But he was more conscious of Anne sitting down next to him, reaching for the coffeepot. He watched her hands, the stream of coffee tumbling from the china pot into the delicate cup. “Yes, she is nice,” Anne said, pausing the stream, shifting the spout over the other cup and tilting the pot again. “Though she did remind me that all gentleman callers have to be out of the house by ten o’clock. House rules.”

It had been a long time since Harry had had to be concerned about curfews. He fumbled for a witty remark, didn’t find one. “I suppose you’re used to that,” he said.

Anne set the coffeepot down on the tray. “Well, I haven’t had many callers.”

Harry leaned forward to collect his coffee cup. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Well, there’s a bit of a shortage of boys with the war,” she explained, picking up her cup. She continued to sit forward, her knees angled toward his. She took a sip of coffee.

“Ah,” Harry said, though he was certain she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

Realizing his skepticism, she laughed a little. “Well,” she said, “maybe I haven’t exactly encouraged anyone. Since—you know.”

Harry sipped his coffee.

She glanced up quickly, flushed. “You must think I’m—I don’t know. I don’t know what in the world you could think of me.” She set her coffee cup down and stood, pacing over to the piano.

Harry set down his cup, too, and followed her, stopping close to her side with his hand on her elbow. “Anne, I—”

“You called me Anne.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing back his hand.

She smiled. “No, I’m glad you did,” she said. She held his gaze a moment, then stepped away and sat down at the piano. “I’m afraid I’m about to make a fool of myself,” she said, and began to play a bright, jazzy tune.

He watched her a moment, listening to the music her hands made. Then he went and sat to her left on the bench. She scooted over so he would have more room.

“Do you play?” she asked, continuing her song.

“Not for a long time. My mom gave me a few lessons as a kid, though. She was quite the virtuoso herself.”

She stopped. “Play me something,” she said, smiling sideways at him.

He ahemed and stretched his fingers, then plunked out a simple minuet that somehow he still remembered after thirty years. His arm pressed hers as he played. She applauded when it was through. “Harry, you’re too modest!” she said. “That was wonderful! Play something else.”

He gave her a mischievous smile. With one finger, he began plunking out the melody of the Gershwin tune “Embraceable You.”