“Your uncle just likes to argue,” her mother would tell Sarah, afterward. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

But when he was alone with Sarah, Uncle Herman would give her candy and tell her stories in the gentlest voice, so she knew he was good and kind. It was just that he liked to argue.

Sadly, those were the only memories Sarah had of her Uncle Herman. The Spanish Civil War was still in progress when he’d gone away to Europe—though not to fight in Spain. Maybe his fate would have been different if he had gone there.

For Uncle Herman had never returned. It was a subject her father couldn’t bear to speak about. So the family never mentioned the poor man now.

“I was a journalist,” said Charlie. “For the Hearst newspapers. I drank with Hemingway a few times, that’s all.”

Sarah laughed out loud.

“You’re mocking me,” he said.

“No. I’m impressed. What was Hemingway like?”

“Good company. I liked him better than Dos Passos or George Orwell.”

“Dos Passos? Orwell? Oh my God, that must have been amazing.”

“True. But civil wars are ugly. Bloody.”

“Hemingway was wounded.”

“So was I, actually.”

“Really? How?”

“There was a man down, quite near where I was reporting. You could hear him screaming. They had a stretcher, but only one bearer.” He shrugged. “I helped out. Took some shrapnel on the way back.” He grinned. “There’s a piece still in my leg, which speaks to me sometimes.”

“You have a scar?”

“Of course.”

“But you saved a man.”

“He didn’t make it.”

Charlie Master had a mustache. It was flecked with gray. She couldn’t decide if it reminded her more of Hemingway or Tennessee Williams. It looked good, anyway. He’d mentioned he had a son. Did he have a wife?

“So what did you do in the Second War?” she asked. “Did you fight in Europe?”

“Newport.”

“Newport, Rhode Island?”

“Has one of the finest deep-water harbors in the country. The British used it during the War of Independence. There was a lot of activity there, especially in ’43 and ’44. Coastal defenses, naval schools, you name it. I was in the Coast Guard.” He smiled. “A return to childhood for me, really. We used to have a cottage there.”

“Like, one of those palaces, you mean?”

“No, but it was pretty spacious. After my father lost all his money in the crash, the Newport and city houses were both sold. My parents had to move to an apartment on Park Avenue.”

She’d already figured that Charlie Master was some kind of blue blood. He had that soft way of speaking. But to move to Park Avenue because you were poor? This was another world.

“You really knew hardship in the Depression,” she laughed, then regretted her sarcasm.

He gave her a wry look.