“That’s a long time to be apart,” Harry said.

“We wrote letters almost every day,” she said. “It helped us to feel—close, still. We always wrote about what we’d do when the war was over.”

“What were your plans?”

“He was going to finish college and then go to law school. He wanted to go to the University of Minnesota, and then we were planning to move back to Superior.”

“What about now? What are your plans now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll be graduating from college this spring. I suppose I’ll try to get a teaching job here in Superior. The only problem is—sometimes I still can’t believe that Bobby isn’t coming home, and I don’t want to make any plans without him.” She hesitated, then looked up and met Harry’s eyes. He could see her deciding to trust him. “His body was never recovered. When his plane was shot down, he was able to bail out, but he landed in the ocean and the seas were high. Another crew watched him drown. There was nothing they could do. His whole crew was lost, either in the explosion or in the water. So—there was no question. I mean, there should be no question. His family had a memorial service for him. But—I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

She smiled a little. “Would you like to see a picture of him?”

“Certainly.”

He expected her to pull one from her purse; instead, she looked toward the opposite wall, where the servicemen’s portraits hung. Harry stood with her and she led him over to a small framed portrait that hung amidst others over the unoccupied middle booth. A broad-shouldered blond man in a uniform and a pilot’s leather jacket looked out at them from under his cap with a friendly smile. On the photo was written with movie star flourish, All the best to everyone at Joe’s, Bob Granholm.

“That was taken during his flight training,” Anne said. “He signed it here on his last leave home.”

Harry recognized the picture. It was the same one the family had provided to run in the Gazette with the story about Granholm’s death. “Handsome guy,” he said.

Anne smiled. “I always thought so.”

Dolores’s voice came from over by their booth. “Meat loaf’s getting cold!”

Harry touched Anne lightly on the elbow, and she smiled up at him. There was pain in her eyes, but not hopelessness. They turned and went to sit down, as Dolores waited, a platter of steaming meat loaf held aloft in each hand. As he slid into his seat, Harry moved his notebook from the tabletop to the bench next to him.