She linked her arm with his as they hurried through a biting wind past the church and around the corner into the East End business district. Despite the cold, Harry was a little disappointed when they reached Joe’s Café and she let go of him.

He opened the door for her, and followed her into the bright room, breathing in the warmth, the smells of meat and bread that had been fresh that morning.

“You kids go ahead and have a seat,” a waitress called to them as she hurried by. Joe’s was a small place, with red vinyl booths along either wall like piers, and rectangular tables scattered in the center like flotsam. A counter ran the width of the back, with a view into the kitchen. The wall by the door was full of autographed portraits of servicemen. Three old men were eating pie and slurping coffee in one of the booths; a group of girls giggled over milk shakes in another.

Harry held out his hand for Anne to go ahead, and followed her to a booth in the front corner of the café. They took off their coats and hats and hung them on the pegs provided. “Have you ever been here, Mr. Mickelson?” she asked as they sat down across from each other.

“No, I haven’t. I spend most of my time downtown.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I suppose you would.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

“Since I was a little girl. My mother even waitressed here for a while, during the Depression, when my dad was always getting laid off from the railroad. Plus, I’ve been volunteering at the hospital since my senior year of high school, and Joe’s is so convenient. The other girls and I come here all the time after our shifts.”

Harry turned to dig his notebook and pencil out of his coat pocket from where his coat hung behind him.

She laughed. “You aren’t going to write that down, are you?”

“Always on the job,” he said, grinning, turning to a blank page.

The waitress, a stout woman with grayish-blond hair pulled up into a bun, stopped at their table. “Hi there, Anne,” she said. “I see you’ve finally got your mind off Bobby enough to get yourself a cute date. Bit older than you, if I had to guess, but age doesn’t matter, if you find common interests. My sister’s married to a guy twelve years older and it’s always been just peachy for them—”

“Dolores! No! This is Harry Mickelson, the editor of the Gazette. He’s interviewing me for a story about the Red Cross. Remember when I was featured last year? He’s the one who wrote the articles!”

“Guess I spoke out of turn, then,” the waitress grumbled. “So, what can I get you?”

“Oh, I’ll just have a piece of pie, and coffee,” Anne said.