“Your wife pointed out that Durant was not who he seemed. It’s preposterous, posing as a man,” Walter sniffed. “I informed some people of the deception.”

“She didn’t pose. We all just assumed, because that’s what we do. Assume that anyone who does anything that makes a difference is a man.”

“Pulitzers only go to men.”

Dan looked at the papers in his hand, Jess’s story, the one he’d thought he wouldn’t publish for her sake, but now he knew that he would. He heard his name called again; he had to say something even though all he wanted to do was howl, loud enough that the windows might shatter, a loud and brutal noise that probably wouldn’t make him feel any better.

Instead he pulled himself together, drew in a breath and, as the club quieted, began to speak. “Thank you. But I’m not accepting the prize money in my own name.”

Dan felt his father’s glare on him as he continued. “I’m giving it to the people I’ve been writing about. I’m starting two endowment funds, one for the wounded and the damaged, for those who aren’t the same anymore. It will be called the Sparrow fund, in honor of Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow and their son. The money will be used for the men you’ll see on the streets tonight and who you might cross the road to avoid, and for the families of the men you won’t see because they are no longer with us. The second fund is for the women who fought in their own way, as bravely as any man, and who now make chicken dinners. It will be called the Jessica May Foundation, in honor of a woman I met in Europe who was lion-hearted.” He paused for a long moment, almost undone by his own words. But he owed it to Jess to keep going.

“Jess wrote those stories, the ones you all admired,” he continued at last. “She is Monsieur I. Durant. She should be writing for any of us, under her own name. So this fund is for women artists and writers and photographers and its purpose is to enable them to do the work that we all do unthinkingly, that we’ve never had to fight or struggle to be allowed to do.”

As he spoke, he heard the whispers. Of course most people suspected that he and Jess had done more than share a jeep in Europe. Journalists were the worst gossips and he was standing in a room full of them, naming a foundation after her.

But he didn’t care. He had plenty of money and it was about time he did some good with it. About time he honored Jess the way she should be honored.

As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of blue silk swirling like a furious ocean right down the back of the club, almost hidden from view. Shoulders emerging from the blue, shoulders he’d kissed and caressed and held and loved. Jess’s face. She smiled at him, raised her glass and mouthed the words I love you—three words she’d never said to him before, three words he’d only said to her once—before disappearing.