, little blonde downstairs says so,” Mrs. Moretta announced as if Harper Wilde held the keys to all the secrets of the universe. Maybe she did. Gloria could hope, couldn’t she?

“How is he?” Gloria blurted out. She’d had nothing but fourth-hand information. She needed something.

“I spoke to some combat surgeon. The mouth on that woman,” Mrs. Moretta whistled. It sounded more like a compliment than a complaint. “She said he was more concerned with the rest of his guys and gals than he was himself. And he made her promise to call me.” The woman’s eyes watered up in the first show of real emotion. “I can’t wait to talk to that stupid son of a bitch and find out how he got himself blown up.”

Mrs. Moretta hiccupped. Gloria wanted to reach out, offer a comforting hand squeeze, but felt like Mrs. Moretta wasn’t the affectionate type.

A pair of purple corduroy pants hit her in the face.

“Let’s hurry it up,” Mrs. Moretta sniffled. “They might want me to fly to Germany or Guam. I’ll need you to water the plants, feed the birds, clean the curtains, do a little light weeding out front and in the garden. Oh, and maybe run the vacuum upstairs and down. The dusting polish is in the closet. You could start when I leave, or maybe you should come by to help out now since I’m so bereaved.”

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