The plane did a half roll in one direction and then the other. John’s stomach lurched into his throat, and he used his free hand to fumble for the airsickness bag while the old man continued talking.

“… some of those years were a little thin, truth be told, but I have never wanted anybody else, and if I die today,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “I’ll have no regrets, not a one. And that will have to do for a prayer, because I’ve got nothing else to say to my maker.”

Just as suddenly as the weather had gotten rough, it settled. There was a fraught silence in the cabin and then a woman called out, “Thank you, Jesus. Can I get a drink?”

“Just a few bumps, folks,” came the pilot’s voice through the speakers overhead. “All’s well.”

John drew in a deep breath and held it until he was sure he was back in control of his stomach. Bob Beales let go of his hand.

“I apologize for my rambling,” he said, drawing his dignity back around himself. “And thank you kindly for your understanding and assistance.”

“What’s your wife’s name?” John asked, and Bob Beales smiled, pleased, thankful, at ease again.

“Josie,” he said. “Her name is Josie. Do you have a woman in your life?”

John ran a hand over his face. “I do,” he said. And then stopped, because for a single instant he had forgotten the name of the woman he was about to marry.

Miss Anabel turned out to be one of the more difficult people Angie had ever tried to interview. Far from the placid, chair-bound old lady she had imagined, Anabel Spate moved around her tiny house like a whirlwind, dispensing information and questions of her own at an alarming speed.

“My students,” she said, pointing to a row of photographs that lined the staircase. “You’ll find Miss Zula Bragg in the very first one, there. The bright-eyed young woman who looks to be cooking up some kind of trouble.” And she was gone again, in the direction of the kitchen. Angie and Tony went to look at the photographs.

A group of seven high-school-aged girls, Miss Zula standing in the back row next to Miss Maddie, both of them wearing simple dresses with starched collars. Printed at the bottom of the photo were the words: Our Lady of Divine Mercy, Ogilvie, Ga., Freshman Class, June 1945.

Tony’s eyes moved over the photograph. He said, “I thought schools down here were segregated until the sixties, at least.”

“They were indeed,” said Miss Zula, who was standing in the doorway. “But Divine Mercy is a Catholic school, and back then the principal was a man of some backbone. And it was wartime, things were a little looser.”