A moment later, there was shouting from across the platform. Nick let Elissa go and looked up. There was her father, running across the platform toward them, followed closely by his brother. “Lissa! Lissa! Nick!” they shouted.

“Here we go again,” Nick grumbled. They stood up; he slid his arm around her waist. Jack and Harry reached them, and stood before them, puffing, looks of horror in their matching blue eyes.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Elissa said.

“Hope you don’t aim to keep this up after we get married,” Nick joked. “Every time I kiss her, you come flying around the corner.”

“Nick,” said Jack. “What’s your birthday? What month and year?”

At least Jack wasn’t giving him a hard time about kissing Elissa, so this could be considered an improvement. “April sixteenth, 1919.”

Jack and Harry didn’t look pleased. “Count back nine months,” Harry muttered to Jack. “It’s July 1918. Right after Chase died. She was working for him then.”

“Christ,” said Jack, his eyes crunching.

“What’s the matter?” Nick asked.

“What’s your mother’s name?” Harry said.

“Why?”

“Just—what is it?”

“Florence Overby.”

“You’re her only child?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Benedict Overby. He passed on a couple months before I was born.”

Harry shook his head. “Your mother’s tall for a woman, right? About five foot eight? Blond hair? She’d be in her sixties now?”

Nick squinted. “You knew my mother.”

“She worked for our father,” Harry said. “After your father died. Jack was gone at the war, but I remember her.”

“What do you mean?” said Elissa.

“That can’t be,” Nick said. “My momma went home to Dover just as soon as my daddy died.”

Jack silenced Harry with a quick gesture. “We need to ask Dad,” he said.

“Ask Grandpa what?” insisted Elissa.